Saturday, September 25, 2010
We take turns going out for smokes
inhaling our humanitybetween the crazy
spilling out from the rafters.
Our job is to offer
salves to soothe the breaking mind
while we build a language to release
the knotted ropes strangling thoughts.
None of us profess
to be sane in a world that insists
it’s in love with anything mad,
that would be considered an oxymoron in this profession,
though there are certainly
many who should have given up their proverbial white coats
for the allegory of the straight jacket
instead of taking out their own madness on the world –
this would be considered a wolf in sheep’s clothing in this profession.
Our humanness gets lost in the job,
and every time we find ourselves projected into superhero,
our capes unfurling in the hot air blowing around us.
So many want us to save them
from the villains time can’t forget
or be a witness to their own antagonist
searching for a certificate that makes them unaccountable,
completely unaware in the end,
no matter how they insist,
this is a power only they can take on. So,
between the cracks in time when things look closer to fine,
we take turns going out for smokes,
exhaling our secret identity
we do not intend to save the world,
but only help the world save itself.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Happy Fall! Let’s skip and tumble through autumn’s days, play in the fading light and soak up our reflections in the gray sky puddles. Let us listen to the crackling leaves, before they descend into the worn ground, blowing in the chilling air and preparing for winter's icy layer - that fertile formula for spring's catharsis. Though the sky gets dark and the air scold's, I am excited to see the growing candle lights on porches hooking the crooked teeth of jack-o-lanterns and the welcoming glow in the cracks of windowsills from the warmer home. Autumn prepares us for those hibernating dreams of spring when we forget why it’s so damn cold. Heh. Happy Fall, everybody!
Saturday, September 11, 2010
In my kitchen a pot begins to boil right about now, now being the moment when the trees begin to undress of its summer attire while the people begin to layer up on theirs. It is a not so special pot. It’s black and dented to an awkward oval shape; it was picked for that very reason, since no lid would have it for a home due to its bulbous predicament and being a person who uses what she has, it seemed appropriate to reallocate this odd-pot-out for the task of maintaining the witches brew. The witches brew isn’t something magical either. It is not a refined potion nor all powerful nor even omnipresent for that matter. It doesn’t help me to see into the future or curse a few malcontented thoughts that linger with an insult. It is not something passed down through the generations for me to proclaim novelty either. It simply is a boiling pot of water with a few herbs and spices to scent the air. Every year, the concoction changes to the mood – maybe a little more cinnamon, a little less nutmeg; a random bunch of spearmint left over from the autumnal lamb and sometimes I add a dollop of sandalwood oil. It serves two purposes mostly – to keep the drying air moist for the wintering months and to keep me breathing in deep while the daylight dies a little more each day.