Tuesday, April 23, 2013

North Carolina's Generations

                                                                                                9:40 AM

What does this say about our nation, our state?

North Carolina

When I was a little girl

- I remember the smell of a spring morning – rich with the scent of freshly turned earth.
- I remember walking barefoot through dew-covered moss & feeling the warm sun on my cheek (even as a brisk wind tried to chill my soft skin).

So maybe, in 5 years or so, another generation is so visibly altered from my own & created too quickly.

            Shouldn’t there be 10-15 years between generations (didn’t it used to be 20)?

            Shouldn’t there be some sort of collective consciousness that we can all claim a piece of?

... my grammatical sense fades as I become more enraged …

            How is it that a person 3-4 years my junior has never picked an apple from an apple tree?
-          Are they not from my state, the figment of an old man’s presumption?
-          Or – do things really change that rapidly?

God help us / Goddess save us from this constant state of flux & departure from beauty & innocence.

            Give us strength to remember …


Monday, April 22, 2013

Girl Products

I can't tell all about it

Just yet I've discovered my place

Far behind in the woods

An echo restless calls
                I can't stand when
I'm weary

                Can't hunger when
I don't care about substance

Lingering visions of more important tears

Not for me               but her
                The one that can't speak

She's locked in a little place
                Never been given water
                                can't grow
Mindless AND conniving
                But really just a child

Interior blues don't fade
                like my eyes with my moods

                The stones aren't set
The time passes

                                BUT SLOWLY

                daughter of misery
Do you want to play?

                                GO AWAY

                                                come back

I can't help but misunderstand
                When that's all that anyone's ever done.

                don't know how to be "just right"

Just my mama's excuse
everyone else's "not quite good enough."

Mdawn (01/27/1995)

Diary of My Days

Little blue book

Opening to my touch
                need you so much

Shh ... it's a secret
                but my head must crack
for a minute or two

I turn to you
                You understand
                                don't say a word

Writing with a fever

                and I don't know

WHY?  You won't tell
                I understand myself
My private little hell inside
                a book
it dwells day by day
                my thoughts collapse on a pen
Jumbled and careless
                THEY FALL

But then my book sweeps them up with her worn fingers
                And reminds me of

A Grandparent I never knew
A father I never had
                A mother that left
A brother's death
                A sister - CAME CLOSE
A love - will it last? 
My DIARY knows.

Mdawn (circa 1996)

Give Me Your Sleeve

You think I'm too dreary
            Wanting things to be just right?
Trees sigh as I walk by
            The leaves waving in reply
My eyes are full of insight
            The starlight shines so very bright
Moonrise over poppy fields
            The sun flowers in the dawn - flowers in her hair

Get so high on ideas and emotions

I think I can fly off your roof
            Will you catch me if I fall and love me when I cry?
I need you       join my soul
            Teardrops in the rain
                        in a purple sky
And grey enfolds me              Then I wonder why
            Rainy days intrigue me
Maybe the tears burn my eyes
            Mingle with the night
Blue-black river of hope
            Indecisive at the turns
and then
            rushing up the bank

Wanders aimlessly

                                    ANSWER ME

Need an answer
            for forever

Occurrences of the past
            startle my creativity

Blanket of Fear

                Please                      go away

But I got to wipe my eyes
       ON WHAT?

                                give me your sleeve.

Mdawn (circa 1995)

Sunday, January 27, 2013

Beyond Limits

As for me, I cannot do much …
                I used to feel like No One, then I realized that
                                I am not just Some One …
                                                I am Every One.
I am the Consciousness that will not consolidate on its own;
                I am the sea that cannot be formed because all the rivers
                                And Resist,
                                And Meander …
I am the Voice of the Abused Child,
                The Cry of Women who endure;
                The Mother who Plays Father, and
The One Who Envisions how much better it could be.
And all I can do is write:
                It is the least expensive,
                Most passionate thing of
                Which I am capable.
And, through all our recent hardships, I have realized
                That I am more than capable of this,
So, all I ask is that YOU LISTEN.
                Listen, and then see what you can do, what WE can do, as a People, to fix our World. 

Tuesday, January 1, 2013

The Phoenix (Still a work in progress ...)

The damaged still arises from the ash
            as a Phoenix, invincible and fiery
To reap vengeance upon those who caused her most recent demise?
            Surely, not – the Phoenix needs renewal, not revenge!

When she rises, chameleon shimmering wings outstretched,
High above the trampled ground,
                        Blinding those – who would dare to stare –
at her presence, now reborn of method profound.

When they whispered behind her back as she was burning,
            She felt, for a moment the searing of her flesh, and
Harmony with the clamor of voices and thoughts, even Earth’s turning.
            Could these people ever really see or understand?

