homeless weeks and dying ribbons

Page Thirty-five                    (copy)

sehnen posted on Jun 03, 2008 | views: 77 | Tags: sissiesx

tuesday 3 june  2008     greenfield

Well, a song I wrote in the 90’s — I wrote lots of songs in the late 90’s, in the last gasps of the 20th century — comes to mind these days. I might as well put it here. What else does an educated homeless bum who went to a huge social service agency for help and got her family and life destroyed have to do?

dying ribbons

 

I, in company with gulls and swallows, 
linger breathing at the summer waterside.
Life looks new and full of long tomorrows,
moments bursting in electric summer light.

 

But death is waiting in the stand of trees there.
Death is speaking in a low, forgotten voice.
Whispers to the gulls, the swallows, to me
that time has no regard for tears or joys.

Then tie these anchors to our eyes to drown us,
tie these ribbons to our hands to light our way.
See the swallows as they dive around us,
see the ripples as they run and roll away.
We will raise our hands above this water,
colored ribbons floating on the water’s eyes.
Dying ribbons telling whisper stories,
stories breathing in electric summer light.

                                                                                    

We will echo in the quiet canyons
where the seekers of the silence come to stay.
We will echo in the blue of evening,
echo colors in the rising of the day.
So chain these anchors to my eyes to drown me.
Bind these ribbons to my hands to light my way.
Grieve the swallows as they fall around me.
Count the ripples as they roll and die away.
 
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So what next. Words from people whom I admire, maybe. That is, I admire both the people and the words.

Human beings are a lot meaner and stupider than they think they are.

~~~   kurt vonnegut

I’ve been a doormat in a world of boots.

~~~   jean reese

The unexamined life is not worth living.

~~~   aristotle, I’m pretty sure. but if you appeared before me now, Ari, I’d tell you that my life, even though very much examined, was not one iota worth living, except for the animals I knew.

I am a spirit of no common rate.
The summer still doth tend upon my state.
And I do love thee,
therefore go with me.
I’ll give thee fairies to attend on thee,
and they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep,
and sing,
whilst thou on pressed flowers dost sleep.

                  ~~~   the bard of avon. Though if you appeared before me now, Will Shakespeare, I’d tell you that I couldn’t give my loved ones very many fairies, and always hoped to give them more, and failed. I’d tell you that being a spirit of no common rate hasn’t been a good thing in my life, but rather just another reason for Kurt’s mean and stupid humans to lash out at me.

If I disappeared today, what would I leave behind that anyone would give a damn about?

the tyranny of the weak

~~~   f. scot fitzgerald —- and if you appeared before me now, Scot, I’d tell you that my life has been plagued, and finally destroyed, by weaklings, sissies. For all my fears and illnesses, I’ve been through more hell than anyone I personally know, and am on certain levels stronger than anyone I personally know, most of whom would already be in the loonybin halfway through my 11 hell years if they had to bear it all alone, in poverty, without a car, with nasty physical pain. Sissies who have money and position and cars and some type of economic or bureaucratic power over me have made my 55 years a study in pushing the legendary boulder up the hill. Sissies, weaklings, whiners. The tyranny of the weak has been one of the stories of my mangled existence.

Update 13 June 2009:   I read through this blog and see all the poetry, and there is poetry on my other blogs too. I started reading poetry when I was 7, writing it when I was 9. It hasn’t been in my life quite as long as animals were, but it’s been a very long time. Especially in emotional pain I have always turned to writing poetry. But the sheer devastation of all that has happened to me in the last 15 months has finally wiped the poetry slate clean. I don’t want to see it, don’t want to hear it, don’t want to write it. It was part of my own life that ended 15 months ago, and right now I can’t stand the pain of getting near it. Again, my spirit, of which I had so much, is mostly gone. And of course I’m angry in this original post; very angry.

read…   Extemporaneana…   Mental hell

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