sdrawkacb

sdrawkacb,

backwards, i suppose, is just the wrong way

to go. You can never go sdrawkacb, only forwards, 

like they hands on the face clock, the numbers, they rock-

in only one direction.

sometimes, history is a place i’ve visited briefly-

but clearly i no longer “fit”in.

the round peg in the square hole,

i do not know which way to go…

was looking at an old binder of pen pal letters,

from the early 1990’s, the years prior to me, wandering

off of the edge and getting lost in “crazy”.

I found one letter i never even opened, postmarked from 21 years ago.

i opened it only to re-coil

from the teenage angst i found there.

part silliness/part love-struck/teenage hormones/running amok.

Sometimes it’s best to never look too closely,

over your shoulder…

it’s best to focus on the clocks forward hands.

sdrawkacb, backwards, sdrawkacb, makes a unusual

and crunchy sound, like the trampling of leaves, or

the sparks of logs on a fire.

Why bother looking backwards, when it just causes,

resentment and sorrow?

Life is too short.

keep the good, and ditch the bad.

no point in regretting things you cannot change.

no use, looking for the missing piece of jigsaw

puzzle you lost eons ago. 

Lonesome little me

Lonesome Little me,

All my long-timer friends, have gone-their own way,

me alone, with moments too few and far between,

of something strange called clarity.

Little Lonesome me,

hung up on memories,

of nouns: persons, places or things,

that once used to be.

It is something which divides us all-

this adult life, from the life of a child.

We have long ago put away our childish toys,

and gone home. Then we grew up and moved so far away.

We became someone “different” someone “new” someone”grown-up”.

We’ll some of us did and others obviously did not,

in certain rare cases.

Lonesome Little me…

remembers when the curfew was,

when the streetlights came on?

Little Lonesome me,

remembers all those friends, she thought, she knew,

she’d have forever…but then one day Life showed up & just

got right in the way, of all the jazz, all the song and dance, on my “forever friends”,

of youth, childhood, and teenager daydreams.

Lonesome little me,

she remembers sadly, that sometimes things

are their very best,

right before they end.

Oh, Lonesome me…

primrose

primrose, with thorns, too fuzzy

too mangled and muddy to see….

primrose, with thorns, hidden

beneath your colorful bounty of joy,

beneath my fingers, your sharpest points,prick me

into another ending,

heartbreak at a glance,

devastating to the touch.

primrose, a prick of blood, a sure sign

that

spring will follow suit, soothing winters snowstorms with

the blush of color beneath a thunderstorm,

and all that mud, my dog just dragged in.

had to share…

that last post I had to share, in case you did not see it,

because I am a big fan of both Nina Simone and Bille Holiday too.

I am also a fan of Ettta James. I love the Blues, just because, I do.

One of my favorites was James Hooker, also known as Jonhny Lee Hooker or John Hooker. My favorite diddy by him is a song called boom boom boom.

I’ve found over time, when I listen to The Blues, I am usually happy or the music just makes me feel happier. I listen to real all types/a different slice/of life.

Sometimes beats/are classical,

Sometimes beats/are magical.

Sometimes music/can be very emotional.

Sometimes music/makes me sad.

A soft sad ballad/ a soprano

a deep moody, woman’s alto/thinking of adele

some music is light/uplifting/pop/or rock/or alternative.

some music is funny/tom waits/nick cave.

sometimes music just makes me feel just about everything.

Automatic writing

have you ever written something automatic,

where your brain, has jumped the airplane,

and you’ve lost your co-pilot. And the passengers are all screaming, bloody hell, because obviously, no-one is there to fly the plane, or in this case plan the paragraph/All your left with are dangling oxygen masks/ and screaming sentences,/running amok all over the damn page/ like random automatic/ auto-erotic/pieces of torn pages/of science fiction,/seldom read/very moldy pages peeled back/ to save that page from ten or twenty years ago/when you swore that you would finish/ reading “I robot”./never giving it a second or even a third thought/as the brain rot settles in/why is the point?/ and on and on you go/ onto the tilt-a-whirl/throwing up/commas and periods/blankly/vacant/a writer/sometimes-seldom/writing on automatic/without a parachute/without a game plan/with a topic sentence/making english teachers everwhere/very very very /much un-ease/in a flow of random/ stuff that leaves a / awful taste in the back of your thought/like heartburn over/too much or/ too little coffee/automatic/writing/like speeding down/an expressway/when you haven’t got/any brakes./help.

Art Saves me

Art saves me,

each and every-time, when i feel it coming/like i’m losing my mind/art saves me/each and every-time. Whether its/listening to/The Blues/or other music/or writing a poem/a journal entry/or an old friend an email letter/ or sometimes its the scribble-scrabble/doodle mark/on the page./or it becomes something deeper/a watercolor painting/my mind can no longer contain/burst into reality/with a light wash/and a dispersion/of colored/abstract hues/shapes or symbols/a resist made with salt/or a resist made of watercolor and crayons/ or something bigger/the canvas which calls me up one day/ and invites me to come down to/my easel/and play/with acrylics/and joy…./art saves/me every-day/in unique/and strange/senseless/hybrid ways/my muse kidnaps my brain/in exchange/ for some down time/where everythings quiet/ this blank page/not/a prison riot/in my melting mind/ but instead/a technique/to rest my head/ and put my silly mind games/tic-tac-toe/away/because/you see/ Art always saves me./each and every-time/i let her.

Random $tuff

Random $tuff,

nothing makes much cents anymore.

just completely random, random, Random $tuff,

and i see dollar signs in huge chunks before,

my eyes. Everything cost a pretty penny, more , and more and more,

often than not. When you don’t make enough, it’s all that you’ve got.

And it should not matter much but it doe$, it makes plenty,

especially when its that time again, to pay your bills,

when you are living paycheck to paycheck, some strung out,

on what ifs and what nots….what if the car breaks down, what if something else breaks,

what if your left with nothing and zero dollars left in the bank,

then something huge happens or occurs,

a house fire, a flooding, an illness or accident,

and if your not planning in advance,

for the what ifs and what nots, what will you do then?

It $ucks having no money and it sucks to be poor….

I cannot constantly put a happy face on it and pretend i live in a dream,

just because it will make everybody else feel better.

Yes, i have blessings, many to count, but that does not nickel and dime me,

down to common cents, down to the land of plenty,

down to the “American Dream” of the “middle-class” (which is slowly vanishing btw)

having many blessings and showing gratitude,

to all i am thankful for, cannot be measured by wealth, unless

you are counting it in the more spiritual sense. But it does not pay the bills,

all those positive thoughts your annoying little I.V, drips into my spine.

All those meditative practices, all the unanswered prayers, all the law of attraction,

will not help one bit, when i cannot rub two nickels together to get a dime.

and no i cannot make head or tails of it.

Random $tuff, truth is “we be poor.’

Reading from “Mythology seen through metaphor:word salad 1.5”

Reading 2 more poems from my latest book, which is free to download on kindle or on a tablet or pc with a kindle reading app. This free period only lasts a short time so i hope you take advantage of it!! Also On the brink letters to the madness +poems & pictures: vol 2″ I believe is also still in a free download period. If you get any of my ebooks please visit my Authors page and leave a review : http://www.amazon.com/author/emilysturgill.