Tag: Where Love Meets War

Adrift

Posted on by Sree

Adrift,

with neither an anchor to port nor the wind to support its sails,

inhaling

is the sole solution for moving forward – giving purpose to movement –

exhaling

seems a betrayal of all that was lost when life kept its promises:

– constant change – what is born must die – what laughs must cry – no experience is a lie, yet all experiences are lies because they are not constant.

Adrift

 – our state whether known or unknown, contentment only coming with the belief that God’s hands will guide us – no God means no home –

either way – what is born must die – what laughs must cry – no experience is a lie, yet all experiences are lies because they are not constant.

Ad Libs

Posted on by Sree

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1, 2, 3, 4 – 1, 2 – 1, 2, 3,

1, 2, 3, 4 – 5, 6 – 7, 8, 9

The pitter patter of my life is like a 9 beat song – pitter patter – well – more like I stomp through it hoping for the best, with head down, and glancing both ways to dodge those 8 beat bangers and 6 beat romantics – knocking into others as I don’t figure into their rhythm – grooving to 9 means you probably can’t jam out with friends, instead you’re careful that this word, this look, this smile expresses this moment in a way that others can understand, and feel natural about, it can look – unperturbed – apathetic – cool to outsiders, but in reality is always one ad lib away from total self-destruction.

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This is a cool 9 beat (at least that’s how I hear it) song written by Rhiannon Giddens and performed by Our Native Daughters

Glory

Posted on by Sree

We scream as we

enter this world

and numb ourselves

to the pain

as we leave it,

yet without limits

we glorify these limbs

as a God

in whose image

we’re painted,

meanwhile,

the bulk of our life

is spent with sagging skin,

fat spilling out

in odd places,

weathered eyes tell the story

of our closest friend

– pain –

the one true love

that is fated.

Manufactured

Posted on by Sree

Hearing the sound of

the trolley’s bell, on Occidental

and Jackson, inspire me

to write some English 101

style prose – where you

go on describing things that

no one cares about as it just

gets in the way of the movement

of the story – because the

sound of that digital horn –

programmed to sound like

an old-fashioned ring that

we would have only heard in

movies – creates a guttural

nostalgia – that is clearly corporate

driven as there weren’t even

trolleys in Seattle when I was

growing up – and I’ll ride

that Trolly and feel like a kid

again until I remember that the

hospital is its and my

primary destination.