At night, she pretended she was one of them. She
Did her oms and chants, anchored her feet behind
Her ears, shared the organic rice with pure, cold-pressed
Virgin oil and laughed, with them, about
The rest: the junk food eaters and murderous meat
Eaters; the zombies attached to I-phones and I-pads;
And the junkies getting high in the poison Big
Pharma had convinced them to buy, to be well,
To think well -oh poor dears, not seeing the truth
That only came from a dedicated life of oms and chants;
And cotton weaving and whale watching from a kayak.
And she would remember the whales watched
From a tourist catamaran. And the hamburger shared
With Mike when Mike was still around and she
Was part of ‘Jenny and Mike’, and there was no tombstone,
Somewhere, polluting the earth, saying ‘Mark’.
Mark with no Jenny. And on and on they spoke,
About all their wisdom, masters, gurus, shamans.
One even swore he had seen a fairy and no one doubted it.
Yet she dared not to confess about the gorilla
In the kitchen, the child in the corner, how she
Knew she belonged to another dimension, and
There was a planet where fish behaved like men
And they came and visit, some times,
Through the multi-plane hole behind
Her fridge door. She breathed deeply
With them, a communion of air, someone
Said, and she heard the noise in her head, the
Voices pulling left and right, and the anger
Raging, her heart pounding, like a giant
Drum in a slave galley, and all she wanted
was to scream that she wanted to go home,
Wherever home was; yell them out, to get out,
Shriek them out existence,
Tell them to go, that she knew not
their names, their words meant nothing
To her, nor did the hated green
Smoothies and raw nuts, and she just wanted to
Vanish, disappear, and find that quiet
Place inside of her, to which no prayer, no
Meditation, no gong bath or drumming session
Had ever taken her before.
She was sweating, panting, but not one noticed.
They were deep, inside their holly, hallow selves.
She tipped top to the bathroom
And took her magic pot, her miracle
Pill, velvety white.
Swallow it.
And waited, until upside down became upside right.
She was out of the hole. She could breathe.
She could slither back to her place
And joint the meaningful silence,
Just in time. In time to smile, beatifically.
In time to adjust her saintly mask.
In time to lie, again, to lie because
She did not know what else to do,
Where else to go, who else to turned to.
And as they left, one of them commented
She had not finished her smoothie. She said she would
As she close the door. And then threw the
Green concoction down the drain.
The gorilla handed the cola as
He faded and she sat in front of the TV,
Drinking her coke, eating her chips,
Watching her game show, at peace.
Accepting herself completely just
As she was: a pill-popping nut
Case wanting to fly. Like an angel.
Like a saint.
And for today, that was okay.
I can’t say I follow any particular tendency or style. I pretty much let my heart sings and copy the notes into the computer, and then play with the sounds and meanings until I feel the poem, idea or musing have taken their own shape and personality. I am originally from Venezuela and have been in the UK for 14 years. I am a writer, poet, blogger, life coach, interfaith-minister, celebrant, language teacher, Domestic Goddess with an edge, Tarot reader, mother to a girl (light of my eyes), a dog, a Guinea pig and five plants, and wife to the most patient man in the world, who sometimes appears in my poetry. I feel very lucky to be multi-racial: Spanish, Nigerian, Native American, Jewish, Italian, Arabic and Finnish. Somehow I think that influences my eclectic style, which flourishes in almost everything I do, from my writing to my cooking. Like everyone I have had my ups and downs. I have experience domestic violence (first hubby) and ridiculously sweet loving (second hubby). I am immigrant and right now I am witnessing the loss of my country (long story) and yet I have been very much welcomed in the UK and have grown to love it very much. I am bipolar, psychotic, suicidal and suffer from psychosomatic epilepsy, which can make life a challenge at times, and, at others, weirdly fun.
I blog at Singing Heart
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