Disillusionment / Done Wrong

dis·il·lu·sion·ment

/ˌdisəˈlo͞oZHənmənt/

Learn to pronounce

noun

1. a feeling of disappointment resulting from the discovery that something is not as good as one believed it to be.

   
   

   
   

   Done Wrong (excerpt)

    -ani difranco

   like how could you do nothing 
   and say, i'm doing my best
   how could you take almost everything
   and then come back for the rest
   how could you beg me to stay
   reach out your hands and plead
   and then pack up your eyes and run away
   as soon as i agreed

The Wind That Blows Through Me

Alicia Ostriker, 1937

I feel the hand of God inside my hand
when I write said the old woman
I am blown away like a hat
I swear God’s needy hand is inside every atom
waving at us hoping we’ll wave back 

Sometimes I feel the presence
of the goddess inside me said the dark red tulip
and sometimes I see her
waltzing in the world around me
skirts flying though everything looks still

It doesn’t matter whether you call the thing
God or goddess those are only words
said the dog panting after a run through the park
and a sprint after a squirrel
theology is bunk but the springtime wind is real

From The Old Woman, the Tulip, and the Dog (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2014). Copyright © 2014 by Alicia Ostriker. Used with permission of the University of Pittsburgh Press.

Cat Lessons

 I think I've learned a lot from my cat:

• The trust of a relationship is built over time. You start off with small things and eventually you get to bigger things.
• Active play time, restful company, and a good sleeping partner isn't too much to ask from another being.
• If another being in your life isn't paying enough attention to you, its normal to feel like you want to pull your hair out.
• If you aren't meeting the expectations of another being, you might get told about it. And that's a good thing. Communication is important.

Welcome

Looking for a little piece of inner peace. And sometimes that means I've got things to say so I can sleep better at night. A post might come and go like the scent of honeysuckle on a summer breeze. Or it might stick around and collect things like lichen on a giant boulder.

"no gorgeous diction"

That's What I Said 

by April Bernard

It pricks the arms like poison,
knowing that some things, once chosen,
are yours and that meanwhile the night comes
much too soon this time of year.
There are things you will not be allowed to say.
You think them anyway, until they become you.
The two boys in shirt sleeves are in the street
again, skateboards balking
where the sidewalk buckles in geologic fault.
They seem mirthless, as they yell and fall
and the cold mist tries to veil them from passing cars.

Yesterday’s storm slammed the leaves to the ground.
Hiss, hiss, the tires go, against the scraps
of piano music, not Chopin today, from upstairs.
Someone tried to understand you once
and he’s dead, though not from trying.
Clunk, clunk, goes the landlady’s daughter,
trying out her new boots on the back stairs.

Things have narrowed to a point
and no gorgeous diction can get you out of it.
There’s just the flats of your feet,
willing each new step out of empty pockets
where change, keys, pens once rattled.
You threw them into the bushes on the next block
and then came home with the grey linings hanging
from your jacket like socks.
You forgot to check the mail
and when you opened the door
you brought the night in with you.