tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24302126315061878402024-03-14T01:35:01.608-04:00Miscellaneous Brain MusicRamblings, Rhymes and RuminationsKayleighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15347199277007746114noreply@blogger.comBlogger81125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2430212631506187840.post-42466593024585382332011-04-10T21:48:00.008-04:002011-04-14T15:21:58.640-04:00POEM: before<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;"> <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/SmunZuMEJ4I/AAAAAAAACzo/8koGMepX4Xg/s1600-h/Picture+426.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" r6="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-snID7ewsgmk/TaJaaWaC4xI/AAAAAAAADJo/WzTBqKIQorg/s320/before.jpg" width="140" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">taken 7/09 the eve of my mastecomy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I weep for the earnest face<br />
framed by smooth hair<br />
her calm betrayed<br />
by frightened eyes <br />
that visible dread<br />
almost enviable<br />
a dull blade<br />
compared to experience<br />
<br />
<br />
my tears shed from a future<br />
filled with unexpected loss<br />
heaped upon the pyre<br />
of what she had anticipated<br />
sobbing for what could have been<br />
for my present reflection<br />
more unrecognizable, yet<br />
just tauntingly familiar enough<br />
<br />
<br />
I long to tightly encircle <br />
that intact visage<br />
protected in my arms<br />
stroke her smooth hair<br />
oh that lovely smooth hair<br />
and tell her, murmur<br />
whisper in her ear softly<br />
something…but what? <br />
<br />
I cannot tell her the truth<br />
too soon to reason away <br />
this much heartless reality<br />
so I would tell her only<br />
that I will try to love her<br />
realizing it won’t be enough<br />
but knowing it is all that’s left<br />
for us both<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Kayleighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15347199277007746114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2430212631506187840.post-1591843074714292472010-07-05T22:27:00.021-04:002010-07-12T18:50:49.154-04:00POEM: high anxiety<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/TDO1bgZpE0I/AAAAAAAADFo/0UtuMZVaanA/s1600/woman+in+fetal+position+III.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490931854853346114" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 170px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 120px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/TDO1bgZpE0I/AAAAAAAADFo/0UtuMZVaanA/s400/woman+in+fetal+position+III.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><em>the human body cannot sustain<br />high levels of anxiety<br />for very long<br />the acute state of utter despair<br />will wane<br />automatically</em></div><div><em><br />at least for a little while<br />a means of self-protection<br />from the damage such intensity<br />could wreak<br /><br />like labor pains<br />rest comes during the brief calm </em></div><div><em>between desperation & numbness<br />even knowing the storm will swell</em></div><div><em>once more</em></div><div><em><br /></div></em><div><em>and when it does</em></div><div><em>realization will hit harder</em></div><div><em>with each passing wave</em></div><div><em>taking my breath away<br />with the exquisite pain<br />of the unknown</em></div><div><em>becoming manifest</em></div>Kayleighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15347199277007746114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2430212631506187840.post-80618160452800259942010-07-01T21:39:00.001-04:002010-07-02T19:33:15.026-04:00POEM: here I go again<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/TC1JtL9r3vI/AAAAAAAADFg/ReLHEU105Po/s1600/lightening+hitting+the+ground.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5489124561488961266" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 146px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 170px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/TC1JtL9r3vI/AAAAAAAADFg/ReLHEU105Po/s400/lightening+hitting+the+ground.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><em>I am here again<br />in that same place<br />the precipice before the fall<br />only this time I know<br />all too well<br />what the ground looks like<br />before I hit it</em></div>Kayleighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15347199277007746114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2430212631506187840.post-17913381259077037302010-07-01T06:52:00.001-04:002010-07-01T21:46:37.121-04:00POEM: pebbles tossed<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/TC1EKavs8PI/AAAAAAAADFQ/53OxKp9qcmM/s1600/ripple+in+water.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5489118466603282674" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 170px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 135px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/TC1EKavs8PI/AAAAAAAADFQ/53OxKp9qcmM/s400/ripple+in+water.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><em></em></div><div><em><br />how will I learn to cope<br />to cope, to cope, to cope<br />all my life<br />all life<br />is about that<br />coping<br />coping with the worst<br />the best<br />the everything that is<br /><br />we think each day<br />is a course<br />to be finished<br />but there is no line</em></div><div><em>no path to follow<br />only circles<br />rings<br />pebbles tossed<br />at random</div></em>Kayleighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15347199277007746114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2430212631506187840.post-69473608167862069282010-07-01T06:43:00.000-04:002010-07-01T22:02:49.683-04:00POEM: insatiable hope<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/TC1IgHl_2sI/AAAAAAAADFY/C1yRkuD3xD0/s1600/devour.