Recently I have been having a debate about the “sacred”.
I find the word is overused as a tool to make people listen – similiar to the way the concept of “privilege” is used to kill debate.
Today I posted this in response to an article about Jennifer Lawrence profaning some rocks in Hawaii with her holy-J-Law butt. Just because I rather enjoyed the sound of my own voice on this one, I decided to copy and preserve my ramble on why “nothing is sacred”
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth whileIf one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,And turning toward the window, should say:“That is not it at all,That is not what I meant, at all.”
A year has past and it seems nothing really changes – and sometimes it even seems to move backwards in time and space.
Here is my US Thanksgiving post revisited. Still one of my better poems.
because they are forced
They did not choose
to have bombs dropping on their door
They do no want
to live on a hostile foreign shore.
with what is precious
in aching arms
frightened children crying for food
They would rather
be anywhere than in their homes.
casually watch them
like swarming ants
afraid to share our warm comforts;
“not my problem!”
forgetting the words etched offshore:
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
The words reshaped for our store-time romp
and shopping trips “Give me your deals, and more,
We’re huddled shoppers yearning for cheap goods,
Those wretched products imported from foreign shore.
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There are words inside me. And no one to hear them. They float on the tip of my tongue in swirling poetic tones. Waiting for the moment to arrive and launch their crisp sonorous meters into the air. I stay silent because I do not dare to break the silence when none are near to hear or care.
The ticking clock winds down past the hour into the next and then around again, clicking into the sunset crawling across the eastern walls of my living room. Gone gone gone much to soon is the charm of my youthful truth spilling out from my pain into the wounded evening light bleeding from behind the clouds.
And there it is then. The finality of the moment breaching the infinity of our progress into some other tomorrow we never imagined happening. It is always just there. Out of sight and out of mind. Lurking between here and the garden gate.
And so now I sleep. Deeply. Forlornly. Avoiding my fate. Avoiding the light. Avoiding the dawn that will rattle me awake,
Some days are better than other days. And some days are more bitter.
Here I drift within the doldrums of darkness. I am creatively unsparked. Where my writer’s heart should be playful beating out a cadence for each line – there is only the flat-lined hum of cardiac failure. Does anyone even read this blog anymore? Why would they? There is nothing new here. No new words and thoughtful inspirations. Just the ongoing recycling of hunger unfulfilled.
I need a new shtick. A new gimmick for a new audience. I could write about food and beverage. Indulge in fine craft beers paired with exotic hand-crafted local cheeses. Spew sensual sentences about the tantalizing tastes teasing my tongue with balanced tones of esters and glucose exciting my hunger for more. And no I cannot do that. I would be lost in my enjoyment of the food and forget to write my thoughts.
Oye. Sports? Ick. Music? <yawn>
Book reviews – oh wait I would have to start reading again. And I find I get side-tracked by wondering why the writer decided to branch the story away from an enticing side-quest into the normal well-worn plot points of what sells books. Ah yes – I guess that answers that thought. I have a dozen books strew around my house partially read and bookmarked inside and beneath the dusty dust-jackets. Award winning books I was told I should read for their current cultural relevance and revelations. Oh god they read like re-warmed shit strained through pompadour to mask the unpleasant stench of plot banality and the de jure unexpected plot-twist de jour….
Oh I would pluck mine eyes from my head if I am forced to read another word crafted by Joseph Boyden.
Yes I know he is renowned and regaled and endowed with awards. I cannot stand how he writes. But I guess that is why there are a thousand other writers waiting to be discovered. Oh my god – I actually wrote a review? What? An unintended and unenlightened review! I must also admit I hated the movie Titanic – so that may be a sign that you should go read Boyden!
Enough for now. I just felt I should force myself to write something. ANYTHING!
And I did.