Peace – #Writephoto

In the end, I returned to the sanitarium. This time by choice and without the reams of commitment papers, the hustling of orderlies, and motherly coaxing of nurses. The baby-blue walls and polished linoleum shine with familiarity, and the bars feel less restrictive than I remember.

I wander the halls with a certain air of freedom, considering my state. The same doctors make rounds in their cliched white coats and spectacles. Clipboards hang on hooks bolted to metal doors, and fluorescent lights hum in group-counseling like a chorus of wasps.

Despite the harsh glare of the world inside these walls, I’d found healing here. It came with compassion, by listening to stories with a crack in my heart, by risking a touch, a tear, an act of kindness. Not toward me, but toward others. Healing wasn’t about banishing my demons, a goal that had led me astray for years. It was grounded in the audacity to love, and I’d found my courage like a tidal wave.

I pass through the locked doors into the yard, and no one minds. The heat doesn’t bother me anymore, nor the cold, though today’s a brilliant day. At the rear of the grounds, a leafy glade snuggles up against the stone wall separating us from a less forgiving world. It once was a place for smoking or sex, but cameras curbed that urge, and now a bench offers a place for solitude and reflection.

This place suits me, and I plan to stay. I could travel anywhere in the world I wish, but my calling is here. Alone on the bench, I wait.

A woman heads my way. She’s thin, her skin sallow and eyes so tired they appear bruised. One arm wraps her body, and fingers twitch on chapped lips. She doesn’t see me, but I witness a cloud of despair encasing her like a thunderhead and a soul as bright as the sun. She sits beside me, and I enclose her in my arms, sate her need for love and peace. I open a crack in her heart.

In doing so, I receive more than I give and begin to heal my last regret—that my life’s purpose manifested with such sublime clarity only upon my death.

**

Thanks to Sue Vincent for another wonderful Thursday Photo Prompt.

Sunday Blog Share: Dreamer

A tender and beautiful poem for the morning.

Dreamer

by Sue Vincent

 

If I could dream a dawn
Into existence
It would wear your face
In its sleep.
If I could dream a morning
It would wake to your breath,
A pillowed silhouette against the dawn,
The space between filled with warmth
And the tenderness
Of tangled legs…

(Continue Reading: Dreamer)

Spam folders – A love/hate relationship

compliments of pixabay

I just learned that SPAM (the kind in a can) turned 80 yesterday. In honor of Spam, here’s a little spam.

I make lots of comments on blogs, and WordPress decides on occasion that I’m a spammer. They shovel me into spam folders where I’m eventually discovered by my blogger friends, sometimes weeks later. I don’t take getting spammed personally; it’s just part of life on WP, and it’s not like the sky is going to fall if my comments slip into the deep, dark void of the blogosphere.

I’m not great about checking my WP spam folder regularly, but I do check it. And thank goodness it’s there! I would NOT want all this craziness showing up on my blog. Aside from the usual lists of links, there are the nonsensical sentences, the political rants, the porn invites, and the insinuations that my blog requires some assistance.

Just for laughs here are a few that I found this morning in response to “My Chili Attempt” (spammer links not included for obvious reasons). I wonder what it was about my chili recipe:

This sounds like a great deal for people that can save there gallbladder. Removing the stone would be the better choice. (Now, my chili wasn’t that bad!)

Sexy girls and small widows. (Small widows?)

I see your page needs some fresh posts. (Apparently, this spammer doesn’t like my attempt at humor.)

Many реорle have repеаtedly nотicеd а тuмоr undеr thеir аrmріts. (Um, thanks. Good to know.)

Of course, the physical aspects of tennis training will also make one stronger and fitter. The Dallas Cowboys have been working hard this off-season. (But are they eating chili?)

This is where the services of an electrician become necessary. The best part is that he shared his golf equipment importance. (He had me until “golf.”)

lawyers as well as shopping mall trolling “talent scouts” tend to be practicing their finest outlines to strengthen any kind of idea how the following Miley Cyrus may be residing below your own roofing. (I’m not sure I follow.)

Study my new devise erotic sexbot (An erotic sexbot? Hmm. We’re getting way off track here.)

Taylor Swift is a racist white supremacist … and she voted for Donald Trump TWICE. (Did she really? Why, Taylor, why?)

Started unusual spider’s web stand out. (Yeesh, I give up.)

There are many more, most too offensive or too dull to share. I usually scan and delete, but couldn’t resist a little silliness this morning. Remember to check those spam folders for your friends, and thank the WordPress algorithms for saving you from the rest!

 

 

To Butterflies

image: Pixabay

My brother’s death-day is today, so the Independence Day holiday is always a little skewed for our family. After he was killed, I started seeing Monarch butterflies everywhere. This poem is for him.

 

To Butterflies

The harsh rend of my regrets

torn into paper shards

flutter into your scooped out hole

where heated scents of pine linger

on the cusp of summer’s silhouette

edging the cemetery’s newest stone.

 

I lay beneath the blue blossoms

white roots dangling like lace

over your tattered wishes.

I would bury my yearning

in the dark and fecund loam

soak it with my tears.

 

Death holds us lightly

life persisting with unfettered intensity

in spite of mourning

your Forget Me Nots flourish

blue petals transformed though we both will stray

to butterflies

take wing and soar.

**

I wish all my American friends a wonderful July 4th celebration. Wherever you are in the world, enjoy your families and friends and hold them tight. ❤