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5489123237465938626" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 170px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 169px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/TC1IgHl_2sI/AAAAAAAADFY/C1yRkuD3xD0/s400/devour.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><em>hope is a dangerous thing<br />if you don’t feed it enough<br />suddenly<br />a hungry mouth<br />that once thrived<br />on hidden fears<br />becomes ravenous<br />and tears the thin flesh<br />of denial<br />devouring anything<br />without discrimination<br />revealing brittle bones<br />of random dreams<br />once buried deep<br />in the dark cave<br />of lost faith<br />starkly pale in weak defiance<br />bleached white<br />by cold reality<br />and picked clean by truth<br />hope slowly succumbs<br />to starvation<br />and left in its wake<br />is a hunger deeper than before</em></div><div><em>swallowing everything</em></div>Kayleighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15347199277007746114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2430212631506187840.post-72681260343470653822010-04-17T16:49:00.004-04:002010-04-18T21:16:57.838-04:00POEM: iron curtain<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/S8ohRZPCsRI/AAAAAAAADBk/YlH5JAKvFsQ/s1600/woman+behind+curtain.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461214080855617810" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 113px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 170px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/S8ohRZPCsRI/AAAAAAAADBk/YlH5JAKvFsQ/s400/woman+behind+curtain.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><em>divided<br />there is a curtain slowly being drawn<br />between before and after<br />it blocks out the light<br />impossibly obscuring my view<br />on both sides<br />I want to yank it open<br />but it won’t budge<br />and my fingers get caught<br />in the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">lacy</span> threads<br />there is no distant horizon<br />no rear view<br />only the intricate woven patterns<br />of the tangled cloth<br />draping everything</em></div>Kayleighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15347199277007746114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2430212631506187840.post-68473206322486741012010-04-13T17:12:00.010-04:002010-04-14T15:01:47.246-04:00POEM: if few and far between<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/S8Tf4wcxv0I/AAAAAAAADBU/7uiz9HDWxpg/s1600/sun+thru+dark+clouds.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459734814451154754" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 170px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 113px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/S8Tf4wcxv0I/AAAAAAAADBU/7uiz9HDWxpg/s400/sun+thru+dark+clouds.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><em>I want to know happiness again </em></div><div><em>to feel it warm my cold bones<br />like spring<br />find a new way to be myself<br />come to terms<br />with lingering wounds</em></div><div><em>as fresh sap runs </em></div><div><em>through my poisoned veins</em></div><div><br /><em>this long season of despair</em></div><div><em>must not leave me diminished<br />my legacy to my children<br />cannot be<br /></em></div><div><em>a mother root-bound by cancer<br />they need<br />I need<br />to believe that these changes<br />irrevocable<br />unbidden<br />somehow were transcended<br />transformed<br />sprouting </em></div><div><em>into a new life still worth living</em></div><div><em>beauty-filled</em></div><div><em>reaching for the sun<br />let there be lush moments </em></div><div><em>if few and far between<br />then at least enough</em></div><div><em>to scatter a few seeds</em></div><div><em>and hope they take root</em></div>Kayleighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15347199277007746114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2430212631506187840.post-80054929086781140072010-04-05T15:47:00.006-04:002010-04-05T20:24:40.047-04:00POEM: closer still<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/S7o_joM8DYI/AAAAAAAADA8/ef5OT2rINjU/s1600/hydrangeas+fresh+and+dead.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456743779832434050" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 170px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 128px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/S7o_joM8DYI/AAAAAAAADA8/ef5OT2rINjU/s400/hydrangeas+fresh+and+dead.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><em>even with Death stalking me </em></div><br /><div><em>closer still now<br />hot breath<br />moist<br />upon my neck </em></div><div><em><br />I fail<br />I fall<br />I forget<br />to give all I have<br />to live all I am<br />today</em></div>Kayleighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15347199277007746114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2430212631506187840.post-88340785962994986732010-02-10T20:33:00.008-05:002010-02-10T20:58:44.827-05:00POEM: veiled threat<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/S3Ng0DqC2CI/AAAAAAAADAY/7TsC1RQEEJ4/s1600-h/veiled+nude.