movingforwardslowly

Working in a middle school exposes me to the real farts in life.

The pungent odor that makes kids laugh, grimace, and hold their noses.

After this release the accusations begin. No one wants to take credit

For this unpleasant sign of life. The release of gas can move with stealth

If it is unaccompanied by an audible noise. The real culprit can often escape detection.

This class disruptor can be quite amusing, except for the one that might feel

Some secret shame. Sometimes I have to remind the students that everyone

Farts at some time or other. It appears that the human is the only animal that is

Bothered by this biological activity. Our brains want to disassociate from the reality

Of our bodies. However, recently I’ve been finding it reassuring

When my nose picks up this sign of life.

 

 

I cannot run. I will not run. If the end of world arrives,

I’ll be waiting – sheltering in place.

My daughter cannot run, and I will not leave her.

I will not abandon her. I’ll hold her hand and comfort her,

As long as I am able. My fate must wait with hers.

Empathy keeps me grounded. Self-preservation will be

Sacrificed if needed. If I let go of caring, the machine has won.

I can be a winner in death. Winning and failing are abstract words.

They can have opposing definitions depending on one’s perspective.

Sometimes I feel like I’m living in a bubble,

Floating through space detached.

I sometimes worry that a giant finger will reach out and

Break the surface tension that holds my flimsy world together.

Other times I feel like my bubble is made of bullet-proof glass.

All the light that makes it through to me has been bent and altered.

The trouble with bubbles is that they inevitably break, unless

They get trapped and frozen. In some cases, they can be deadly.

There are bubbles within bubbles, and twin bubbles not fully apart.

They can be fun and engaging, and some float out of sight.

The fate of those out of sight is left to our imagination.

Twenty-twenty (20/20) vision presents a picture clear and crisp.

Well-defined boundaries are visibly apparent.

Yet, there is another hidden picture, not evident at first.

At night when my corrective lenses come off, the blur pervades.

Balls of light become fractal spheres.

The light is no longer held tightly together.

This is when I see the eyes peering through flower heads and lizard skins.

The intensity of their gaze is inescapable.

When I squint my eyes or look away, they disappear from view.

This temporary madness is replaced wistfully with a saner picture.

Although, I know I can bring them back when the time is right.

 

 

Screaming from the edge, holding onto fringe, grasping,

Clasping, crawling over dead, reaching inward to the core.

Comfort once attained will not be given up.

Family ties and safety lines secure the few that run

Out to the edge, wanting to be heroes.

When things get ugly, they will be pulled back in.

The unseen warriors are those with no lines or ties.

They are risking everything; they have no choice.

It is fight or die for them.

My father’s surname rhymes with bell and shell.

My husband’s surname rhymes with pine and line.

English language learners are called E.L.L.

Pearls, oysters, scallops grow in the sea.

 

P.S. I’m reading a book: Signs & Symbols. The scallop shell has an interesting symbolic history. “Originally it was a symbol of the female sexual organs.” “Christianity made the scallop shell a symbol of the hope of resurrection and rebirth.”

 

There is universal information that surrounds us all.

Each and everyone of us has our own ‘independent lens’.

Our personal lens takes in bits and pieces of this information,

And begins to filter and process all the incoming data that surrounds us.

Opinions begin to form in our minds, and some of these opinions are

Self-driven with such force that they spill forth.

Some people become addicted to their own commentary, so they

Continually spill forth. Testosterone seems to help this.

No one likes to be told that they are wrong. It can be hard work to take in

New information and reformulate one’s opinion. It is much easier to stick

With one’s old opinion.

As a result, people tend to surround themselves with people that will

Reaffirm their own beliefs.

Most men want their wives to be an echo chamber for them.

If you love me, you’ll agree with me.

I believe in ‘tough love’. I will not merely be my husband’s echo chamber.

I have my own mind and my own independent lens. I can formulate my own unique opinions. Thank-you very much.

Father Time stood outside and above his net. He could read it like a map. He had warned that if the children tried to break his net, they would vanish from the record.

Mother Earth held a secret. She had a special hidden seed, a line of children, that saw time’s net differently than the rest.

What he didn’t tell was that down the line, the net of time was bound to fail.

Only one would make it out. This one would hold all of human history, both written and unwritten.

Luscious, red, and ripe.

Sweet and tart.

A bird’s feast all laid out.

Winter is the season.

When all are eaten the feast is over.

Spring will bring new ones – green and hard.

Bitter to the taste.

Age will transform them

Into the bird’s desire.

Eventually dreamland faded. Father Time, a mutual acquaintance, had come between Mother Earth and Father Sky, as he wove his net partitioning the growing space.

While dreamland thrived their seed had become prolific. Their horde of children spread wide across the land, and they grew apart.

Mother Earth’s flock contained a menagerie of beasts.Her human children cherished some, hunted others, and ignored many.

The children inherited language from their father. Their language grew and divided. As it grew, the children began to name the beasts, and with this sprang forth a multitude of metaphors and similes.

Language became a master instrument that could immortalize.

The children followed its music, not really understanding all the hidden implications.