Musings | The Reflection Pool

The Nature of Disease

April 24, 2012 § Leave a comment

Effigies were razed as life’s meaning
choked on the shock and awe of the
battle my body is doing with itself.
The combat zone is littered with the
scars of modern medicine and
the pieces of corpse that lack any soul.
Twisted and gnarled, this physical
landscape exists on the inside, hidden
form eyes and tests that probe. The only
proof of existence lays in the weathered
and strained face staring back at you,
the shades of gray that surround the black
of pupil, but only if you know the code
to read it.

Confusion’s grasp has not lessened in the
aftermath of the rebellion of tissue as
“health” continues to spiral into the despair
of the unknown, clouding existence. All the
while, fear endeavors to take over my being,
seeking to redefine who I am and erase
all hope of any kind.

POSITIVE THINKING! is what they say.
Stay
Positive
and it’ll all be o-k-a-y.
But this frame, this shape,
“it just don’t feel right.” It is
unrecognizable, a new territory that lacks
maps and keys to decipher the unfamiliar
landmarks and pitfalls. No guide. And the
compass that I have lived by is askew.
Spinning, yearning for its natural
connection to our universal North. An
imbalance delivered by the power of
this volcanic eruption of emotional turmoil.

As a newly anointed citizen of Pompeii,
the poses of my body solidify in the
history of me, never again to be a
movement that this form will feel and enjoy.
Joints freezing with time’s passing,
ease has been erased from easy.

Earth Day, 2012

April 23, 2012 § Leave a comment

Ravenous, the Moon dragged his
lover, Jupiter, to bed as this year’s
Earth Day came to its end. Their
sighs and murmurs floated on
the breeze, the touch of want in
those listening to the secrets shared
between the two. Their unrepentant
rapacity, that shoots shivers of light
across the indigo sky, releases the
universe into its voyeuristic tendencies.

Inspired, the grass fondles the crickets
as they serenade the night’s third
partner into a seasonal orgy of
erotic bliss.
Seeking,
seeking,
seeking,
they sing, their legs in constant motion,
incessant rubbing together.

Consummation and intimacy are wrapped
in sheets of fragrance that hang in the air
like silk on the line in today’s heat.
Fabric to flesh.
Our lovers abound in the anonymity of
dark and alone festers under blanket
upon blanket of night. Each their
own bed to lay in.

And this mother gives birth to another season of life.
Not wanting.
Not waiting.
Her children run, naked, laughter
trickling down their legs like water,
while her lovers rest from protests
of protection. She comforts them all,
as the Moon to his Jupiter.

This Winter’s Solstice

December 22, 2011 § 1 Comment

It’s early. The sun’s been up maybe a half an hour. It’s hard to say though because the clouds and snow give the drowsy feel of predawn.

Today is the winter solstice.

The Christmas tree lights are on and the coffee is nearly brewed. A doe is laying in the yard. She has been there so long that the snow covers her like a blanket. If it weren’t for her giant mule-like ears, she would seem nothing more than a pile of dirt on the ground she’s resting on. Her presence signals a peaceful yard through the night. Gracefully, she has carried the peace into the morning of this year’s solstice.

The solstice does not mark much significance for the world any more. We no longer live our lives by the length of the days, the sun’s rays shining down on the world. Rather, we dictate the day’s schedule to the sun so that it fits our timetable, allowing us to check off items on our to-do lists.

This is not bad. This is not judgement. This just is. When we humanoids discovered fire, the evolution of power began.

Marking the shortest day of the year with celebration, saying, “we’re still here and it will only get better,” no longer matters except that it comes about four days before the most materialistic, economically based holiday that man has ever created. Each year, as the solstice becomes smaller and the Christmas holiday grows exponentially, our lives become even more spiritually strapped for meaning. We can follow the rules presented by dogma but we seemingly lack the ability to combine our natural world with our daily lives, something that was once a survival skill.We barely recognize the turning of a day, let alone the natural turning of a year.

We each have locked ourselves up in our little windowless buildings, unable to look out, not allowing anyone to see in.

As my tree sits ablaze in strings of color, I marvel at its beauty, the combination of natural and man-made, man-evolved gifts. I whisper to the world, to God, to whomever it is that assists a person in this endeavor of life, I ask for guidance and space to fill every day of life with this kinds of balance. I know I’m most at peace when my life is infused with both the outside and the inside.

May we all be like the Christmas trees standing vigil in our living rooms, in balance, walking in beauty, radiant from the natural world around us and the world we created with our hands. May on our branches hang the bulbs of memories and futures. And may the “presents” at our feet provide overwhelming joy as we unwrap each moment, living fully, right now.

Happy solstice to you!

