Waning

Φ

Pale in Forgiveness

Hemorrhaging Faith

Staining the shadows binding

in Despair

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Changing Compass

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It seems to me that

when one is lost

All directions

lead toward the Wrong Way

Burdened with aimlessness

An individual may find comfort

in their present location

Hanging the ‘Home sweet Home’ sign

Yet

When over the horizon one can see

A destination,

Do All directions then lead

To that goal

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AAAAAHHHHHRRRRRGGG!

∞

My daughter is telling me all about which boys she likes the most at school.  She’s nine.  NINE!  I can’t tell which is worse.  The fact that she, like my Wife, thinks smelly, hairy boys (well men for the Wife) are a good thing.  Or, that at nine the part of her brain that makes you girls like smelly, hairy, loud, obnoxious boys is pumping it’s venom into her blood stream.  Don’t you know that we smell our drawers to see if they’re good for one more day!.  Don’t you know we depend on you to know better?  HOW does my perfect, beautiful, intelligent, & light filled daughter look at a pile of loutish little mud heathens and think,”Oh boy!”?  How do any of you do that?  Do you have any idea how many guns I need to buy now?  And some barbed wire..and some alligators…. Guard dogs.  Big ones.  Like twenty feet tall or something.

Sigh!

∞

Stalked by Anger

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Climbing a mountain high

Loose stones fall

In the bright blinding Sun

The stones become hot

Dust and sharp fragments

Choke     Bruise     Distract

Uncertain of footing

I  wander from the path

To a most familiar predator

On this ground I am prey

My heart begins to race

As it crawls near

My eyes wrestle it’s silhouette

From behind splintered stone

A face so vermin like

With red matted hair

Like a chameleon

In it’s holocaustic terrain

A living sore

In a blasted volcanic world

Infinitesimal

But sensing my awareness

Our roles then reverse

It cannot strike fear

Into what it cannot surprise

And in the light of day

It’s smallness is laughable

I look it in the eye

Show that I’m not afraid

I’m not so lost

That I cannot find my path

Yet spitting acidic vitriol

That stains then burns

Attacking in it’s retreat

Scurrying back into hiding

I cup the wound and rinse it

In clear cool water

Only a momentary flinch

Leaving not even a mark

I have avoided it’s bite

And weathered the poison

Looking over my shoulder

I see back to my path

The creature and I

Will soon dance again

For it ever tracts me

Always in my shadow

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Price of Pride

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Calling my bluff

That moment of fear

I use an adding machine

To tally the pain

I

Put on the robe

& Light the candle

Stand on the alter

& Spread the shroud

Insert the dagger

& Burn the Heart

My heart, my alter, me

Always

Always

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Can’t take it back

◊

At the speed of sound

Are words etched in this moment

Forever branded

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Unreasonable & Yelling

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I’m assigning blame

To common imperfections

Hand picked illusion

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T.V.

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With absolute power

Reality is altered

Fitting the desire

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Winter Mood

It occurs to me that I lose touch with my Soul when I am away from it to long. This statement may sound obvious but the recent holidays and guests, however enjoyable, are far from routine. I am a creature of habit. I have working tolerances to my daily grind. When I exceed my specifications for a long duration problems arise. Namely, I become sullen and withdrawn. The so called Winter Mood. The time when I seem numbed from the loss of connectedness.

There are other times during the year when this malady can strike. Its onset requires a substantial diversion of focus from myself or inner peace (IP in Lady Sorrow terms). To hold the bond with my soul I must maintain a constant level of attentiveness towards it. Seemingly any lasting event can trigger the Mood. Though other than family vacation nothing seems to last long during Spring, Summer, and Fall. However, mid-November through mid-January are fraught with distraction. We all know what they are so I will not list them. Hence I suffer from a weakness of presence during this period.

Yet I know those who flourish in the season, reveling in the many chores. I notice that they act through a rehearsed plan from year to year. Apparently due to something called Tradition. They have slowly worked throughout the year towards these series of events. They then pique in the accomplishment of the multitude of labors. Labors that exceed the proportional load limit of stress during the time frame. Yet they truly feel gloom when it is all over and they must return to normal daily activities. Until next year of course.

