My lovely top chum, Miss Prosecco, quoted Seneca in an email to me last month: "They lose the day in expectation of the night -- and lose the night in fear of the dawn." It struck me that the fearful mentality is one that has chased me around as I've grown up, like some bloated predator. And indeed, it's remained a frequent visitor for too many years of my adulthood. Happily, I've made myself a promise recently and stuck to it: While I can't banish Mister Fear from my home entirely, He is no longer welcome at Chez Buffy. So there. 'HOT WINGS' Fear Is a virus That spreads thru the mind Causing anxiety & depression. But confidence Is a flame That spreads & ignites dynamism; It burns hot, bright & beautiful. Presently, I'm empowered. And, like the gorgeous phoenix I'm mightily thankful For the flame.
'HARMONY AHOY' Shh... listen. Can you hear that? It's the ethereal sound Of spiritual magic In the whispering woods. Shhh... listen. Can you hear that? It's the ambrosial sound Of enlightened laughter Deep in my soul. Shhhh... listen. Can you hear that? It's the rapturous sound Of the cogs of my creativity Whirring into life. Shhhhh... listen. Can you hear that? It's the celestial sound Of my prison bars Slowly dissolving.
Hi there, I'm afraid I've not been in a 'chummy' mood for some time. [ Issues too close to home, you see. ] I've not wished to be cryptic. At the same time, talking at length makes me feel as if I'm simply complaining. But never mind. Another 5-7-5 extended haiku... 'DARKEST HOUR BEFORE' It's 'coming out' time: I'm the sad long-time victim Of a Narcissist. Trapped for many years In an invisible box; I'm tired; I'm ashamed. In other bad news: OCD has played its part In keeping me weak. An inmate for life? Is this the final chapter? Or maybe there's more? I am no hero; Greatness is not my buddy; But could we still meet? Never rate too low Intestinal fortitude: The Power of Grit. With sheer force of will Perhaps I can still achieve The impossible?
Six verses; six syllables a line... 'STUDENT OF SAGACITY?' I've been trapped in a cage. But until recently I hadn't seen the bars. I've been utterly blind. But until recently I'd thought my vision sharp. I've been drowning in tar. But until recently I'd believed I could float. Older, sadder, wiser? At least the middle term Remains open to change. Eyes open to the light: Is it ever too late For illumination? Thinking on this question I say now, loud and clear: Never. Never. Never.
So what about January, mes amis? This month's been awfully chaotic for me. Can't deny it. [ Mostly circumstantial, though. ] However -- I'm still optimistic. This month will be the worst month of 2O18. So there. 'ONE OF TWELVE' Talking in riddles? Parading my woes? Speaking in a deep shade Of sweet purple prose? Spending my own sweet time Treading that fine line Between self-expression And self-obsession. Sweet January blues; "Dreary" is my situation. But I'm not choosing To spread the desolation. Today was a bastard And tomorrow will be cold. But the future? That's mine: I'll transmute it to gold. Blog me some blogging; Fight the good fight. Step by step upward Towards joyous light.
Inspired by yesterday -- A Monday dedicated to waiting: 'HOSPITAL CAR PARK' Impatient pacing. An urgent uncertainty. Elongated time. Wellness from illness? Hating high-risk surgery; Endless afternoon. Grim grinder of teeth; Fingertip table-drummer. Finally? All clear. Something to sup, now? I'd prefer a pint of air. Bolt for the exit! Drinking in deep breaths; A large, luxurious calm. Doom? Another day.
SOMETHING'S ROTTEN IN THE STATE... The rancid Queen scowls On her decaying throne Of brittle-dry bones. A realm in bloody chaos; Us peasants drinking in the pain. The kindly King? Sickly. Sour reward for age and indulgence. His ennobling, enabling nature Approved a new reign of terror. And now? Eaten alive. He spends gentle days wasting away Like the fisher-king of Carbonec; The foulness of his fat tumour Reflected in spasms of hatred Throughout the putrid land. No chosen one? No miracle? No Perceval? No Galahad? Don't you trust the storytellers: Life's rarely as romantic As they - or we - would wish. Without a beacon, I stagger Boozily thru the stinking streets; My throat dry from anger I hesitate to state: "Long live the Queen." Tyranny always ends? We can only hope for hope. Now, I do all I can: Placing one trembling foot In front of the other.
Twenty-Seventeen? Enrichment; enlightenment; Illness; then burn-out. I now realise (My head so long in the dirt.) I need to taste air. And Twenty-Eighteen? Mad, uncertain confusion But... back from the dead.
'BEYONDER' Life's orange, I'm blue; Screaming some noiseless war-cry. Best guess? Out of reach. Rasping throatily; My voice struggles to be heard. Full disconnection? Kids masquerading As urbane philosophers? Smug snobbery rules. Wisdom does not shout; It's there to be discovered In a quiet space. Alone or lonely? I will grudgingly accept Sweet Solitude Blues. Life's orange, I'm blue; Screaming some noiseless war-cry. Verdict? Out of time.