Sitting at Home

Yesterday I had surgery on my face right below my eye. I had basal cell carcinoma aka skin cancer. This sort of freaked me out because I am so young, only 31. Way too young to be having skin cancer but I am also very fair skinned which means I will be watching out for the cancer all my life. So today I am using the surgery as an excuse to basically lay around and do nothing all day. For a poem today, I give you Shadow Monster. Though written specifically about depression which is something I constantly have to fight with, it could be about any hidden disease.

Shadow Monster

Waiting in the shadows,
A constant observer,
Clawing in the psyche,
Eating a hole within.
Cascading vegetative bands,
Over the body,
Draping its sickness throughout.
Binding around the chest,
Constricting the breath,
Dampening all will and desire.
Entering through years of words,
In the mind—caught in time’s echo.
Absorbed into the self,
Becoming a part of the matrix,
Settling in the center,
Rotting the center support.
It tendrils out, anchoring,
In a constricting embrace,
As the hands of a dark lover,
Shown only through the eyes.

A child’s of winter’s hand,
In fear of this servant, I wait.
That seed of disease,
Encapsulated within me,
Released racing through the stream,
Weaving an intricate cloak,
Felt along the skin,
Yet holding no warmth,
Against her embrace,
Into spring,
I have struggled,
Stumbling, reaching, desiring,
Yet thrashing, bruise within—bleeding,
This is a course hard to bear.
Winding yet clawing my way to a truth.
Forever asking forgiveness,
And understanding,
For things unknown and unrealized.
Receiving *Freyr’s grace,
And perhaps his *sister’s blessing.

Apollo beginning to destroy,
Pulling and striking—burning,
Separating me, from that shield,
With his golden hands,
Blinding his faithful child.
Then winding with coolness within,
By the grace of the lute he bears,
Healing in there the ache,
That touches all in this world.
Releasing a person,
From this internal damn cage,
Yet a cool breeze wanders through,
A memory of her hand,
Sent to retrieve a lost child,
Once running into the chaos,
Back into her fold of despair.
Using of her last recourse,
That ever present Shadow Monster,
Will he ever understand?

Freyr–Nordic God of sun and rain, and the patron of bountiful harvests
Freyr’s Sister is Freya–Goddess of love and fertility (sexual love as opposed to the Goddess Venus and romantic love).

Perhaps too much. This is what happens when I don’t have to work. I think and sometimes thinking is bad and usually from it comes poetry. Of course I think about my ex-husband a lot, but I have also been thinking about a friend of mine lately. In High School, I really didn’t have any friends, no really. But I did have a job and on Friday and Saturday nights we worked a double shift so I got to work with this older college guy. He and I shared a lot in common (reading and movie wise–we have never agreed on music) and I even had a crush on him, unfortunately he had a girlfriend (who he eventually married). We have kept in touch over the years and when I visited home a few days ago, I visited him. I get the feeling he is feeling lost and miserable inside his perfect life. He has the whole wife and kids but never has seemed happy, and he recently lost his job because he failed a psyche evaluation. He is having a hard time getting another job. I really feel for him (he evidently lost all his friends with his job), but don’t really know what to do for him besides listen. Perhaps that all you can do sometimes. So in thinking about that, this is what I came up tonight.


To this battlefield,
We have been before,
In my youth,
This was my war,
You, Not a champion,
But a medic,
Stopped the bleeding,
Saved the life.

Now it is your war,
We fight,
Alas, I am not the champion,
You chose,
And that is the injury,
Of the invincible,
Warrior I have become,
My heel has been struck,
The Gods have left me,
Too lamed and too chained,
By society,
To fight this war,
Even for you.
Will your champion,
Fight for you,
Or will she let you fire,
Burn out, Phoenix?
Will I hold,
Your broken self,
On the battlefield,
Only to cleanse it,
For burial with my tears?

Sticky Mess

It burst forth,
From my chest,
Peeling back the skin,
Suctionally popping free.
Its tiny legs,
Scrambling about.
This wet thing,
Crinkling and oozing,
From my unfortunate body.
It left a tiny trail,
Footsteps of heart’s blood,
Across my shirt,
As it escaped to the floor.
It chittered, clattered,
Shook its wings,
This cockroach thing,
And made as to fly,
To metamorphose,
Into some beauteous thing,
I gazed upon the wound,
As it oozed superfluous fluid,
Turned my eyes downward,
To the cause,
Pick up my boot,
And crushed love,
Where it lied,
A sticky mess,
Upon the floor.


Today was waiting on the Maintenance guy day two. He was supposed to come on Tuesday but didn’t show. My microwave quit and all the appliances came with the apartment so the complex has to replace it. Also its not just a matter of bringing me a new microwave and plugging it in, no sir, the microwave is mounted about the stove. And he seems to be having a really hard time getting it replaced. I have been without a microwave for a while and I cook most of my food in the microwave so dinner has been interesting as of late. It will be a joy to have my microwave back and to be able to eat my TV dinners as I normally do. As I don’t have any poems about Microwaves (although perhaps I should write an ode to the microwave since I use it so much) or one about Maintenance men, you will have to make do with Night’s Elemental today. It is about a guy I met back in Grad School. I wrote this at a Thanksgiving Party I was at while listening to him play the guitar.