Allow me to mention that I have celebrated this holiday period in a different fashion every year since the mid-eighties. I am unaccustomed to anything resembling tradition in dealing with the change of pace. Might I suffer from the disruption of Habit? Habit and tradition are different to me. The order that we dress ourselves each day may be considered habit. While eating Christmas dinner at two in the afternoon is more like a tradition. Many habits fall to the needs of the holiday season. Yet, as mentioned, since I’m without tradition I have only habit around which my day may be ordered. Can I then say that my gloom must come not from a departure OF tradition, as with those who plan for it, but a departure FROM tradition, as with someone who lives by habit.

What is it about tradition that helps us past the angst? I believe one facet of tradition is a possible mechanism for allowing us to behave outside of the norm. Tradition is a cultural positive and an accepted social pattern. Yet traditional activities are almost exclusively outside of normal daily behavior. Evident by a house normally occupied by two senior adults becoming billeted by the latter plus all their adult children, their children, the new baby, and 5 dogs; for two weeks. Where every transgression of protocol is dismissed as “hey it’s Christmas, we only do this once a year”. When under the umbrella of tradition are we not appeased by the alien actions & avalanching stress loads? Are we not permitted to call the unique, normal? Yes we are.

All of this begs the question. Can we assuage stress by planning chaos and making it traditional? This can, of course, lead one into the pitfall of expectations. The other landmine of the season. Yet if I spent the next eleven months planning for the holidays would I not centralize around prime activities. Though they would be odd for any other time of the year they could be a catalyst for focusing energy. The kind of energy that makes people smile instead of grit their teeth. If this is true then I should plan on starting a new tradition in the Polar house. Next year I myself will cut the Roast Beast; while wearing my Santa suit singing Deck the Halls and standing on my head. Did you catch that transition? I’m now anxious for next season to come. I had better start practicing.

I am sorry for making you read all of that just to hear me say, “Man is it hectic around the holidays”. The real reason for these statements is that this year my winter mood was dismissed after only a brief visit. Due mostly to the fact that I realized that my despair was caused by the acute absence of self. After that I had only to invite the awareness of my soul back into my house. Then “BAM” I was where I was before it had all started. I needed to understand my reaction to distraction on scales larger than daily habits allotted for. Once I did I was able to adjust for it.

Of course it will happen again next year if no changes are made. For how can I fully steel myself against these Yule usurpations of being? Considering the above I move towards a traditional remedy. Tradition. I will not create static plans but broad objectives instead. The Santa suit is a winner plus several more simple ones should do. These will not make the problems go away. If I can, however, perceive them as mere stepping stones towards my goals then I hope they will pass easily. Therefore allowing me a Silent Night.

The Scorpions Sting

A man

Who never acknowledges insults

That they may fade

Powerless

Yet before leaving

They sting him

With venom that burns

Leaving always a scar

The Soul can not mend

His reaction always aggressive

But he is civilized

He can not say a discouraging word

So his pride he must swallow

Again

Again

Until intoxicated

With doubt

The Dump

In the Backyard
Digging holes
Into each an item dropped
Something to be buried
Like the occasional dagger
Thrown upon the lawn
Carelessly from a passer by
Intentionally from a passer by
Maliciously from a passer by
Cluttering up the yard
My yard
With sticks & stones
Yet I do not throw them back
Back at my detractors
I never liked throwing daggers
So I never learned how
My penance then
To pick them up
And to bury each one
Where it won’t be seen
Like it was never thrown
Into my yard
Into my face
So no one can see them
And if I don’t look
Neither will I

The Clutch

Again the Creature has come.

Standing before me licking its teeth.

A Wraith of a Griffin.

Lean of sinew.

Rigid and sharp.

Quills not feathers.

Malicious not loyal.

Colored in flame.

Smelling of acid.

Bony spined arms

Uncoiling from the Mantis-like chest.

Ending each in a claw of nine unbending talons.

Long fingers like the shards of lightning struck wood.

Click…click…clicking as they sniff out anxiety.

My anxiety.

From yet another failed expectation.

The failed expectation that calls to this demon.

This Wraith to which I am bound.

Tied with a chain too short.

Never have I evaded its grasp.

Condemned always to its ill embrace.

With a single hungry claw

The Wraith captures the whole of my gut.

I stand trembling in its grasp.

Living now moment to moment

As the closing grip spews vitriol from me.

The talons move closer together

Slowly shredding my insides.

Anxiety, though, does not render like flesh.

And so collapses toward the center of itself…

No!…Myself.

Forming a black sphere of Doubt, Need, & Panic.

Tighter and tighter does the fell Griffin squeeze.

Blacker and purer does the sphere become.

Until I gestate with Feebleness and Regret.

I fear my stress reaved body

Will not survive the birth.