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436795622617438242" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 170px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 128px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/S3Ng0DqC2CI/AAAAAAAADAY/7TsC1RQEEJ4/s400/veiled+nude.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><em>who wears the veil<br />hiding the truth?<br />what shroud is worse;<br />is it the one worn by<br />the woman I was,<br />blind to the danger<br />lurking,<br />growing silently inside me?<br /><br />or is the one worn by<br />the woman I am now,<br />who only sees the world<br />thru a dark haze,<br />dimmed<br />by the endless havoc<br />wreaked upon my body?<br /><br />one veil shields<br />the other reveals,<br />both conceal clarity<br />in a misty layer,<br />a shadow<br />blurring the precious vision<br />I once held of myself<br /><br />I long to shed<br />this faint cloud<br />that obscures my sight,<br />but I find myself afraid<br />the glare may be too much<br />and could turn my eyes<br />to seek the thin solace of darkness<br />permanently </em>Kayleighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15347199277007746114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2430212631506187840.post-5832755383027078102010-01-31T21:11:00.005-05:002010-04-05T15:55:37.723-04:00Poem: pink is not<span style="color:#ff99ff;"><strong>pink is not my color<br />i am not a warrior wrapped<br />in baby-girl shades</strong></span><br /><span style="color:#ff99ff;"><strong>draped in softness</strong></span><br /><span style="color:#ff99ff;"><strong>safe<br />i am a grown woman</strong></span><br /><span style="color:#ff99ff;"><strong>facing terror<br />running into it head on<br />like walking on hot coals</strong></span><br /><span style="color:#ff99ff;"><strong>red flames dancing at my feet<br />or deeply holding my ground<br />while steel blue waves</strong></span><br /><span style="color:#ff99ff;"><strong>toss my body</strong></span><br /><span style="color:#ff99ff;"><strong>endlessly </strong></span><br /><span style="color:#ff99ff;"><strong>thrashing it upon the shore<br />but pink is not <em>my</em> color<br />it is just a tag<br />a faded label<br />inadequate<br />unwanted<br /><br /></strong></span><span style="color:#ff99ff;"><strong></strong></span>Kayleighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15347199277007746114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2430212631506187840.post-21470212112364320212010-01-26T22:03:00.002-05:002010-01-26T22:10:55.754-05:00POEM: innocence lost<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/S1-udhm6-oI/AAAAAAAADAI/j17qbbjPTf8/s1600-h/cut+rope.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431251497893165698" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 87px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 130px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/S1-udhm6-oI/AAAAAAAADAI/j17qbbjPTf8/s400/cut+rope.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>once your body has betrayed you<br />it is impossible to forget<br />you can forgive<br />like a lover that strayed<br />now seeking absolution<br />my body has been punished enough<br />for its sin<br />but I will always remember<br />the feel of it<br />something out of place<br />not right<br />and will instinctively go<br />to that place<br />whenever a vague symptom<br />arises<br />a trust once broken so deeply<br />cannot be regained</div><div>and I weep for my innocence lost</div><div>and the freedom it took with it</div>Kayleighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15347199277007746114noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2430212631506187840.post-63043338861976293472010-01-04T21:04:00.004-05:002010-01-04T21:08:01.058-05:00POEM: yesterday<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/S0Ke-scl9II/AAAAAAAAC88/qHsgt4YxiDw/s1600-h/guitar.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 120px; height: 90px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/S0Ke-scl9II/AAAAAAAAC88/qHsgt4YxiDw/s400/guitar.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423071701227664514" /></a><br />Wasn't it just yesterday<br />I sat moody<br />sprawled on my bedroom floor<br />draped over my guitar<br />scratching away on pages<br />laid before me <br />like a banquet<br />feasting upon the youth<br />of my own song?Kayleighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15347199277007746114noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2430212631506187840.post-52751569336636017092010-01-04T20:52:00.003-05:002010-06-29T18:06:32.579-04:00POEM: creation vs. destruction<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/S0Kd-MC6KII/AAAAAAAAC80/KFXsFMf3Xlo/s1600-h/fire.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423070593018374274" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 120px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 80px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/S0Kd-MC6KII/AAAAAAAAC80/KFXsFMf3Xlo/s400/fire.