No Aspirations of Normalcy

I have no aspirations of normalcy. That ship never sailed into my life, and so had never to sail out. (: I shall instead revel in who I am–rare, loved and designed by God, and apparently necessary, because She designed me for Her purposes and does not dabble in the superfluous. Convinced of this, I will embrace Her handiwork and seek to make My difference make A difference.

ee (not cummings)

Growing Light – Mantra Part III

In the secret garden of my heart I am growing. . . light. I intend to distribute it wherever I may, so that others may cultivate their own gardens of luminosity, and the light in us will scatter the darkness wherever we go. . . joyfully we shall rage against the night. . . and we shall prevail!! I am a warrior of light! I was born to rise and to shine light into the darkness. And I will feed the mouths I was born to feed.

Light glows under sod. . .
My flowers gleam like the stars
Luminous garden.               [This poem was published in Three Line Poetry, Issue #50]



Paradise Inside – Mantra Part II

According to Garrison Keillor bad things never happen to writers. Everything is material. Man I have some good stuff stored up. Ever re-learning, joy does not come from the state of your circumstances, but the state of your mind.

I am still learning this and it is exciting: Paradise is inside me, not outside me. I can walk in paradise now if I establish that paradise inside me, in my mind and in the spiritual realm, not in my circumstances. But if I don’t cultivate a paradise inside me, it doesn’t matter how rich or how beautiful my circumstances are around me—I can still manage to be miserable, in my paradise on earth by thinking my happiness is something that ‘happens’ to me—something caused by the world outside me. I am the only person in the universe who can decide what I focus on! Even God doesn’t force me to focus on something I don’t want to!! I AM THE CAUSE. My LIFE IS THE EFFECT.

When I choose to focus on the light and not on the darkness, I’ve made my life a kind of paradise from the inside out. There is ALWAYS something beautiful around me, even in the darkest and most agonizing situations. Even when I was watching my sweet Diane die, there was always something beautiful inside of us and even around us. And we focused on it. My eyes are the vehicle of light for my whole internal world. . . as Christ said, if my eyes are full of light, my whole body will be full of light! Before I can walk in the light, I have to Find it and Focus on it. She who has eyes to see. . . let her see.


So Shall I Love My Thoughts – Mantra Part I

I am full of light, full of love, full of joy and full of God! The light in me scatters the darkness wherever I go.

In my quest for being the joyful master of my own mind, I am thinking about the metaphor of taking every thought captive, but instead of a violent image of war, I am envisioning taking a child who is wildly upset into a loving and firm, restraining embrace and holding her until her inner state is transformed. . . it is the mysterious paradoxical nature of love that its captives are set free. So shall I love my thoughts like unruly children until they are transformed and free to live in joy and hope and exultation.

The Flask – Charles Baudelaire – Lines of the Day

There are some strong perfumes that cannot be contained.
Which seep through any glass of bottle or of vial.
For instance, taking up an Oriental chest,
Whose stubborn lock will creak and groan on opening,

Or poking through a house, in closets shut for years,
Full of the smell of time – acrid, musty, dank.
One comes, perhaps, upon a flask of memories
In whose escaping scent a soul returns to life.

A thousand thoughts have slept cocooned within this flask,
But sweetly trembling there, packed closely in the dark;
Now they release their wings and take their gaudy flight,
Tinged with an azure blue, rose-glazed, spangled in gold.

Fluttering to the brain through the unsettled air,
Rapturous memory pervades the atmosphere;
The eyes are forced to close, Vertigo grasps the soul,
And thrusts her with his hands into the mist of mind.

He forces her to lie next to an ancient tomb,
From which with cloying scent–Lazarus splitting his shroud–
A gaunt cadaver moves to its awakening:
Ghosts of a spoiled love, enchanting though impure.

So when I am entombed to mortal memory,
When I am closeted in some deserted house,
When I’ve been thrown away, an old forgotten flask,
Decrepit, dusty, cracked, rejected, filthy, rank,

I will be tomb for you, beloved pestilence,
The witness of your force and of its virulence
Dear poison made by angels, drink that eats my soul,
Oh you who are the life and ruin of my heart!

Translated by James McGowan

Wild Is the Spirit – new poetic form

Wild is the spirit that urges sin be
Child is the dearest that surges in me
Pain is the prison that holds it inside
Feign is the -ism that told me it died
Angst is the effort to break out of chains
Strong is the deft thwart that aches, shouts, and strains
Strife is the giant that shoulders the cross
Life is the triumph of soul over loss
Hope is the whisper that runs through my veins
Trope is the image that stuns you and reigns.
Love is the life force that rises beyond
Dove is the wife – source that prizes the fond
Home is the destiny, freedom the scheme.
Roam till I rest in me, Eden’s redeemed.


This is a new form based on a form created by Mary Meriam, called Basic Me.
There are four rules and I added one of my own to this poem.

Meriam’s rules:
– 4 to 14 lines of dactyl-dactyl-trochee-iamb
– rhymed couplets
– first word of each line is one syllable
– the word “is” must be in each line

My additional rule: every stressed syllable should have a rhyme or a near rhyme in the second pair part of the couplet. (This one I believe I invented?)

Choosing a Muse – Lines of the Day

“And some of the muses are only in it for the energy.
Have you ever felt drained after writing a poem?
Oh sure, there’s that post poem high,
But something has gone out of you
Into the world.
Muses are paid with energy.

Surprisingly, you want to find a lazy muse
One who goes after the high intensity poem,
So he can slack off for awhile. . . ”

Excerpted from A Muse Met Parks by Mike Crowley in Poets Anonymous 25 and Beyond, ed. Nick Hale, pp 37-39.

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