As she pondered the prior death knells,
            She soared high into the upper atmosphere –
                        and she saw much more than the celestial sphere.
            She encountered the vastness of the mind
                       Which, never shaken, was inclined
                                                To search and find
                                                            Her own kind …

Then, she continued to follow the breeze and rise above
            The stifling din of the noisy, motley crowd
                                                                        On the ground
                                                                        Messy and loud
                                                                        Far too round
                                                                        To ignorance, avowed
                                                                        By frailty, bound
                                                                        Fortunate, yet not proud
                                                                        Saved, but not found
                                                Would they ever see their potential allowed?
                                                How many more times must this cycle go ‘round?

As these questions plagued her mind,
            The Phoenix remembered another time,
a time before this one, or even the last
a period unwritten, unlike the last dozen or so pasts,
when humanity did not separate from nature so fast,
Before the invention of computers, cars, or masts,
At the time when the environment was different and human species, vast.
            What of these prehistoric people and their time?
            Was there a missing link that would clarify the rhyme?

As she probed deeper into that collective mind,
            To discover the secrets so long enshrined
                        In the pit of men’s souls, she thought she sensed an answer.
The Phoenix considered the plight
            Of man, so trapped in his little flight
                        Journeying through in human form
                                    On impressive though caging sphere
                                    Soul fumbling to make sense of mortal fear
                                    With mistakes & regrets always bringing up the rear
                                    Never quite sure of the similarity between far and near
                                    And confused as to the difference between foreign and “dear”
Man must have care in this journey, should his aims be sublime.

Tuesday, October 9, 2012

The Finale

You played me
            Like a fiddle.
Like a spider plays a drum … or its last meal.

You took an optimism as yet unmatched
            And gave it cause to doubt.
The remnants of happiness,
            No longer found in the scrap bin,
                        Have been thrown out with the trash.

You’ve placed me, far from the smilies of my past,
            Into a daily desire to simply post, “FML.”
Normalcy has left the building,
            Triggers past elicit no outbreak of expression on this face.
Smiles are fleeting, and infrequent.
            Mainly due to the absence of trust or hope,
But, also because of the slipping familiarity.
You’ve taken the assurances of my past and laid them bare;
My days are empty.
My nights feel numbered,
            And dreams elude my memory when I wake.
And what to do now that all hope is lost?
            Feel nothing.  Be no one.  Reside nowhere.
Your platitudes belie themselves, your attempts fail, and you stagger.
            What would you have me do for you?
Are you now on the same path you created for me?

But, TRUTH …
            My future was always so marred
                        You are not the first,
                                    Though I sincerely hope, the last …
To torture my existence, yet again, with your games.
            Games that are selfish, and hurtful,
                        Contests already cheated and corruptly won …
                                    Games have no place in the atmosphere of ONE.

The One of Salvation, Christians may call Him thus,
            One God to save all of us.
The One of Nature, when male And female meet;
            She is much more harsh and Her challenges not so sweet.
The One of Love – if such exists …
The one duality we all pretend at, but miss …

If all the world is a stage,
            And we merely play in the acts
At what point do the backdrops matter,
            Or the painstakingly designed costumes and set?

I cannot live in a world so colored
            That people are merely 2D characters with scripts prewritten.

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

The Death of Perpetual Optimism

You realize that you are at your lowest point
     When there is no need to consult anyone for advice or comfort
Because either no one can or will help you.

You figure out that empathy does you no good, 
      If people allow you to fall flat on your face
      Expressed regret is useless as well,
If people will continue to make the same mistakes.

Truth belies Platitudes.

Thursday, June 14, 2012

Nine Dark Stanzas

I am that dark, slowly moving mass that follows you in the sky,
     Guaranteed to cover your celebrations as I pass by ...

With me, I carry bucketfuls of pain and tears,
     Sure to douse your hopes and flood your mind with fears.

As I pass, the lightning crashes into your happiest of places;
     It falls primarily on the unTrue, but illuminates all dark spaces.

This dark cloud, does it have purpose beyond devastation?
     Are there really aspects wherein so many place admiration?

Who wants the ominous intruder that makes most shudder?
     What friends or lovers find any solace under its cover?

And then, a realization creeps along, just as the dark cloud wanders in ...
     The shadows offer comfort on hot days - when the bright Sun is mercilessly shining.

For as wet with sorrow as those tears may be,
     They are necessary for all the life that we are privileged to see.

And as scary as the lightning that illuminates our devious deeds,
     Without it, we would never know of the greatness that could be.

So, dark clouds, even as the Sun, have their place:
     In Truth, rather than Wonder ... that is the mark of their eternal grace.