Unrelated

December 6, 2011 § Leave a comment

The blister,
the one on my right thumb
that I prematurely popped,
it hurts,

especially when I hold my pen.
I’m holding it a little funny
because it hurts so much
and my letters keep coming out in
the wrong order even when I know
the order that they are supposed to come in.
Sleep doesn’t come as easily as I thought
it would. Really, I don’t want to sleep
because I don’t want to wake up
in the middle of the night not
sure where I am or where you are.
You’re right there but for a few
moments you aren’t and I am in
a strange place full of strange things
that I don’t recognize. My life
is full of non-profits and doing good
but I’m trained to make money for
the other. I’m wearing clothes
that aren’t mine or better yet it makes
me feel like I should wake up in the
middle of the night and not remember who
I am or where you are which is exactly
what’s happening. I can’t distinguish up
from down and so maybe its the crack of dawn.

Heart seizing breath taking panic attacks
aren’t really about that pasta dinner
coming up in a few weeks. Maybe,
just maybe, its about looking in the
mirror and seeing longer hair; waking
up in the middle of the night not
knowing who I am and where you
are. Maybe its about losing
one definition and finding another
I wasn’t expecting.
Or maybe it’s the season’s change
and dirty toenails.
But right now,
at this moment,
it’s hard to tell.

Illimitable

November 29, 2011 § 2 Comments

Bouncing off the walls of this topography,
the reverberation of emotion returns in equal
parts of sadness and spiritual emancipation.
The echoes harmonize with the truth
floating on the winds like sands and
ebb with the tides like droplets of water.

What’s another year of tears,

I ask.

Replies the ghost in the mirror,

nothing. Just a tad bit more salt water

to add to the universe.

I wait, wait for the potholes to dry

up in this desert that is me.

Once, I opened up and found I was vast,

depths unknown even to myself

and my soils dirtied the soles that

crossed this earth of canyons, buttes, and washes.

Expectation planted the seeds of distance

and indifference. But instead, the growth of

passion and understanding erased the lines

that define, creating confusion in what is and

what is not, leaving the wanderer lost,

with no compass, with no map.

What should I do with my thirst,

I ask.

Replies the ghost in the mirror,

drink, drink the mirage, pay no heed to the grit

in your mouth, drink as you drank me.

Seasonless, only winds are left to change this

wasteland that lacks all civilization. Grief tumbles

like dried and loosened Russian thistle. Left behind in

its own tracks are thorns that prick and puncture skin.

This without leaves sands restless and ever changing,

pock marking fragile surfaces, leaving one’s sight

cloudy and weak in clarity.

The fierceness of heat makes glass if treated as a

tradesman’s craft, blown into shapes that stir beauty,

until it is dropped.

And when the sun’s heat has dried and cracked this carapace,

I ask.

Replies the ghost in the mirror,

bleed.

This Abandoned Amusement Park

September 10, 2011 § Leave a comment

It has become a mind movie. One that is stuck on repeat where I can’t remove the images and the sounds. It’s all warped like an old 45. Grooved from the repetition of replay. Carousel music floats on the air. It’s joyous, circular song is distorted like a music box that has lost the strength of its toddler owner. Slower and slower, winding down. Families laughing, couples’ low voices can be heard in the echoes of the Wurlitzer 153 organ, whose utterance punctuates the muted sounds of what once was a mass of bodies. A G sharp, B flat, the discordance matches the peopleless landscape of this abandoned amusement park.

The remains of a nuclear disaster are no less bleak. Rubble strewn about like toys in a playroom during nap time. Dried leaves blow on a breeze that no one feels because there is no longer anyone strolling the lanes.No excitement getting on the ferris wheel. No stomach full of butterflies loading onto the bumper cars. There is nothing left in the decay of lost and discarded pleasures. Human emotions cannot be found amidst the steel and iron as nature resumes its former place, incorporating the trash left behind. From some hidden place, a treasure of sound rings out as time is marked off by this clock of mortality.

Ghost images of crowds pass through the line of vision, nearly taking shape as the carousel’s tune becomes recognizable. All fades quickly as the cloud of memory slips in and covers, wiping out the color of life. Leaving behind only grays. A few rides are moving but in a way that suggests people just left. The creaking of rusted joints is the steady pulse of the place.The actions of folks jumping off is left over in the indiscernible backwards motion of the rides.

Backwards.
Mutation.
Defunct.

In sepia tones and minor keys of the past, I stand amongst the joylessness of this abandoned amusement park. Me, as spun sugar on a stick.
Petrified cotton candy.

( All text is original and created by Kari Smith with full Copyright protections. Images in order of appearance: Some rights reserved by u-murrayhusted;Some rights reserved by Morgennebel; Some rights reserved by janheuninck )

A Poem that Spilled Out

August 27, 2011 § Leave a comment

Let Me Go

I once begged for that.
A puddle on the floor in
the summer heat, I’d beg
for a release.
Undone.