Night’s Elemental

An elemental spawned,
By the night’s breath,
A shadow forever in peripheral sight.
Cascading stars from the desert sky,
Dropped notes of music,
Coaxed forth from wood,
By beautiful long hands,
That I cannot catch,
And are doomed to forget.
Lulled into the false security,
Fostered by spiced warmth,
And conversation that holds me.
‘Tis but a moment,
Time always shatters,
Fires burn low and darkness remains.
In the shade of this,
Burning elemental light,
The fates gave victory,
In a meaningless game,
But it is I who am captured.
There is no strategy,
Save escape from the pain,
That loneliness brings.
I see the knowledge in your eyes,
Take my hand,
And together, maybe,
We can climb out of here.
Alas, the winter holds no warmth,
But neither does the night.

Fishy Memories

I am not blogging as much as I would like. Its seems like my mind is on vacation and I am wondering through memories and the past looking for moments of happiness or things that I have lost. I went way back in the poetry files and found this one called Up Before the Sun. When I was in college I took this class I hated called Ichthyology, study of fish, I got into the class by accident. I needed a lab class or I would be forced to take 3 lab classes in one semester (yikes) and I didn’t have the chemistry for the usual pre-med courses like Microbiology and such so I ended up in fish class. One project that we had to complete was two day field trip where we killed all the fish in a lake cove and sorted them and recorded them. This poem recorded how I felt about the trip (after I got over the snakes and the yuck factor) and records a little about a crush I had on this boy in the class. Its a great memory even now, but I still hated the class.

Up Before the Sun

Up before the sun,
By choice?
Wind blowing in my face,
On the lake as the sun,
Crawls around lazy clouds,
In the darkness.
Shadows of the lake,
Pass by,
As we move to begin our day,
Spent struggling with pesky fish,
And thoughts,
The Catfish and Sucker,
The one just beyond my reach,
Sorting through it all,
Red-Ear Sunfish here–13 number 6’s.
Open my eyes to beauty blind,
Soft brown eyes,
With wind blown sandy blonde hair,
Combined with gently masculinity.
Blue eyes sparkle,
In amusement seldom seen,
At the bonding banter,
Between “length sorters.”
Basking in his smile,
As I brush spiders,
From his hair.
In the afternoon,
Tired beyond belief,
Skin shining,
With mutant scales.
Wind again in blonde hair,
Closed eyes savoring,
The moments before,
I must walk away.

I am now back from visiting my family. Today I plan on doing all those things you have to do when you get home after being gone for two weeks. Things like pay bills, go pick up your mail, go to the grocery store. I have also been bombarded by cats, they don’t like it much when I am away. My family is already texting me that they miss me and I miss them too, its strange to go from being in a house full of people to an empty apartment. But its nice to be back in my home and not in someone else’s. Here is a poem about something you see plenty of in both the South and in Southern California, the Magnolia Tree. When I lived in Riverside a few years back there was one outside my apartment window. I wrote this assignment for an online poetry class I was taking at the time (this was back in 2005). Enjoy.


Waxy, thick expensive leaves,
An identifying mark,
In their newness,
A fuzzy brown found underneath,
As the Pine,
You hold onto this investment,
And play not in autumn’s array.
Those white flowers,
With that signature smell,
Of southern afternoon sweetness,
Takes me from these California shores,
Back home and into memory,
Where cousins were whipped,
For climbing your sister’s limbs,
She being planted,
By grandmother long passed.
Once flower faded away,
Seeds are dropped,
Not far from the origin,
A blazing hope of continuation,
Bouncing at our feet,
Or clamoring about our head,
The elder casting,
A shade of protection,
Along the path we walk,
On our way.

Father’s Day

So this is a the first time in a while that I am actually at my parents home for Father’s Day. I don’t really have any poetry that marks Father’s day nor do I really have any about my Dad. Now don’t get me wrong, I have the greatest Father ever. He taught me everything that is good about myself, he has encouraged me in most of my endeavors, and he supported me while I went to college. All my Dad has ever wanted for me was to be happy. Here is a shout out to all the good Dads out there. I wrote this poem back in 2001 when I left my parent’s home for the first time to go to graduate school. I was excited about graduate school and living on my own but I also knew that it was the end of a specific time in my life and was more than a little sad.

Broken Chains

And vehicle loaded,
Trying to curb tears,
Determined to leak into eyes,
That quiver stealing into voice,
Spoken words, closed door.
Slide into seat,
Clothes snagging against,
The multi-colored cloth seat,
Fingers curling around,
The hot gray leather wheel.
Slide the key into the ignition,
Steel against the sobbing,
Wipe away those tears,
Not death, but a shadow,
Dismissing safety’s arms.
Turn the key,
Free thyself and condemn,
In one turn,
Destination imminent,
Rock N’ Roll heartbreak,
Seeping from speakers,
Leaving that town,
Foundation of a life,
Turn onto I-40,
Headed toward a future,
Breaking wanted chains,
With the pressure of a gas pedal.