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

-ar

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Piles of French Novels by Vincent Van Gogh

no

•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

ar

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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
Northbound
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
Southbound
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.

Between

•August 4, 2014 • Leave a Comment

April:

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

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Waiting for the Wind, by Drew Hartel

View original

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.”

-A.R.

image
Farmer with a Pitchfork, by Winslow Homer

Grandmother Time

•July 3, 2014 • 3 Comments

I like the ticking of a clock
Wound tight but counting down
The way it echoes ‘cross the kitchen
With a nostalgic tinny sound

I like the memories it carries
From its chipped enamel frame
A grandma’s hands there to rewind
Cogs ’till they bring comfort again

-a.r.

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Photograph by Cuba Gallery on Flickr.com

For my grandmother

(Re)Visitation

•July 2, 2014 • 4 Comments

Tonight I lie alert

And waiting

For sleep anesthesia

To cloud my brain

And lighten my limbs

But She descends instead

With her sadness dripping

From the ceiling, down the walls

Filling the bedroom

Until I am drowning

In her, with her, from her

My lungs shake and eyes burn

I try to find my breath

It is of no use this evening

Not even my exhale escapes her tide

So I give up, give in, give to her

My fear

My failure

My death

My nothingness

And she seeps and I weep

Into and from every pore and orifice

Her liquid non-life saturates me

Devastates me

I will not sleep tonight

I will stare with eyes wide open

From the bottom of her depths

Until the sun

-a.r.

sadness

This is a reworking of an old poem of mine from January 2013, done so because I have recently had a similar struggle.

 
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