Yearning

Summery springs make it hardest. The thought of you fills my mind, my tongue screams to taste you. It hurts to want what can’t be mine, to watch you be another’s pleasure, to remember when all of you was part of me. It huts to be without.

It’s natural—
once sunkissed,
skin will yearn for heat
under the caresses
of the moon.

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the (not so) wee notes…
– Poetry is living’s and feeling’s lovechild, words that feed on (almost) everything the poet is and does. I shared the heart bit above (that sounds like a cool name for the 2nd part of the poem) on a Crohn’s disease forum. We were talking about all the foods we miss the most, when someone said, “It’s not so bad. Everything can be replaced with something else that’s almost just as good.”

My thoughts, you wonder? Well, in my case that assessment is incorrect when it comes to most foods. I haven’t been able to find something to truly replace coffee, fried foods, cheese, or my beloved yogurt. In fact, this bit of deep, deep, deep poetry was inspired by my having to eat dairy free yogurt. It’s not that yogurt made with coconut milk is a horror, but the one made with whole milk is so much yummier *wails in wild despair*.

I’m sharing it today, as background for my reply to an Instagram follower who asked, “Where does your relationship poetry come from?” It comes from everywhere: personal interactions, reactions to my environment, of course, from my yogurt yearnings.

– Linked to Poets United ~ Poetry Pantry 345

parchment – half of a tea bag (passion flower tea)
background – recycled paper
yellow/orange/red rose petal (looks like a flame, doesn’t it?)
red thread (and my tenderly wild touch)

Vacant Skulls and Hollow Hearts

“Learning how not to do things is as hard as learning how to do them. Harder, maybe. There’d be a sight more frogs in this world if I didn’t know how not to turn people into them.” ~ A Hat Full of Sky, by Terry Pratchett

.
“You hate me because I despise sin,” she tells me. “Because I shan’t share my table with a man who beds another man.”

I look into the rapture burning her sight, and say, “I hate no one. But I’m disgusted by vacant skulls and hollow hearts.”

I have seen
hatred break a soul,
unlearn it

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the wee notes…
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ Play It Again Toads! (Flash 55), to Rereading My Pratchett, and to Poets United ~ Poetry Pantry 352.
– If you have a minute or three check out Rosemary Nissen-Wade’s “Thought Provokers: Some Little-Known Short Forms”, which include three of my poems with Thinner Tanka in them.

 

Pain Is Gentle…

…like a smile on the face of a tiger.

The last few days have included insane laughter, baring of teeth, and loud thoughts, shouting, Bring it on, you bastards! Life and Fate and the bits of me that hurt like a hot poker in the ribs just glance at me, worry filling their non-existing eyeballs—even Life and Fate and hot pokers understand that pushing a wild witchy woman who’s about to reach the end of her tether is not safe for anyone. So, they just stare… half enthralled… half waiting to see what I will do next…

I have been keeping them (especially pain) busy by doing things with my hands. Pain has no mind for work or sarcasm. That’s the reason why when the hurt tries to burst my insides, I laugh and surround myself with jokes of questionable niceness. Yesterday, even the mad grinning was failing. So, I pulled out the big weapons: markers, pens, needle, thread, recycled paper, tea bags and coffee filters, dried flowers, refurbished frames, nail polish I’ve owned since the Dark Ages (of course they had nail polish in the Dark Ages!), my tiny silver hammer, and well… you get the idea, don’t you? I got crafty and set pain aside to starve for attention.

By the time the sun decided to sleep, I had gone all wildly crafty on 5 blackouts. I enjoyed the completed work for a while, grinning… not caring all that much that my hands were stiff and shaky. And yes, I laughed raucously after that. Like I said to a friend, who pointed out that I make a lot of jokes when my body is being a bastard, “Laughter confuses the Reaper.” Art does the same for pain—it won’t stop the hurt, but it lets pain know that it can’t take my choices.

I chose to keep one of the blackouts for myself (see below). Because looking at it makes me smile… with lots of teeth and because I’m quite greedy. The others joined a growing wee pile that plans to become an online shop… sometime before Midsummer… I’m grinning again.

I also gave myself a cute skully angel brought to sweet and creepy life by Marfi, of Incipient Wings. It was love at first grin. She looks perfect next to my blackout.

So, my Wicked Luvs, what do you do when pain hurts like a royal bastard?