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />to utterly destroy<br />obliterate<br />is to make way for creation<br />both locked in an endless dance<br />a tumbling struggle<br />one defies the other<br />defines the other<br />each contains the other's seed<br />and lays a tangled journey<br />in front of meKayleighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15347199277007746114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2430212631506187840.post-14953897442527993332010-01-04T20:48:00.003-05:002010-01-04T20:51:47.337-05:00POEM: thru this penThere is no real comfort <br />for me now<br />no haven for my body<br />to find peace<br />to retreat into<br />no deep rest<br />from this wearying plague<br />any escape left to me<br />flows only thru this penKayleighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15347199277007746114noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2430212631506187840.post-73045159152997787972010-01-04T20:33:00.009-05:002010-01-05T15:20:28.665-05:00POEM: vanity<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/S0KYw2AVWGI/AAAAAAAAC8s/qOkbkWUs4LM/s1600-h/hair.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423064866205554786" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 120px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 80px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/S0KYw2AVWGI/AAAAAAAAC8s/qOkbkWUs4LM/s400/hair.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />This is real<br />not a movie<br />some late night tear-jerker<br />where the heroine <br />bravely<br />defiantly<br />shaves her head<br />I am not brave<br />nor resolute<br />not willing to let go<br />I am vain<br />watching helplessly<br />as my crowning glory<br />fails<br />strand by strand<br />hope against hope<br />that somehow<br />someway<br />my grandmother's roots<br />the same ones that kept the gray<br />from tainting my locks<br />beyond the pale of youth<br />hoping those tough familial roots<br />would spare me this indignity<br />this insult upon too many others<br />but roots only go so deep<br />and hair is as mortal<br />as vanity</div>Kayleighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15347199277007746114noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2430212631506187840.post-62294505024839137692009-12-03T00:08:00.020-05:002009-12-03T00:44:20.900-05:00POEM: a bigger house<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/SxdPzakrvpI/AAAAAAAAC70/zukGq-nPGzw/s1600-h/broom.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410881222034046610" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 120px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 80px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/SxdPzakrvpI/AAAAAAAAC70/zukGq-nPGzw/s400/broom.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>veiled in that obvious way you often choose<br />when you are trying to hurt me<br />without claiming ownership<br />you were careless with my feelings<br />informing me that if we got a bigger house<br />you would need my help to keep it clean<br />like a patient father to his irresponsible child<br />you implied I don't pull my weight<br />clearly you are overburdened<br />doing more than your fair share<br />at your limit in this, our small house<br /><br />later, with not a little bitterness<br />I foolishly pointed out that blue bucket<br />you left by the garage for months now<br />one among many items carelessly forgotten<br />left strewn out doors, for all to see<br />embarrassing to me, but not to you<br />snapping back, quickly, sharply,<br />the veil lifted now, the intent clear<br />a blow tossed at me with deliberate aim<br />wasn't it I, not you, that wanted a bigger house<br />yet thanks to me you have no time as it is now<br />to take care of all that needs doing in this<br />our smaller, seemingly less demanding home<br /><br />Late now, I wonder if you will ever know<br />the things I do that go unseen, tho maybe few<br />they would be missed if I should stop<br />but then again, my messes are private<br />they don’t announce themselves loudly to others<br />or reveal the inner turmoil, the secret, ugly side<br />not like yours, out there glaring for all to see<br />yet you always manage to ignore your own<br />never looking underneath, where the dirt is ground in<br /><br />today, of all days, you said mean things to me<br />you made me cry, catch my breath hard<br />forcing me to hide my tears from your cold heart<br />when I needed to see it beating kindly<br />tomorrow I let them pump poison in my veins<br />as you sit and hold my hand<br />chemicals meant to kill mutant cells<br />but which toxic venom is more destructive<br />or hurts me more? Which mess is easier<br />to sweep under the rug<br />and forget about?</div>Kayleighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15347199277007746114noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2430212631506187840.post-81228065945674391502009-12-03T00:02:00.002-05:002009-12-03T00:07:16.548-05:00POEM: Free Pass<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/SxdHKx7DWFI/AAAAAAAAC7s/CjsBYlyA0g4/s1600-h/free+pass.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410871727834224722" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 120px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 59px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/SxdHKx7DWFI/AAAAAAAAC7s/CjsBYlyA0g4/s400/free+pass.