Darkening Days

•August 30, 2014 • 1 Comment

Originally posted on sometimesihatemycat:

I look forward
There is a dark season on the horizon
Light mood, light humor, light slipping
Slowly below that line of land, looming
Barely noticeable except by feel alone
Shadows unseen while looking towards the sun
Were always there, but now begin a slow reach
Clothing will soon change from easy sheath
To layered shrouds of mourning, for cover
Of skin thinned raw from exposure
Awakening in me a guttural wantonness
Growing from a gritty grounded place
I will soon seek out meaty music
With heavy words and thicker chords
That carry earthy reverb, building
They will wreak a heady havoc
Turning the breezy haze of easy tune
Into dark and heavy magic
I grin crooked, with a welcome chill

– April Resnick


Dark Sunset, creator unknown

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Watching & Waiting

•August 21, 2014 • 4 Comments

Oh how quickly things spiral to madness
Till no longer ’bout goodness or badness
Minute misconceptions
Human imperfections
Projecting rightness instead of our sadness

Oh but slowly we could break this habit
Sitting silent without safety jackets
Other becomes you
Self begins slipping through
Possibility’s born from our stepping back a bit


The Blind Watchmaker by jetski66 on deviantART

This Summer

•August 15, 2014 • Leave a Comment

I am enjoying unstacking the piles
That, while striving, had piled up for miles
Simple joys in this job
Yes, my brain’s become blob
So soon I’ll remember ambitious desires


Piles of French Novels by Vincent Van Gogh


•August 12, 2014 • Leave a Comment

needing another…illusion
wanting another…reality
so often i confuse the two
i alone determine what fixing I need
and what fixing i wish to do


Untitled, House Series, Francesca Woodman

Fear (repost)

•August 7, 2014 • Leave a Comment

It is real
Anxieties gather in my gut
I feel them churning
I hear their chatter
Making plans out of my fears
They worm their way in all directions
They burrow in my brain
Whisper failure in my ears
They drip warmly from my nose and eyes
Then prickle, bead, and bubble from my pits
Some of them bolt and make a beeline
Straight up my esophagus
With an unexpected urgency
The rest of them hunker down and turn
With parasitic precision
They compel me
To run towards relief
But I stay seated and feel the battle
Rage inside my body and mind
Soon with surprise I find
Reinforcements shoring up my spine
My wormy nerves are calmed
And I am brave again
Until next time

– April Resnick

raw nerve 2








Raw Nerve 2, by Julie Lawless

Because tonight I will be speaking at my graduation and to spite what my mind tells me, my body still reacts…and all I can do is feel it and move forward.


•August 4, 2014 • Leave a Comment


Because it seems I am between things at the moment,

“And letting that heavy nothing
Hang in the air, alone
Is hardest of all”

Originally posted on sometimesihatemycat:

Between the cool whips of wind
When life tousles my hair
Raises bumps on my arms
Carries scents of the seasons
And stirs the stuff about me
There are stale stagnant spaces
Moments of waning, waiting
Wanting to add something
But these minutes are full already
And letting that heavy nothing
Hang in the air, alone
Is hardest of all

— April Resnick


Waiting for the Wind, by Drew Hartel

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It is Enough Now

•July 19, 2014 • 3 Comments

“You see that girl,
We raised her here.
She was a good girl.”

And while he no longer knows my name, my husband, or my child,
It is enough now that some part of him remembers some part of me.
And while he is thinner than the rough-neck farmer I once knew,
It is enough now that he grips my hand tight and hugs me hard to his chest.
And while the doors in his mind make strange connections between disparate pasts,
It is enough now that he still offers me a room to stay, if I should ever need one.
And while he drifts and is sometimes absent from the world in front of him,
It is enough now that when I call him Granddad he leans in and kisses my cheek.
And while it feels like a part of my own childhood will be lost with his loss,
It is enough now that I remember…

The rattle of the old Ford pickup truck on a sodden and bumpy pasture,
The wagon wheel of a steering wheel in my little hands when he let me “drive,”
The toasty smell of hay and the echoing sound of the baler, and his cattle call,
The smoke rising from his pipe and how he simply gave it up because I asked,
The motherless calf we found just born and how we bottle fed and raised her,
The Collie, Barney, and how he gave chase around the truck and under the fence,
The cowboy boots, and shoehorns, and handkerchiefs, and tractor grease,
The slices of salted watermelon over the sink and the ever-present peanut m&m’s,
The way we begged him to “scare us!” when we went to bed each night, and how he would always say no, and how sometimes he would crawl back into our room and scare the daylights out of us, and how we laughed hard and loved him for it.

“You see that man,
He raised me there.
He is a good man.”


Farmer with a Pitchfork, by Winslow Homer


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