Tuesday, March 19, 2019

Grow or Rot

When she asked, have you ever had an instance when the words that came out of your mouth might’ve done hurtful things you didn’t intend? I was more than a bit tempted to answer, “Does a bear poopeth in the woods?” But since I did not want any problems with bears that might resent my word choice, I stitched this instead:

words are seeds
we can grow with care
or let rot

the wee notes…
- or, in plain Magaly-lingo, word-seeds are wild things that must be handled with care. And most of the time, we do a decent job at the handling bit. But... when we are terribly pissed off, our brains and tongues tend to do whatever they want (and gentleness isn’t always part of the wanting). Also, the things we say are subject to the state of mind of those hearing us (even if they aren’t really listening). In other words, even when we are careful, our words will do what they will (and the same is true about those listening to our words (and, as always, by “we” I mean “me”).

- um… I don’t always Magaly-explain my poems, but when I do… I use a lot of parentheses and ellipses and hyphenated words and *cough, cough… coughing*.

Saturday, March 16, 2019

My Exercise Routine Might’ve Left My Neighbors Needing Freud

The neuropathy monster sets its teeth and tongue on icy fire before wrapping its maw around my hands and feet. The bite is pure pain poison that blights through flesh and bone, paying special attention to joints (“Oh!” my ankles wail at night).

The neuropathy monster chews hardest on days made of thunder and clouds and rain, its frosty flames howl through skin and limbs (“Move an inch,” it threatens, “and I will pain-drop you on your face”).

But since my will and I refuse to suffer false signals and bullies, my muscles and tendons stretch… my bones work out hard for balance... and I stand on rebel feet that will never let my face down without a fight.   

exercise torture
keeps my flesh and bones healthy
while I sickly curse

the (not so) wee notes…
- my glorious (edema-kissed) cankles have been saying goodbye, so I have added some strength training to my stretching and cardio routine. But... since, peripheral neuropathy dearest refuses to pack her agony gifts and leave me alone, exercising my sexy flesh and bones hurt (and the pain inspires my tongue to curse and cuss) in ways that make me think my neighbors’ ears might end up needing counseling.

- last night, I went to bed thinking, I need a proper title for my Cancer Book. I just can’t continue calling it my Cancer Book. What if it develops a complex? Causing my neighbors’ ears to need Freud is one thing, but doing the same to an innocent book. It will not do. So, of course, I dreamed a title, and woke up remembering… absolutely zilch. Until now, when the dreamed title flashed into my skull. Victory! No, the title of the book isn’t Victory! It’s just my victorious mental-cyber-dance.

- written for Poets United, Blogging Around with Rommy, and Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (where an gloriously attractive and unbelievably modest Wild Woman invites everyone to write a new poem that includes one homograph).

So, my Wicked Luvs, do you have any torture exercise tales to share?

tragic! I’ve no idea Rainbow Dash was my neighbor. Her poor ears… *sigh*
Louder Scream, by FoxInShadow