Monthly Archives: January 2016

Hodge-Podge Poetry, #2

Author’s Note: I originally wrote this as a knock-off of a Vietnam War era peace song, again at the beginning of the first Iraq war. I took it to a music major to just get some licks to sing it to. By the end of the evening, I didn’t like how it was rewritten and it didn’t even sound like me. So here’s the original; I still have the rewrite and may consider burning it in honor of the muses. 😉

Verse 1
They tell me it’s just a war, / And we’re defending freedom. / It’s a war just the same. / Lights burn late into the night. / Great hearts die / And love’s torn apart.

Chorus
They say the ancient religion’s are dead and gone, / But I alone can see the truth. / They’re fighting for the great false god / Whose black blood covers the waters / Until the sands blaze with anger, / Fiery red with the blood of the new martyrs.

Verse 2
Orphans cry out / As cherubim fly home too soon. / The “madman” like us / Has taken control. / A mighty little nation / Wiped away.

Verse 3
We have to bring him down a peg; / We must lead the way. / This shall never happen again. / Peace shall cover the land. / It’s said there’s no purpose to our action, / But we all answer to a higher plan.

Hodge-Podge Poetry, #1

Author’s Note: These are some twiddles I originally jotted down at the very beginning of the first Iraq war. There are just three sets of thoughts in this particular entry, which had no titles (of course). I can’t even remember if they’re supposed be tied together. And while it’s not my best work, everyone has to start somewhere; if your poetry looks like this, take hope. Welcome to Throwback Saturday!

I wanna be a child again
So I can be shielded from all alarm
By daddy’s gentle arms.
God, let me be a little girl
So I can brush away my cares
While mommy strokes my hair.

I just can’t fight the feelings inside.
It all makes so little sense.
I don’t pretend to know the reasons why.
War is hell no matter where,
The front or here at home.

I want to get away
From Iraq’s Saddam Hussein
Whose black gold wreaks havoc in our lives.
The innocent with the guilty–
We all suffer from disunity.

Lessons from Chinese Tea Eggs

Author’s Note: Not sure if this one works or not. It makes sense in the deep recesses of my quirky brain. Let me know what you’d do with this piece (and deleting it isn’t an option).

Previously, I mentioned that I had been studying Mandarin from a company named for an archeological artifact. I’ve started to go afield and try for literature, religion, culture, music and even recipes.

My latest recipe is for tea eggs. Even before starting, I had to modify the recipe for all the food issues we face. As I’m working on standardizing the recipe, I’m seeing little life lessons I can’t wait to try to share with my kids.

We’re all just eggs in the pot of life.

Each egg has a similar shape. Each egg began in the innards of a hen. Each egg is cooked for the same amount of time. Each egg gets cracked. So in that way, all the eggs are similar.

However, there is a uniqueness to each egg. Each egg is different based on what the hen ate and what her body chemistry was at egg creation. Each egg cracks differently depending on how and where it is cooked. The patterns of lines and pockets of flavors differ depending on cooking and spices used.

We are all human. We all have 23 chromosomes from each of our parents, one male and one female. We all typically began in the womb of a female. We are all born. We all live finite lives.

However, there is so much diversity. We have different patterns of unwise choices (or cracks) depending on how we were raised, what we were feeling, and what we’ve learned. We also have different gifts and abilities (pockets of flavor) that we can use to help others.

There is no one right way.

When I googled recipes for Tea Eggs, I found tons of recipes. And when I tried to google the contents of Chinese Five Spice blend, I found the blend varies from region to region and sometimes from neighborhood to neighborhood.

With the exception of Eternal Truth, we all have our own truths to perceive, express, and interact with in our own way. My style of parenting may not be something that would work in the environment of your home; in the absence of abuse, it’s okay to accept that I am different, and my difference is not your difference; we don’t have to be the same to get good results (or dinner).

All good things take time.

The recipes calls for three sessions of boiling, each with increasing time. The first session is just enough to set the egg white. The second session is a little longer at a very high temperature, presumably to force some of the juices into the cracks as well as kill any germs that would love to dine with us. The finally session is the longest at a very slow temperature, probably to ensure the flavors are sealed and enhanced.

In life, all things take time, from the development of a personality to recovery from abuse or addiction. We cannot shortchange the process and expect to have the kind of results that are best for us. Each experience we have that is negative can be filtered in a way that allows us to see that when we suffer we learn to persevere, to survive.