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>You don’t get to judge me<br />you don’t get to blame me<br />you don’t get to direct me<br />or tell me how to be, how to feel<br />this isn’t about you<br />your feelings are your own providence<br /><br />See, I have a "get out of jail free" card </div><div>a monopoly of deserving</div><div>it's only fair<br />I can show it to you<br />I’ll lift my shirt and you will see it<br />a violent gash, a deep, gnarled scar<br />it means you have to do what I need<br />or just stay away from me<br />and let me do whatever I must<br />in order to survive this</div><br /><div>Because if I don’t survive this<br />you will have nothing left to judge<br />or to accuse me of, or complain about<br />anyway</div>Kayleighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15347199277007746114noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2430212631506187840.post-31619818743067339372009-11-30T22:02:00.002-05:002009-11-30T22:08:29.322-05:00POEM: what to keep, what to discard<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/SxSIdOVExcI/AAAAAAAAC7k/c97gXjRrSHI/s1600/box+in+basement.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410099088022881730" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 120px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 91px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/SxSIdOVExcI/AAAAAAAAC7k/c97gXjRrSHI/s400/box+in+basement.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Sorting thru boxes in the basement<br />I find random, scattered remnants<br />things I thought were important<br />crammed into unmarked containers<br /><br />the notebook I used to keep track<br />of the times I nursed my first baby<br />sleep deprived scribblings<br />evidence of a mother’s nervous dedication<br /><br />keep<br /><br />the childhood rock collection<br />in a scratched plastic box<br />purchased with my own money<br />from a vacation gift shop<br /><br />keep<br /><br />the cards I bought but never sent<br />misplaced when they were needed<br />people absent from my life now<br />no longer worth saving<br /><br />discard<br /><br />these bits and pieces are like lines on a map<br />the road leads to a place of order<br />but I am lost amongst the stories<br />and don’t want to find my way just yetKayleighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15347199277007746114noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2430212631506187840.post-39447283350516415772009-11-03T21:03:00.003-05:002009-11-03T21:08:28.037-05:00POEM: Lifeline<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/SvDhuR9HpoI/AAAAAAAAC6c/qt8LPzAydZQ/s1600-h/frayed+rope.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400064138427213442" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 87px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 130px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/SvDhuR9HpoI/AAAAAAAAC6c/qt8LPzAydZQ/s400/frayed+rope.jpg" border="0" /></a> <div>unwisely I yearn to grasp<br />to grab, to hold on<br />to what is only possible<br />instead of the probable<br />or the likely<br />I want stronger lines<br />tethering my spirit<br /><br />because to see Hope’s dark side<br />is to glimpse that offering<br />held just out of reach<br />but dangled enticingly<br />a frayed promise<br />made to be broken </div>Kayleighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15347199277007746114noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2430212631506187840.post-76412643995626768222009-10-23T14:33:00.005-04:002009-10-23T14:41:03.318-04:00POEM: room with a view<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/SuH4ikP3qWI/AAAAAAAAC6U/u1vdhI4rx1E/s1600-h/door+open.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395867101296044386" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 87px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 130px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/SuH4ikP3qWI/AAAAAAAAC6U/u1vdhI4rx1E/s400/door+open.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><div>People listen when you have cancer<br />they stop, hanging on every word I say<br />funny<br />suddenly my thoughts have more weight<br />as if I’ve opened a door to wisdom<br />closed to every one else<br /><br />Maybe there is such a door<br />open to me now<br />new vistas on the other side<br />perspective shifted<br />clarity comes in waves<br />unbidden<br /><br />But I’m not sure about the wisdom part<br />perhaps that is not it<br />perhaps the only thing I have learned<br />from glimpsing behind that door<br />that heavy, terrible door<br />is that I know less than I ever dreamed<br />my view, unimpeded by triviality<br />unlocked<br />goes on for miles</div></div>Kayleighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15347199277007746114noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2430212631506187840.post-67475101687119310852009-09-12T16:35:00.006-04:002009-09-12T17:01:27.864-04:00POEM: residue<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/SqwKKxvmDdI/AAAAAAAAC38/K_XsJKYPk_8/s1600-h/light+%26+dust+hand.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380686835068833234" style="WIDTH: 120px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 99px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/SqwKKxvmDdI/AAAAAAAAC38/K_XsJKYPk_8/s320/light+%26+dust+hand.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br />cancer has left a trail<br />of dust and debris<br />that has no where to go<br />it can’t be swept up<br />trying to<br />only scatters the particles<br />more and more<br />creating a hazy cloud<br />swirling in the sunbeam<br />where it might have been missed<br />dancing defiantly in the light<br />until a shadow comes<br />and all evidence disappears<br />from view<br /><br />sometimes<br />others unknowingly pass thru<br />without realizing<br />everything in sight<br />is covered in a thin dusty layer<br />the residue my reminder<br />of futility</div>Kayleighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15347199277007746114noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2430212631506187840.post-398885211469387342009-09-09T21:29:00.010-04:002010-04-05T16:02:38.095-04:00POEM: Janis knew<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/SqhY4jjyKBI/AAAAAAAAC30/L4EjzpNofXA/s1600-h/janis.