Dear Seamus

•September 20, 2013 • 1 Comment

Dear Seamus,
Searching for some steel truth
I come looking for your mythical creature
Horned and heavy
I am forging-ready
I pass by those rusted tools swaying
Grandfather pendulums wound
By the wind or movement of ghosts
Another spirit here just before
That door into darkness left ajar
No sparks now but swirling dust
Tiny tornadoes of neglect, a craft rejected
Only the footprint of your altar remains
A darker stain where it once stood
And warped wood from weighty work
But circling that anvil’s outline
And leading out the back
Coyote prints, and what is that
A torn off ACME tag

— April Resnick

harold_ross_anvilAnvil, by Harold Ross

Inspired by a friend reading “The Forge” by Seamus Heaney.  Thanks Alan.

Posted in Humanity, Identity, Poetry, Whimsy
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Morning Fertilizer

•September 19, 2013 • Leave a Comment

This morning
I shuffle still
In sleep
To that steaming
Bubbling altar
Of awareness
My bedtime bun
Disheveled and askew
Imbalance tugging
My heavy head
A leaning tower
Of convenience
Craving that first sip
But in my mouth
It turns to dirt
And gritty earth
Down my gullet
With aversion
To the taste
Of mineral and tin
But maybe while
I dump this out
And grind again
Some ingested seed
Will germinate and sprout
Crowding out the nausea
Of early morning doubt

and then…

— April Resnick

herbgardenrosemary-550x366Herb Garden Rosemary, by crunchybetty.com

Posted in Body, Food & Wine, Identity, Meditation, Poetry, Whimsy, Writing
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Psycho!

•September 16, 2013 • 1 Comment

Opaque vinyl curtain that clings to me
When I step in the shower and try to get clean
Not quite as romantic as cotton or glass
I feel so Saran-wrapped when you stick to my ass!

— April Resnick

20130916-101451.jpg

Reposted because this happens regularly and, to spite myself, I still react.

Posted in Body, Poetry, Whimsy
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Appointment

•September 14, 2013 • 6 Comments

Wounded
I sign my name
In the physician’s book
Knowing that I must show up
For this routine debridement
Over and over and over
Present myself vulnerable
In my naked pain
To prevent these lesions
From infection poisoning
My entire being once again
Old bandages dried
Must be pulled off painful
Festered flesh assessed
Bathed with care and saline
Look, some new tissue
Growing forming slowly
Covered now and clean
Throbbing to remind me
We will have more work to do
But for this moment I am done
Time to climb off the table
Dress myself as I was
Another year of life begun
But I will carry with me an itch
And pulse of wounds mended
Another day to be tended
Forgiven

— April Resnick

The-agnew-clinic-Thomas-Eakins

The Agnew Clinic, by Thomas Eakins

Posted in Body, God, Humanity, Identity, Poetry
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The Many Moods Of Skull

•September 13, 2013 • 6 Comments

Self
Fear grimace
No-self
Fear grimace
Craving
Fear grimace
Aversion
Fear grimace
Reaction
Fear grimace
Non-reaction
Fear grimace
Suffering
Fear grimace
End of suffering
Fear grimace
Impermanence
Toothless fear grimace
Dissolution
Nameless fear grimace
Cessation
Fossil fear grimace
Relinquishment
Dust

— April Resnick

Painted-Skulls-Noah-Scalin

Painted Skulls, by Noah Scalin

Posted in Body, Death, Humanity, Meditation, Poetry, Whimsy
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This Edge

•September 12, 2013 • 2 Comments

Support
Like stepping-stones
Only got me to this edge
Now my choice to turn and hedge
Or jump, free fall, with fear and all
Into that descending mist
Disguised and hissing
Pools or jagged rocks below
Either way I choose to go
Embraced by soft splashing
Or quick hit crunching
Fleshy floating, bone and stone
Either way this leap is mine
And I’ll be flying for a time

— April Resnick

oparkaa-waterfall-painting-linda-phelps

Oparkaa Waterfall Painting, by Linda Phelps

Posted in Death, Family, Friendship, Identity, Nature, Poetry, Writing
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My Bracelet

•September 11, 2013 • Leave a Comment

Today I wear a bracelet
Which is twelve years old
I wear it this day every year
For memories and lessons that it holds

It was made for us in gratitude
For being there and holding up
The families of the ones who died
That somber day in Washington

Crafted of our country’s colors
They once were bright without a mark
Each year those colors fade a bit
And the beads become more scarred

At first I made an effort
To keep it quite pristine
But on this day I realize
Value is not in keeping clean

The dirt and scratches simply show
Twelve years of life we’ve lived
We are not defined by cracks and tears
But by what of ourselves we give

My bracelet, you’ll be on my wrist
On this very day each year
Until one of us lets go that thread
Life well worn out for those not here

— April Resnick

20130911-141216.jpg

My bracelet

Posted in Death, Family, Humanity, Loss, Poetry
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Glad it Wasn’t a Raven (repost)

•September 10, 2013 • Leave a Comment

So I climbed atop my writing desk,

Sat still and quiet for a while,

Not in front or underneath,

To stop the verses running wild.

 

There was an air duct next to me,

Attempting quite to suck me in,

I felt myself lean toward it,

Wanting to squeeze between the vents.

 

Desirous craving is not helpful,

Many cloistered men have preached,

If I succeed and quell my passion,

Then what compels creative reach?

 

So I stay balanced with my books and pens,

Attention there under my nose,

Still I allow imagination leeway,

Sometimes I follow where it goes.

 

– April Resnick

 

writing-desk

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Because I sat on my writing desk again today.

Posted in Identity, Meditation, Poetry, Whimsy, Writing
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Between

•September 9, 2013 • 1 Comment

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

20130909-094644.jpg

Waiting for the Wind, by Drew Hartel

Posted in Identity, Meditation, Nature, Poetry, Writing
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While Silent

•September 5, 2013 • Leave a Comment

While silent
There was an itch
To the left of my chin
It opened my mouth
And crawled right in
Over bone and tooth
Down bumpy gum
Under and around
My swollen tongue
Tasting of an empty tin
Nothing there except
Echoes and gin
It was time to get up
Spit and speak again

— April Resnick

20130905-000002.jpg

Still-Life with a Skull, by Philippe de Champaigne

Posted in Body, Food & Wine, Identity, Meditation, Poetry
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