As we persevere, we learn that we have to be the kind of person we would others around us to be even when no one is looking, and so we develop character. As our character grows, we start to feel a “lightening,” like things aren’t so heavy and like we can do what we need to do with joy and vigor; this “lightening” is hope. And hope will carry us through every trial of life.

Spice is meant to be shared

When the eggs are done cooking, you let them sit in the juices until you’re ready to use them. They can sit and look pretty, but you can’t eat them. You have to peel the shells so you can taste what was infused into the egg through the cooking process.

As you succeed and achieve perseverance and survival, you look pretty. But if you don’t peel off an exterior that keeps people at a distance, you can never let people in to see the unique patterns of lace that reveal your strength and abilities, and people can never taste the sweetness of your survival and the spiciness of your lessons learned the hard way.

And for an egg to go through all that and not be appreciated is a terrible waste of an egg.

Study of Archetypes

I sit in my home,
Weary and worn from the day’s battles,
Missing art and literature and music.
Yet I live in a microcosm
Of the archetypes of the universe.

In one bedroom,
The scholarly archivist curls under a blanket,
Poring through stories in books
Worming knowledge into her brain
And tunneling to new people and places and ideas.

In another
The matriarch stands
Old wise eyes in a young head
Seeing a need and trying to meet it.
Leading weaving into following and working together.

Sprawled on the sofa
Lies the warrior.
The heavenly steed rides the starry skies–
To see and fight bullies, books, and boredom;
To protect and heal faithful friends.

At the computer
Sits the mage world-wise and cheery.
Taking the nothingness resulting from broken relationships,
His arcane weaving brings lives and souls into harmony
And creates order in the infinite chaos.

On the feet of the warrior
Rests the faithful companion.
He wags his tail and desperately dashes for treats.
His warm tongue bathes bare toes
As he lives always in the now.

And me–
Too many roles and not enough time,
Too much experience and not enough application,
Too many tasks and not enough energy,
Too much and not enough love.

Instructional Acrostic

Hungry for like-minded compassion and companions
Angry at the fetters of limiting laws and traditions
Limited in choice of relationships by unexplained social rules
Tired of the tedious treadmill of modern life

Sitting, she slurps a cup of coffee
Trying to find meaning in schedules and apps
Only losing herself in an obnoxious pace
Profoundly infertile to life and thought

Wallowing in the sea of discontent
Anxious for some solitude
Insisting on seeking the better way
Trying to find meaning in archaic values

Learning to love all people
Obvious choice for light and life made clearly
Validating the paths of an ancient Book
Everything will work together for her good

Playing Xena/Living Grace

Act 1

Bruise and bleeding
Weary and world-worn
She lets out a barbaric warcry
Piercing the cacophony
Of swords and shields

Shattered and broken
Exhausted and nearly exsanguinated
She hurls her sword into the bloody grass
Jamming the point
Rendering it useless

Dizzy and weakened
Breathless and voiceless
She falls to her knees
Allowing silent tears to cascade
Onto a bloody, chaotic battlefield

Agonized and aching
Bound and fettered
She cries
Curling like a babe in the womb
Washing away years of silence and shame

 

Act 2

Her crown tumbles to the ground
As an eternity passes around her
Unnoticed, unseen, unheard.

Water alive and pure
Flows around her knees and feet.

Tears cease
As the crown floats to her waiting hands.

Fights not hers to fight
Leave her spent with frustration.

Where did the crown come from?
Who made it?

Memory fogged and order jolted
Hide the truth from her heart and mind.

Without knowing she cannot put it on again;
She dares not rise again
For the fight has been too long and too hard.

Time stands still
As she waits.

 

Act 3

“Mama!”
A cry in the night
Brings her back to her reality.

In this world
Her sword is her keyboard
And her shield is a well managed schedule.

Neither can fight the emptiness of modern life;
Nothing in this world is ever real.

She swings her feet to the floor
To walk the hall.

Knowing her crown will never come in this life,
She can only wait faithfully
For Abba to place it on her head in the next.

Modern Feminist Mirage

Chained, bound, shackled
Sinking in the cesspool quicksand
Of the mirage of a pot of gold
At the end of society’s rainbow

Choking, rasping, speechless
Her voice stolen
By lies of power, prestige, success,
Financial freedom

Always living a front, a facade
Never fully free to know herself
The agony of a secret double-life
Convulsing and twisting joints
Stiffened by cattle chutes
And tradition, agenda, expectation, control

She stops, she ends the fight
The black hole pull stops

Can a jaunty jig of opposition end the madness?