I have been still for too long
So today I walk until the sidewalks end
Running my fingers along that gray chain link fence
Erected to keep me from falling, jumping, onto the tracks below
Electric life tickles its way up from my fingerprints and into my brain
I am suddenly reminded what forward motion feels like
Choosing to move and reach beyond myself
I feel the world around me
Alive
— April Resnick
Pine Cones Renewal Chain Link, by Ruth E. Hendricks
I am opening windows
Singing and clearing clutter
Saving space for possibility
I am dusting surfaces
Noticing the cobwebs
Letting life keep spinning
I am changing batteries
Dancing and lighting candles
Borrowing time for brewing
I am readying my rooms
Unpacking decorations
Leaving a place for magic
In the making
— April Resnick
The Crystal Ball, by John Williams Waterhouse
You ask
Where do I stand
What is my shifting plot of land
Possibility
And that is all
Nothing else to dress these walls
— April Resnick
Persian Letters, by Rene Magritte
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
Anvil, by Harold Ross
Inspired by a friend reading “The Forge” by Seamus Heaney. Thanks Alan.
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
Herb Garden Rosemary, by crunchybetty.com
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
Reposted because this happens regularly and, to spite myself, I still react.
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, by Thomas Eakins
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, by Noah Scalin
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, by Linda Phelps
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
My bracelet
sometimesihatemycat 