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A Little Nitty Gritty Ditty

I’m dying

Inside

I ain’t lying

To hide

I see you coming for me

Mister Anxiety

Go

Fuck

Off

Turn your damn head

And cough

That’s right I got chesticles

And, I got you by the testicles

Got you in a vice grip

You try to move and I’ll rip, rip, rip

I break a chair over your back

To make up for all the things you think I lack

I repeat

Fuck you

Take a seat

You’re in for a treat

Believe me, I am for real

I won’t give up until

I’ve won

I’m done.

Poet’s Note: I have intense anxiety attacks. I’ve had a horrible one building along with a migraine for 9 hours. I missed an important appointment that I have been waiting for since spring. I finally couldn’t take it anymore and had to write it out. It’s a little better now; Of course I’ve had two doses of meds now and kisses from my service dog and support dog who are curled up next to me on the couch which is some feat considering that they are both big ass dogs. Please, excuse the foul language, but, if you have ever had a major panic attack, you understand. If not, deal with it. I think this would be a good rap, so I’m giving it to the best rapper I’ve ever heard, my friend, Ian Gabriel to do with as he pleases. With all of that being said, there’s one last thing…I’m out. Mic drop…

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“Tears are words that need to be written” -Paulo Coelho

I am not good at crying. I was never comfortable with it. Growing up, when I cried, I was either told to shut up and take it, to be quiet, that I looked funny doing it, or that it made me look ugly. For the last ten years, the ten years since Mom’s passing, I have rarely cried. Now, as I am my dying husband’s care giver, I cry often…not only for what I will lose, but for all that I have lost. My virginity at age five. My son at age fourteen. My hope at age 21. I cry for a father who helped so many and hurt so few. Those few being us, his own family. I cry for my perfectly imperfect mother…a woman who lived in and past fear. I cry for my brother who forced reality down so far that it had no choice but to come bursting up. I cry for my sister. I just cry for all she believes she has lost. I cry for my husband, my one great love, as I watch him try to stay Army strong and dignified. Illness has no dignity. I know as I have been sick most of my life. Death has dignity. Not the moments leading up to it but the passing itself. I held Granny’s hand as she stroked out, then stared into something that I could not see, smiled, and commented that now, after a lifetime of being a stalwart Christian, now she understood. As they say in the South, a Lady always knows when it’s time to leave. I realized while writing this truth that I am no Lady, but I am a woman…a perfectly flawed and naked to my soul, human. You may not like what I have written. You may be uncomfortable with it. But, I have been one acquainted with the world of untruths for far too long. Mulder had it wrong. The truth is not out there, rather it is in us. And, so is God.

After All

Staring at the paint chips in the ceiling,

Not wanting to move because I’m sick and finally cozy.

I’m starving though.

I stretch and claw my way into a half seated position

My mammoth duo of dogs aid me to no avail.

I lie back down,

defeated.

Taking a couple of puffs off my vape,

I rev upward.

I’m hungry dammit.

I stretch and wobble,

the dogs think it’s game on now!

I grab a chair and pull myself up.

Thighs of fire get me cleaned up and fed.

But, looking at me in the end, you would never know the fight.

Southern ladies always are presentable.

After all, we tidy our hair and freshen our lipstick,

even if the house was on fire.

Poetry: Thanksgiving

I forgive myself for idealizations of holidays pastFor quick crying between wishesFor wiping tears on my pumpkin apronFor missing the harvest moon …

Poetry: Thanksgiving

This blog entry by an amazing artist conveys my thoughts exactly. I am alone this Thanksgiving, and it really had me down until I read this piece by sweet Bridgette. You should check out her writings and photos.

And, to those who wonder where the turkey and mash potatoes are- they are in your heart, dear one. Thank each of you who read and support my blog. Your dedication keeps me dedicated. Many thanks and blessings to you all!!!

Love~ Susan

Crying Mary

She’s a no good harlot!

She’s possessed with evil intent.

She paints her face and wears improper clothes.

But, the winds scream Mary.

Why is she this way?

No one but she and her God know what happened to her.

One act of kindness from the Right Person-

She is healed.

And, the wind whispered Mary

My Catholic named is Mary Magdalene.

I know her pain and see through the lies.

Her invisible scars speak to me.

And, I cry MARY!

*giant nod to Jimi

Smoke on the Horizon

Curling my fingers around you like a Twizzler in my hand,

Chewing off the top and bottom carefully as not to be noticed.

A deep inhale brings a sigh of relief and a pang of worry.

You infiltrating my lungs as if long lost friends,

Sighing out the vapor is bittersweet-I don’t want to say goodbye but I want to say hello again and again and again…

How will I stop;

When will it end?

My Mother the Sea Skirting Nymph

Long before she lost her leg,

before five-year-old me scratched her cornea,

before she had her cancerous breast removed,

Mom was a water ballerina.

When our family went on vacation to Sanibel- back before it became trashy and shark ridden,

Mom would put on her simple bathing suit from last year and the one before that and the one before that and so on.

Next, she would put in her weighted fake boob and something was lost from her sparkle.

Then, unable to swim because of all of these stupid things,

she would walk miles up and down the beach collecting sea shells.

As a child, I thought it was her passion.

A shell hard to be unique and lovely in any form to go in Mom’s bucket.

So, day by day, morn til you couldn’t see your hand it was so dark, Mom would trudge the beach always looking out for jellyfish though I am sure dad would have urinated on her.

Mom , barefoot, would dance with the ocean.

Sometimes, a cha cha…other times a fox trot,

but they all seemed a lustful waltz to an 8 year-old me.

Later, in the condo, the two of us would go through her finds!

I loved the spiral ones, because I could hear the ocean I had been swimming in all day.

Mom listened to all of the sea shells

I tried it, too, but heard nothing.

I told Mom she was being silly with me, but she swore she wasn’t.

She’ll after shell, she laid back and listened to her lover’s call.

But, I heard nothing at all.

The Heart of the Matter

Lust begins in the eye of the storm.,

Love in the heart of the matter.

Lust is hot and physical to boot.

Love is a steady eddie.

Lust could become love but more likely not even friendship.

Love begins with friendship and attraction, like lust follows.

Lust gets up and leaves when sex is over.

Love holds you dearly after love making.

Give me love any old day.

Lust, after all, is a Queen’s gambit.

Heart Ache

As popcorn birthing

My eye is popping, hurting

I can feel the vein

Thumping its way to oblivion

I grab my medicine bag

And produce a green and yellow capsule

Pop it in my mouth and flounce to the floor

Am I having a heart attack?

Should I have taken aspirin, too?

No, there’s some in the med.

I begin to meditate…my emergency meditations

The yogi asks if I responded or reacted

I did both, you fool

The reaction was my response

Did my heart attack me ?

I will never know

Has time passed, no

though the clock says so

I sneeze and, for a millisecond

My heart stops again.

The weird thing is I am in the exact same position as before

Only my chest aches on this stark, old, wooden floor.