A Journey With A Strong Walking Stick

Pulled back black, silky sweet

a hunger grows forth red,

pouting words, imagery defined

blotting out the sun.

Benevolence shown, reaching me

touching scars, old and cracked--

healing all things, many things

hidden beneath life’s ocean deep.

Shed no tears for me,

as I am a wreck, lost yet free

telling untrue fact,

listless within my own dark vanity.

It is in the forest, dark and cold

we seek the Trillium, alone in its bed

hungering and thirsting for love

finding none yet three.

I feel you, I hear you

much like a rainbow, vivid and clear

waiting for the day it fades away,

as the sunshine warms my face.

Picture challenges can be difficult yet it can direct the subject matter in a way that stirs up the “stuff” at the bottom of the can, like a paint can. Once mixing the bottom pigment the full color comes to life and the end result is the desired shade intended. This was interesting to write.

Nine Minutes and Forty-four Seconds With Anne Sexton

By now all of you who reads my blogs and/or knows me, can gather I am a serious fan of Anne Sexton’s work. I continue to search out new material that opens the door to her as a writer foremost, and also as a human being so I can attempt to get a better understanding behind her work, from the perspective of Anne Sexton.

Below is a clip I discovered which has some candid moments through which Anne Sexton shows who she is as a person, real and alive.

The clip here and the few clips I have found on the internet can give us, who did not have a chance to know who she was, a lasting impression on the writer, her life, and the webs in between. Below is one of my favorite Sexton poems:

Ghosts
by Anne Sexton

Some ghosts are women,
neither abstract nor pale,
their breasts as limp as killed fish.
Not witches, but ghosts
who come, moving their useless arms
like forsaken servants.
Not all ghosts are women,
I have seen others;
fat, white-bellied men,
wearing their genitals like old rags.
Not devils, but ghosts.
This one thumps barefoot, lurching
above my bed.
But that isn't all.
Some ghosts are children.
Not angels, but ghosts;
curling like pink tea cups
on any pillow, or kicking,
showing their innocent bottoms, wailing
for Lucifer.

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Pull Up The Sheets

The most interesting thing about dreams is you get to experience all the “stuff” with seemingly no consequences, commitment, etc, etc and so and so forth…you get the picture.

But there are times you dream something you want to keep. You want to be able to reflect back and say, yeah, I was there, or I did that. In those cases I am usually left with a distinct feeling inside. And though I rarely remember anything other than the fact I know I dreamt something, it is these cases that the dream is vivid and sticks inside my noodle as if it was the marinara sauce.

Here it is:

The dream is at a writers conference, which is in the near future. So I seem to be dreaming events that have yet to happen. This conference is special because I plan on meeting a fellow writer and close friend at the conference. Though I feel I have known her for a bazillion years we have yet to meet face to face.

So the dream progresses where I am in the big ass room where the event has been going on. The place is full of poets and writers from all over the state. It is your typical seminar/conference atmosphere with people mingling and making small talk, discussing the poet’s frame of mind, the angle of the prose and all that good stuff we talk about. The weird thing is how I can remember this after dreaming it 3 days ago.

Walking through the crowd I suddenly realize that I have yet to spend any time with my friend whom I so wanted to get together with for so long. I become frantic and increasingly stressed knowing that it is the last day of the conference and I have wasted the opportunity to sit face to face with my long time writing twin. And twin is a good term I think. As the years have passed, her and I have almost consumed each other’s brain I feel, so that we have similar thoughts, can understand each other’s frame of mind, that kind of thing. Almost like a marriage, sorry to use that term, but as some people confess that after so many years you have that invisible umbilical cord connecting you together, not in a restrictive way, but in a good way.

So here I am running through this sea of writers in search of my missing friend. CAN’T FIND HER! Now I am to the point of really freaking out as I know the time is short and I wanted to spend every possible minute with her. I don’t know what to do. Suddenly I see, my Dad. Yes, my friggin’ Dad is at the conference! So I ask him where is ****? Like he is supposed to know who that is. And as her and I have discussed yesterday, I may need counseling due to the fact my Dad is in this dream at this particular moment. Not sure where that came from and not sure I wanted to know. Well he doesn’t know and I continue to search the conference area trying to find her. Never did.

To end this dream story I woke up incredibly stressed out and had some anxiety the whole day because the dream was so vivid and the feelings were so strong.

So I am hoping that I am not very good at all at foretelling the future and that at the fall conference we get a chance to catch up and face to face have some crazy conversation that we often do over the airwaves. That would be a dream come true…