Months came. Months left.
Still, it’s present. Draped on my
shoulders, a weightless load
that feeds this cynical nature
that is now me. The pressure
of gravity and the pull of
distance cause a levitation and
I’m clumsy in this gift.

I ceased begging. It did no good.
Even though you are not here, you
are here, more than a ghost but
less than a hope.
A confusion

born in breath and blood. A brush
of skin, a scent of hair bring a
moment’s respite, easing of
the weight, the cloak of you.
Don’t, don’t let me go,

don’t.

Forgiveness

August 14, 2011 § 3 Comments

This has been on my mind of late. I’ve been trying to understand the nature of forgiveness and the necessity of it. Why do we crave it? Why do we need it? If it doesn’t come in the form we think it should, does that mean it isn’t there? Why is it so important to be given forgiveness from those who we feel should give it? And if it comes, would we really accept it?

So many questions and

each of my answers lead to one place, the forgiveness of ourselves. If I am seeking this forgiveness, maybe I should look to myself and find the forgiveness in me that I am so busy seeking from others. That is not so easy. Some times, it feels down right impossible.

Can you forgive me? is a loaded question. For what? Why? Can you forgive yourself? It is all something to search for because I don’t think that withholding forgiveness is what anyone truly wants to do. And yet, it seems that as humans that is what we do. We withhold and that only poisons all parties involved.

Can I forgive you? Yes. For what? I don’t know. Maybe for the way life was left hanging. Maybe for the things that have been destroyed. Maybe for the things that are still unknown. Maybe for the fear that is now hanging over everything. Maybe for the emptiness and the lack of anything of substance. Maybe for this unwillingness to let it go. Maybe for having to go beyond any strength humanly possible. Maybe for wishing and hoping for something to be rebirthed.

Maybe for nothing.

It is so hard to say and even harder to understand. One of those unconditional love things, right?
Forgiveness.

I have been reworking some of the poems that I have written over the past years and found one that related so succinctly to this topic of forgiveness. I understand seeking out forgiveness:

Needs

Forgiveness ran dry when I asked for it.
I suppose that I don’t deserve it after all
that I have put you through
but the immediate lack is a cruel
and unusual punishment even for you.

Feigning function, you take out the trash
and turn all the lights in the house on
but we never really get back to the point
that I brought up about forgiveness.

You and I, we act as polar opposites.
A contentious you disregards me as
picking a fight. I don’t need to pick a
fight. I need forgiveness.

Mother’s Hands

June 6, 2011 § Leave a comment

I suppose there are more spots on them now. They have more wrinkles. Some days they are cracked with the open sores of eczema. The tips of her fingers are slathered in Neosporin and wrapped up in Band Aides. She says to me, “Hon, come cut these tomatoes.” Knowing how much it hurts her hands when the acidic juices reach the cuts, I pick up the knife. Before I cut into the red ball, I look down. For a brief moment her hands are healed. I cut into the tomato, its juice is every where and I marvel, there’s no pain yet.

There are two veins that sit atop the bottom knuckle of her thumbs. They run parallel with each other and down the length of her thumb but are only obvious at the joint. Her thumbs are perpetually curved ever so slightly in towards her palms. They are never still. They twitch at random, never aware of their movement unless you are staring at them. In constant motion but never keeping time.

Some times, even now, she reaches out to hold my hand. An unobtrusive gesture. As she sits by me at the table or on the couch, she reaches out and gently lays her hand in mine. The skin dry but always warm. She gives my hand a squeeze and then pats my palm as she pulls her hand away as if she realized that she is holding the hand of a grown woman, no longer the small girl I used to be. Her wish to be close wins out and she settles her hand back in my palm, all but her thumb soothe the child that even now lives in both our hearts.

I trace the veins on the top of her hand with my finger, remembering this was once a favorite thing for me to do as a child. I follow every vein as far as I can and travel back to her wrist. Slowly, I take the next path, and then the next. She smiles, recalling the same memory. Leaning over slightly, she rests her head on my shoulder. I rest my head on hers, still following the paths of childhood.

It is quiet.

I am sitting on the couch alone. Picturing her hands, wondering what I have missed. I can see them wielding needle and thread as she counts stitches. I see them kneading bread, rolling out dough for Christmas cookies. I see their action as she scolds one of us kids. I see them as she reaches across the table for her scissors. I feel them tap my back as we hug. I feel them as she holds tighter not wanting to let go. I see them. They are resting in my lap.

Her hands are never any older than mine.

(This may be familiar to a few, but it is updated and improved.)

Needs

Where Am I?