The griefs are many
but find value in truth that:
Each breath
Each heartbeat
Each moment celebrating
Each of those
Is a courtship of death.
By embracing
THIS breath
THIS heartbeat
THIS moment of joy
Is a nod of recognition
To infinite mystery
Our age is known
By the buried bones
Of our bloodline
Reflected in chosen heritage
And the legacy of their love.
It is safe to play with the darkness again.
To coax it out from underneath the basement stairs.
To enthrall the dust from the bone filled closet.
To embrace the shadow that lurks beneath pallet.
The darkness loves to cuddle with the little self
reassuring the little, that learning deep truth
creates a Tower, crumbling accommodated fears
Darkness births wisdom from soul insults and betrayal.
The little’s shadow begs grief for the heart song abducted
Begs sorrow for the wounds caused by caustic demolition
caused by atrocities witnessed, experienced, coerced
The Darkness beseeches with terrified shrieks
anxiously imploring for tenderness and compassion
among the surplus of debris once cherished
On the knees of submission
Hard on the floor
The sin of omission
A morality score
Prayer hands clasped tightly
Like folding chair pews
Hymns resound violently
Long-sleeved black and blue
Submit to your husband
Follow his lead
Open your thighs
to embrace his seed
If life springs forth
from your virgin womb
raised the red, white, and blue
over a gifted soldier’s tomb
If your life becomes sacrifice
respond to what you allow
remember your promise,
remember your vow
Obey all the rules
follow the commands
Do as your told
Do not give demands
You’re less than a fetus
but more than you should be
tone down your laments
while living hypocrisy
A funeral is a condensed soup of stories
a testament to how they moved through the world
honoring the human they are no longer
wish flowers blown free by a child’s breath
The absence of their laughter, wisdom, joy
is a sullen void of yearning
Haunting the rooms where they lived
with a sharp recognition of the hollowness
The mortality displayed on our own faces
The recognition of our fleeting contribution
Our role in the stone soup of life
Our own responsibility to love so loudly
that we echo through our children,
leak into the community with emboldened abandon
Cherish each gift of spent intimacy
whether it came neatly wrapped in shiny paper
or a hurried wrapping in Sunday comics
Who we are is a reflection of everyone we know
who we become is the distillation of their best parts
Miss Mabel, June 13, 2025
I feel an animosity towards time
It proceeds without caution,
barreling through individual’s lives
destruction and creation embodied
A shallow dagger tattooing memories
in a word.
I swallow in lusty gulps the mana
that ever and again poisons me
with child-like misplaced trust
of the perpetuation of consistency
bathed in my blissful ignorance
in a word.
It’s not enough to hold resentment
towards the testament of our days,
nor is it a hobby to be taken frivolously
It is neither good nor evil,
but yet it commonly holds the dichotomy
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times”
Or so the story goes
in a word.
Music is an original piece called “October Moons” by Alicia Menninga. She wrote it for me.
You can get it here:
Dreamscapes Album: October Moons
Or the entire album can be found here:
I have been absent for quite a while. I’ve set down some of my volunteer work. I’ve spent a lot of time being. Sometimes busy, sometimes not, but primarily I’ve been focusing on building the life I want to live; the one I enjoy and relish so dearly.
In the next month or so, I’ll be picking up my roots that are over five years deep and moving down the road a spell to take care of a human who, at this point, requires stupidvision with a dash of management. It’s scary to think I won’t have my safe haven anymore, but it’s thrilling to explore the world from different perspectives.
This is a big deal in my life, but not in the world. Most people probably won’t even notice my change of address. I will. Most people won’t even think twice about my new living situation. I will. I’ve determined that the risk is worth the outcome. I will do this. It will be good. I’m already happy.
Transition from one phase to another is a challenge, but change is as sure as death and taxes. I’m embracing this new direction with the fervor of devotion to myself.
Thank you for your patience.
I’ve given up on grief.
It’s too small of a word
To contain the absence I feel
To cover the sorrow that blooms
Unexpectedly
When I make coffee in the morning
Or taste a muffin
Like you used to make
I’ve given up grief
It’s too small of a space
To hold all that was you
The way you laughed
The scent of your body
Fresh out of the shower
Or sweaty with work
I’ve given up grief
It’s too shallow for a feeling
That is deeper than I thought
Although I suspected,
Your love holds me buoyant
In the ocean of our commitment
Yes, I’ve given up grief
Because the world requires
The gift of who you were
Through my eyes.
I can’t hold that when it,
Like you,
Were born to shine even now
“I don’t have the personality to be God.” I stated to nobody in particular. “I just can’t bring myself to allow others to worship their perception of me.”
I have found myself on the top of a pedestal. I’m not really certain when that happened, but when I’ve heard others talk about me, whether to my face or behind my back, I found myself precariously perched on top.
I consider myself a good human, not a good person. A good person isn’t allowed to make mistakes, trash relationships that no longer work, or draw boundaries around what is good for them. A human, on the other hand, is perfektly within their rights to do any, all, or none of those.
I’m embarrassed when people call me an angel. I know how often I roll my eyes or mutter under my breath while I’m doing something for another human who probably can’t do what I can as well. I feel negativity, but I allow it to pass unless it’s harming me or someone I love. I’m emotionally fly by the seat of my pants. I give because I enjoy the feeling I get when I do. But, in spite of that, it’s harder for me to feel joy when doing something for myself (at this time.)
I can’t tell you the last time I laid one of my beloved paintbrushes to a canvas to create. Yes, I’ve been writing which is cathartic in getting my thoughts out, but painting is coloring in the emotions that are overwhelming. It focuses them in a different way than words can. It allows me to express emotions without self-criticism or judgement which I tend to do in words.
When I write, everything has to be in order. Everything has to make sense to myself and for others. Every idea that pops into my head is best written down so I remember what is important to me, what my goals are, and how I’m going to do what makes me happy.
Art, in any of it’s forms, is a way for me to run around emotionally naked. It encourages me to let go of the control I think I need in the written word. With colors, forms, shapes, patterns, etc., I can bring the darkest, the most joyous, the mundane to a life that is visible. It allows me to fight my demons in public without holding onto them any longer. I miss that.
Yet, here I sit typing away as if this is the only way I can be “seen”, when at the beginning of this writing, I talked about the pedestal I’m perched upon. I want to jump off of that pedestal and spread my emotional wings again. The euphoria I feel when I do that is worth it. I’m making time as we speak to allow space for something so crucial to my well being.
I don’t have the personality to be God, but I have the hands of a creator that are longing to spring anew.
I am a shepherd without any sheep
I am a reaper who does not reap
I am a mute, your secrets I keep
I am the lullaby to sing you to sleep
I am the shadow that does not creep
I am a leviathan up from the deep
I am the mountain with a rocky face steep
I am the vessel your burdens to heap
I am the tears that no longer weep
I am the life who causes no grief
I am the toddler who grants you no peace
I am the medicine that brings you relief
I am the bearer of your disbelief
An Independent Nondiscriminatory Platform With No Religious, Political, Financial, or Social Affiliations - FOUNDED 2014
Life is a patchwork of moments — laughter, solitude, everyday joys, and quiet aches. Through scribbled stories, I explore travels both far and inward, from sunrise over unfamiliar streets to the comfort of home. This is life as I see it, captured in ink and memory. Stick around; let's wander together.
Hosanna High Community Burial Project
True wealth is the wealth of the soul
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Daydreaming and then, maybe, writing a poem about it. And that's my life.
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Musings and books from a grunty overthinker
Love Letters to the Tar Pit
Making Space for Dreams
binge thinking and other things in life
Mare Martell 