Following on my last post, here's a poem I wrote years ago, that most expresses how I'm feeling at the moment. It's not a poem I understand, but it has a power for me that most of my poems do not. I am running on a blade at the moment, and need to embrace the alcoholic's prayer: change what I can, accept what I cannot, and for the sake of all that's sacred suss out the difference between the two.
Oh, and I have started dreaming again of writing...
In the age of the blue madonna
Each morning - may I have a cracker please? -
as befalls a pregnant woman, glucose levels strained,
I awaken to the craving for endorphins.
Each day for morning prayer I misremember
lessons taught in desert sands & gothic stone
cathedrals, droughty wastes & massive structures
only minimally fit for lovely water-bearer's child.
Not that the grand accomplishment of science
erodes; but that the slow, grand, tidal flood
of fatal femme blue consciousness makes clean
dark waters pouring with salvific flow
in time of need: Madonna's tides.
No wonder the morning sickness never ends,
that of the flat grey ash-filled air
the Fathers left behind, neglecting
the basic housekeep chores, imagining, perhaps
that we the wifely helpmeets would not stop
knee scrub & dust & make it tidy for their reasoned
wants, assist them to contain the luminescence
spilled in gathering folds around the lap of Earth.
No garment will this seamstress cut to business
boxy shape; but free-released the fabric flows
in male & female couplings, patterned to blitz
the ancient itchy fig-leaf haute couture,
& stun the limber serpent, with blue age stone reserves.