Last Year’s Bones…

“Sometimes you get what you want, but mostly you get what you get.” ~ Sleeping Beauties, by S. and O. King

2017 was huge on getting me what I got… And since what I got (even if not exactly what I wanted) didn’t always take away my power to twist it into what I needed, I am grateful. If next year brings me a similar basket of lemons, I’ll be the joy-drunk lunatic sipping the  nonalcoholic mojitos.

about Last Year’s Projects…
…I finished my Diversity Reading List, but didn’t feel the inclination to review all the books. I also finished Rereading My Pratchett—it took me 2 years—and I enjoyed every bit of it (and I suspect that I’ll do it again).

about Pomegranates…
…mythology says that this yummiest of fruits (except mango, of course) symbolizes prosperity, protection, wisdom, and all things in-between. I love myth almost as much as I love wild things (& ellipses). So, mañana should find my sexy Self eating 3 pomegranates, and wishing, wishing, wishing… for the success of anyone who truly needs it, for fertile muses for any mind that works at her art, for the protection of anyone in need…

…and my HUGEST wish: enough wisdom to hammer social stupidity. Wish with me, won’t you? Let’s (work hard for it, and) will it to be.

Now, my Wicked Luvs… would you care to tell me about any of the bits you completed this year? And, mayhap, the to-dos that must await 2018?

last year’s bones
swimming in the blood
of morrows

You, Bastard!

I watch you twitch in your dying bed and wonder if the sole of my left boot, pressed hard, hard… against the folds of your neck, would help the world (and me) breathe a little easier. But strangulation would take you from your children much too quickly. I will free you not from the scorn oozing out of their eyes, from the sight of the burdens you’ve filled their hearts with.

January weeps snow salt on Alan Rickman’s frozen smile. “Always”, she says, and clutches Snape tighter, his blood tattooing your greedy deed to her chest. February doesn’t cry; not with Leonard Nimoy no longer breathing in her arms. “I shan’t show any emotion, Mr. Spock”, she tells him, turning her rage into indifference that stinks of your hand. November kneels in a corner, face to the wall and back to you. His eyes are shut, and his right foot is in his mouth. Shame shrouds him, the thought of post-truth weights bigly on his spirit. He mumbles, “Yes, we can” and “I feel the Bern”, but doesn’t know what any of it means.

The rest of your brood sits with Death, Misery and Loss, all their hurting quiet, quiet, quiet… except, December’s—she has been possessed by the rebel fury of Princess Leia. Yes, she is the one kicking your skull, and shouting, “You, bastard!” No, she is not the one flipping you off, that’s The Force in Carrie Fisher… and in most of the feeling world.

die, old thief.
do some good, for once—
die alone

.
a wee note…
– Yes, my Wicked Luvs, I’m relieved to see 2016 go and hoping that 2017 will bring better things.
– Linked to Poets United (Poetry Pantry, 334)

I borrowed this inspiring (and rather telling) cartoon from Lalo Alcaraz