My Lucid Reality

The migraine is a symbol of pain, agony so deep that the weight of is oppressive, it stifles breath, crushes hope, and worst of all it takes my imagination and punishes every thought.  A pain beyond description filters through me and my every daydream is fragmented and repeating. 

When pain overwhelms me and the next step seems too steep I find my comfort under the pouring water of a hot shower.  Music is silent, a guide for my scattered thoughts to find each other.  The heat is healing, and one by one I organize myself, forcing a label to my thoughts until one is followed by two and then shortly after three.  It’s almost amusing how chaos has a way of destroying order and leaving only pain in its wake.

The spray of water is calming, I feel my shoulders release, the weight on my chest doesn’t go away but the surety that this will pass does.  Sighing helps me breathe; crying helps me filter out the pain.  The music is dim; the only light is candlelight, a muted guide that pulls me onward.  I am filled with the sound of running water which tried to occupy the empty space that burns from the vacuum left behind by the tortured energies consumed by the migraine.

When at last I crawl under the covers, the bed welcomes me, I feel the weight with every stuttering breath, darkness welcomes me and I find that as my mind escapes the burden is lightened.

 — -

It’s hard to explain… but I’m back and expect to write more.

Mangled Poetry – Irreverent / Inappropriate

Welcome to the Sunday Mangled Poem.  A mangled poem is a poem that started out with the best of intentions but somewhere along the line it was derailed, the rhyme breaks, the rhythm is destroyed, or the author simply not blessed with the capability of pulling off their noble intentions.  Mangled poetry is a celebration of all published poems and songs that at some point during their recital cause a nerve in your brain to twitch and a tear to come to your eye… but not a tear of joy.

This week’s mangled poem is based on a celebration of the holiday season and some of the songs we sing so lovingly through the years.  Just as “Jingle Bells Batman Smells” stole our hearts, so may our mangled poems this week take us back to our days of yore, and to make it even more difficult I hope to do it all without rhyming “cart”.  I believe everyone has had a song that catches their attention but the words never do.  We sing it to ourselves and make up our own rhymes, they are not always good, and when trying to amuse children they can be even worse.
Candle Light

Everyday I think of you
Our romance a state of grace
I think of how I have some kids
And then I think of poo
Even as they grow there is a trace
Of smelling landing skids
I couldn’t have made it more mangled.  Please share with me your favorite inappropriate rhyme.  It’s the holiday season, do you have a version of Batman smells you can share with us?

A Holiday Rant

Facing the Holiday season I feel less like celebrating this year than in many years in the past.  I look at putting up the christmas tree so I can take it down in a couple of weeks.  I look at parties I’d rather not go to and songs I’d rather not listen to.  I have noticed that a lot of times when songs “come from the heart” they no longer have to exhibit talent. 

I think the hardest thing this year is that I’m in the same house I was in last year… for a gypsy this is difficult, that and I’m noticing the darkness more than I ever have in the past.  I know it’s almost 4pm when the sun goes down.

This is not a trend, just a rant; I’ll post something glowy and bright with lots of lights and trimming later.

Every step echoed you could hear the sound waves crashing off the walls though the cavern was relatively large.  Darkness enfolded the spacious cave, the earth gray walls shone with moisture yet no stalactites covered the ceiling.  The cave gave off a regal feeling, as though created by the mere presence of power.  The long thin cavern that had led to this spot curved behind me, all light of day disappearing completely in the shadows of the path behind.  I stepped forward again.  The floor was smooth, it felt pitted by moisture, but the eye could not see this much. 

The light in the cavern reflected from a lamp placed on a table near the entrance.  Because of the texture of the walls that white light covered almost the entire space.  In this cave there was a sense of quiet and of peace.  When I held still the silence rang through my ears like distant angry banshee, my mind honing in on the sounds all around me, I heard the beating of my heart, the natural ringing in my ears, and my slow reverent breathing.

Stepping towards the edge of the light I looked at the ancient stone carving, on the left and right banisters were carved into the rock wall leading towards a stairway about fifteen feet wide.  The ceiling curved down with the stairs but at ten feet in height it still defied the claustrophobic feeling that sometimes comes with being under the earth.  The ceiling area was carved to represent clouds and I saw where the sun had been placed in what looked like a morning position.  The hand rails were carved to be serpentine, long scaled dragons offering their backs for the traveler to lean on.  What looked like a dragons treasure was carved behind the serpentine rail.  The ground lacked significant carving, the symbol for eternity wove a continual linking pattern from the top of the stairs and disappearing in the darkness halfway down.

I took a steady breath, let the cool wet of the cave settle into me and took my first step.  I felt my fear leave me.  I glanced over my shoulder in wonder and saw a ghostlike copy of myself, a shadow that embodied all of my fear.  I took another step and felt another part of myself stay behind.  I suddenly felt calm as I never had before, the ghost over my shoulder was glaring and angry, what made him mad I thought I might be able to understand if I thought about it more, but I was smiling too big to worry about that.  Another step and I felt doubt stay behind, with another angst stood behind me, he looked towards where the first two shadows were fading out. 

More steps before me, with the next one I felt a rush of energy as though possessed by life itself, vitality surged through my body and the look on my face must have shown with total bewilderment.  I saw a shadow in front of me, I stepped forward and felt excitement about the future, I had walked right into hope and it came as another surprise.  The treasure sculpture behind the dragon reflected images related to each step, these were faded and I didn’t let myself get distracted.  The ground made a scratching noise, with this step I felt joyous, happiness swelled in my heart like a wave, tears began to flow down my face and I had to hold onto the arm rail to keep moving.

My hand felt the scales and it could have been imagination but I felt it move me towards the last few steps.  Each step brought more tears to my eyes as comfort crashed into me, peace, tranquility, and acceptance.  As I took the last step I was in a room that echoed luxury and a world of harmony.  The walls intricately carved and the floor carpeted in a tapestry that felt older than time but shimmered with new life.  The feeling of being underground was gone, the sculpted ceiling reflected blue skies and light white clouds, a sun that felt warm despite all logic stating to the contrary.

I looked around, and then caught my breath.  There she was, I had told her I’d meet her at the bottom of the stairs, but I had forgotten that promise; and now I was complete.  Her white gown drifted with her movement as she took my hand and the room shone like the surface of the sun.

Mangled poetry is about poetry, and wanting to make poetry and share your thoughts, and there are no barriers to this, and should be nothing holding you back.  Once a week I like to post a mangled poem and highlight some of the ways that we can take a poem style and absolutely destroy it.

This week’s mangled poem is based on the idea that everything should rhyme, no matter what.  I’ve done poems like this where the entire poem is built around a rhyme scheme and words are included that might not fit with the original intent.  While this poem style is along the same lines, “they” have taken it and made it so much worse.  This poem will rhyme no matter what ‘even if I have to make up words to do it.’

Making it

I’m squeezing out a coin
I’m making it roin
Finding it irregular
Making it terrangular
I hate to think I’ll flounder
Making it making it counder

Believe it or not, making up words in poetry can be kind of tough.  It goes against my instincts, but some people do it very naturally.  Please give it a try and share with me.