The Cancer Chronicles, part one

Sunday Morning (a day in the life)

The radiator spews heat and

there is no cool  breeze

coming through the window.

Shifting between time and days

I am unable to make sense

of the days,

Having been trapped like a bug

in amber

The bed sticks to my thighs

as if encasing me

in the slow drip of time,

A thick gush of resin

suffocating me.

No blue light of dawn

wakes me gently,

But rough transitions

of light to dark

with no twilight song

to welcome me

No pink tides across the sky

No violet hues or powder blues.

My legs stiffen and swell.

My movements stiffen and swell.

There is no release.

It is like glass cracking

beneath my skin

Creating a mosaic of flesh.

The hair on my body recedes

like an old woman

balding from head to toe,

A rapid demise of youth,

now just a memory.

                                    ***

Re-entry, Stage 4

Here is the prisoner of Cancer

unable to free herself

despite good behavior, and a

plea for pardons

sent up on the voices of prayer

by family and friends, and

even the most innocent of children.

We do not bend over and spread

our ass cheeks in search of contraband

But we are naked and exposed

Standing helpless as

not-so-magic markers

define the areas that will be incised and

excised, 

Leaving your chest flat and scarred and

seemingly Cancer-free.

And yet

The doors don't open,

the prisoner must return

after months of freedom,

Suddenly unable to defend herself

to even the highest court of God and

all his angels.

The cell grows smaller,

Spaces close in

as disease overtakes the prisoner,

Bit by bit

Encroaching upon her Lungs

with  no space to breathe;

Occupying her bones and

replacing it with pain

Like a punishment

for crimes

She can't remember committing.

Appeals fall on deaf ears,

Bones grow more brittle, breaking

her will to live 

at times, 

in this small box of lies.

"There must be some mistake" she cries.

"No', they say, 'We found new evidence

(of disease)  -  You're a Lifer now,

like it or not  -  Join the others

on Stage 4."

                                                 ***

on Becoming a Bird, despite being Earth-bound

Becoming a Bird


Broken wings lay against your breastbone
digging deep to the other side
A visceral attachment
Seemingly significant, yet still
you cannot fly.

Iridescent feathers lay flat against your cheekbones
Your eyes are separated by yet another,
You are cross-eyed, two by two,
Visually aware of elemental differences
that further define the yin and the yang
You can see.

Playing hopscotch with frogs
defines your personality
You like to laugh,
but you will not win.

Everything is in the trees,
and on the edges of clouds and
deep hanging fog.

But all you need is a sidewalk
and chalk
if you want to play.

breathing the sky

the mind breathes
in and out
swelling with yesterday
exhaling today.
pausing for one split second
on tomorrow

for a while
I can breathe

here in the safety of 1:00 am
where nothing is asked
and there is time
to drift and linger
beneath a fat moon
breathing in the ocean tide

Blue Dream

Blue Dream

Windows turns blue beneath
a Finnish summer sky
and magpies make way with my jewelry.

The waters turn blue down the
Southern Peninsula, making my toes exquisite.

Blue Curacao.

A painting dressed in chiffon blues
hangs upon the wall.

My mind feeds on a blue cloud of smoke,
my body is effervescent

Blue-eyed cats sit in repose
against a Spring day, screen mesh
dotted with rainbows.

trudge uphill, slide back, trudge up again, 2014 in 10 lines

The days go by in chaotic manner

Sleeping in shifts, hours at a time,

waking hungry at 4am, sleepy at 6.

Pain rides from my chest to my toes

and everywhere in between

I wait for narcotic scripts in the mail

and face the snow to go fill them.

Relief comes, but the mind still wanders

to things it should not.

Such is the nature of the beast.

insomnia

Cigarette smoke in the light of the moon

The bed creaks as I turn and
ancient bedsprings stab my back

I wake to yet another night
too late to play with others

The clock pushes four a.m.
The trains still run a schedule

There are only two cigarettes
left in the pack

128/365 poetry

Time was I expressed myself through poetry.  Everything seemed to come out that way.  Rhythms of iambic pentameter, or more likely free verse.
Now I am stuck in long ramblings with no poetic form, though once in a while some small poems or haiku will emerge, keeping my poet status intact.
I am an avid fan of the poet, Wallace Stevens.  His poetry has music to it, and I've been very influenced by him.
"One must have a mind of winter', he writes in The Snowman, 'to observe the frost and snow."
In my teenage years my poems were filled with youthful angst, and I laugh now when I read the drama of a life so yet unlived.
Online, I get my poetry fix from The Walking Man, and a couple of others who write in that form.  It is good to know poetry is still alive and being read in coffee houses.
I wish I could've written this poetically, but with such time constraints that's hard to do.  I'll try to write more poetry in the future.

one haiku

wind whistles this way

the frosty air bites your nose

winter is coming

(photo by j. raty in Lapland, Finland)

the sea that I remember

you were the mariner
wayward, seaward

I was the mist
you entered
one balmy night
there by the docks
beneath moonlight and sunrise

a tip of your hat
swept me under your spell
as the fog came a-creepin'
and the waters did swell

your eyes drew me in
you were all scruff and ready
my heart was wide open
my balance quite steady
before the sight of you tipped me
leeward and aft
and after that it was anyone's guess
at direction

it's May, it's May!

"It's May, it's May, the Lusty month of May!"  I remember that song as it was sung in the movie, Camelot (1967, with Richard Harris and Vanessa Redgrave), but couldn't find that version online.  Found some others, but they all left something to be desired.

I'm a little late in welcoming May... the last month of (hopefully) nice weather, before the horror of summer hits.  Not a fan.

I have insomnia tonight, and I wrote this tiny "love" poem, just for May. 

rakastan sinua
my love for you does not wane
but neither does it wax
it remains resplendent in fullness
*                      *                       *




"...because that's the kinda hairpin I am!" (James Cagney in Strawberry Blonde)

remember

the river rats are in my harbor
watching the waters now
flat grey no shimmer
secret light no flare


I feel it on my back
I smell it moving in the sewers
What is there
and what is not there,
odors of a parallel stink
burdens that bend me

tears tumble over the month of days
the hard smudge on the calendar
"has there been a day you haven't cried?" I ask my sister

the river rats are in my harbor


(written one month post 9-11. The photograph, taken from the Jersey side, was from the nephew of a woman I worked with; unfortunately I don't know his name)

the energy of one (with thanks & apologies to The Walking Man)

I resonate with the energy of one
still intact
No trail of DNA running around
no trace other than myself

I am whole
my solar plexus has no hole

and now I am a crone
my knowledge not so set in stone,
as waves of change must change
what we know
In one way or another, we
shift perspective, see with other eyes,
and live in synch with natural forces

As these years gather
so do I

bark and bone, leathers and stones,
treebeards and weathered wood

these are my tools
for creating art and ritual

My ancestors live on in my blood.
I am a final product.

circling

You come softly, I don't notice
until it's too late
and there you are
in my mind again
in my heart

You circle me like the sun
round and round
and in a burst of thunder
I am under
again

Is this the last fall?
The one that tumbles me
down the rabbit hole
and into a whole new world
that doesn't exist with you?

If I drink up these last drops
of our time together
Maybe I will see the glass
as empty as it is
and my mind and heart will follow

......................................


*NASA photograph

untitled

the young and fertile mind
pushes out poems
as easy as ejaculation
still crammed with excess
energy and words
I remember but cannot
call up

within my aging neurons
there is no stroke of genuis
urging the spew