Category Archives: rural doctor

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Shattered

Is the wave, the water being shattered?

Or is it really the rock that is shattered, bit by bit, over time?

Stone shaped heart

your heart is an agate
clear stone

you have won
sort of
you think

but I am water
I am waves
I will smash you against the other rocks
and wear you down

I am water
I carve you like a laser
you wear my name
carved in your stone shaped heart

it is already written there
on your stone shaped heart
faint, because water wears slowly

water wearing stone
over time

________________________

written in April 2022

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: shattered.

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Colored ink

I write every day, both in my journal and here and other places. Ok, the other places are not every day.

I love colored ink. My mother did too. My sister and I were raised “devout atheist”. We did not go to church and my parents claimed to be atheist, but my mother loved holidays and decorated. Christmas, Easter, and we did the elaborate eggs with layers of color then wax then a second color then more wax. My parents also held music parties for folk songs. They sang in big choruses too, so my bible education was all masses and the Messiah. My mother set up a creche at Christmas and hung gilded pears in her avocado tree along with a partridge. She scorned “modern” Christmas carols so we just learned the old traditional ones.

My mother was an artist. She did art every single day. She kept a much more erratic journal than me, but kept it for years. My sister and I had art supplies of all sorts and art lessons whether we wanted or not. I love color. I use my InkJoy pens and write every day. I switch colors each day. Sometimes I have stickers or stamps or drawings or doodles. Each journal is a different form. I have lots of fun with them.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: ink.

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Trifling

Each sperm will be a child, the result is stifling
my sympathy could be termed as trifling.
Porn outlawed, hands will be tied.
“But we didn’t think of this!” the people cry.
AI twisted to measure our lust
claiming to protect the weakest of us.
“But a sperm is only half!” It doesn’t matter,
the AI in charge is mad as a hatter.
If two cells together is deemed a child
than why not one? And the AI runs wild.

_______________________

I took the photograph yesterday. A sign of spring in the Pacific Northwest is that the moss turns green. And grows. And grows.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: trifling.

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Soft my heart

Soft my heart forgives and lets go,
lets go of reconciling. We won’t. I won’t.
I have waited long enough. I forgive all
and I am done waiting. I let it all go and
walk forward into a different life.
The Sufis lead me: the teacher must judge when
the student is ready. I am not a teacher.
I am always a student. I want to learn
always and change. I let go. Farewell, my dears,
you still have my love but you do not have me.
I no longer care, I don’t long for your love,
I let you live your stuffed and twisted lives
in peace, without me importuning you,
to listen to think to grow with me
and you don’t want to so I am free.

____________________________

Written February 17, 2024. As with most of my poems, I don’t know how it will end until I write it. Poem as prayer. The ending surprised me, too.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: reconcile.

I don’t know who took the photograph. From left to right, my sister, cousin, me, cousin, taken at Lake Matinenda in Ontario, Canada.

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Flooded

Trigger warning: trauma and feelings.

I cry because
the laundry overflowed
the sewer blocked again
we might have to pull up the floor
and lay it down a third time
I hate the laundromat
water runs across the floor
as fast as the tsunami
crossing the fields
crushing the houses
catching the trucks
in Japan

I cry because
I have to ask for help again
Help comes
but the memories of asking
when it didn’t
help didn’t come
and I was abandoned or humiliated
rise up and overwhelm me
I am flooded
I am helpless
someone help those people
The shaking earth is bad enough
But the ocean rolling inland
Over all
Breaking all
Beams to toothpicks
Those are the memories that rise up
And flood me
I think of the soldiers
and victims of wars and disasters
and PTSD
tsunami
of memory

__________________________________

Written before 5/2011. I have posted before, but couldn’t find it on a search. Posted today at a friend’s request.

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Heaven and hell

Hell is other people. Heaven too.
How much do you adjust for this person?
The one who is only available when I am damaged
a foul weather friend, unexpected,
busy with all the damaged around,
never time to play. This one hides much
and slips into denial like a familiar cloak.
I am sad. That one talks about others, ah, gossip
I hate it. This one has a blind spot I could
drive a truck through. I wonder why? I am curious.
I read that women are still expected to be responsible
for the house. They are praised or blamed if the home
appears perfect or a mess. I am clearing my main floor
to resemble this idea of what a house should look like
but reading that I wonder. Is it worth it? My decor
is packrat cat lady, though only two cats. No self respecting
burgler would come in as they would trip and fall,
over cats or stuff. Stuff on the stairs: I don’t care
and know that at 65 I will be counseled in my “free”
medicare wellness visit, that I’ve paid for through
all my working years, to make sure my house is uncluttered
reducing fall risk. Hell is other people and heaven too.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: hell.