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379647483535304722" style="WIDTH: 86px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 124px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/SqhY4jjyKBI/AAAAAAAAC30/L4EjzpNofXA/s320/janis.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />I remember singing <a href="http://www.lyricsfreak.com/k/kris+kristofferson/me+bobby+mcgee_20080506.html"><em>Bobby McGee</em> </a><br />eyes closed tight<br />lost completely in the moment<br />pouring all my angst<br />into each simple line<br />as I rocked back and forth<br />strumming the guitar intently<br /><br />I lacked a little of the rasp<br />that signature voice<br />the edge that comes with age<br />or from knowing the deep ache<br />of hard blues, intimately<br />yet still fresh<br />entrenched in youth<br />when I first learned the song<br />I could hardly have known<br />what was to come<br />what there was to be lost<br /><br />“Freedom’s just another word<br />for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">nothin</span>’ left to lose”<br /><br />I will never be free like that again<br />and I miss it immeasurably<br />the loss pulls tight at me sometimes<br />on a late summer night like this<br />mournful of all that has come to pass<br /><br />meaning awakens realization now<br />I know that freedom can be traded<br />or lost like a poor soul<br />every wisdom comes with a price<br />mine is to know that I have everything<br />and that it is all so beautifully fleeting<br /><br />I think <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Janis_Joplin">Janis</a> knew tooKayleighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15347199277007746114noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2430212631506187840.post-37694055546062578032009-08-12T21:34:00.003-04:002009-08-12T21:39:40.815-04:00POEM: the tie that binds<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/SoNulbxOdqI/AAAAAAAAC1w/CtbNP0IOXEM/s1600-h/knot.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369256770144204450" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 120px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 88px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/SoNulbxOdqI/AAAAAAAAC1w/CtbNP0IOXEM/s400/knot.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Slipping away<br />like silken strands<br />loose<br />too smooth to catch firmly<br />clutching frantically<br />my grasp is weak<br />memories run through my grip<br />faster than I can hold them<br />the recollection of what it was like<br />before<br />of what my life used to be<br />when I was whole<br />that precious, simple existence<br />disappears<br />as the tether that binds it to me<br />is yanked away too quickly<br />the tie severed, cut<br />and any knot retied<br />will be a constant reminder<br />even if I close my eyes<br />I’ll still feel it</div><br /><div></div>Kayleighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15347199277007746114noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2430212631506187840.post-63633509399286433232009-07-25T21:37:00.001-04:002009-07-25T21:41:46.889-04:00POEM: beyond every why<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/Smu0OkVA0PI/AAAAAAAACz4/8nmNjy_vq_Q/s1600-h/Picture+066.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362577943677686002" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/Smu0OkVA0PI/AAAAAAAACz4/8nmNjy_vq_Q/s400/Picture+066.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>you melt me<br />one glimmer of smile<br />and I am gone<br />your joy<br />is mine<br />and I am smitten<br />beyond comprehension<br />such a powerful thing<br />the love of a mother<br />for her children<br />it is the truth<br />in all beauty<br />and the reason<br />beyond every why</div>Kayleighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15347199277007746114noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2430212631506187840.post-28870835224198385322009-07-25T21:36:00.006-04:002009-07-25T21:55:36.235-04:00POEM: full circle<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/Smu2Oa3FzPI/AAAAAAAAC0A/fK5_nVUCH-U/s1600-h/mother+and+child+hand.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362580140159519986" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 120px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 80px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wkFN-IwN7Yw/Smu2Oa3FzPI/AAAAAAAAC0A/fK5_nVUCH-U/s400/mother+and+child+hand.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>when you first grew<br />in my body<br />I wondered how I could love<br />another child as much<br />as I loved my first</div><div>so deep has been my love for Megan<br />I couldn’t imagine another being<br />coming into that circle<br />but you, our sweet Daniel</div><div>you not only joined our circle<br />you somehow made it more complete<br />a loving embrace<br />to hold us all tight</div><div>seamless</div><div>as if you had been there all along</div><div>I believe in some way you were</div><div>always a part of us</div><div>even before you arrived</div><div> </div>Kayleighhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15347199277007746114noreply@blogger.com2