Perception / Flashes

Pictures draw me. A while back I saw one, done by a friend on Instagram. It caught my eye. Perception is strange. Sometimes we see what we think we see without looking closely. This was that day and that look. I pursued it. Curiosity leading the way. A block of images, a pink pig. A hat. I see a heart on his back.

My mind flashes images. At times, I forget things. At times, I worry about it, but I admit, I have more things to forget now than when I was young. More to forget than before my ex, than before he hurt me. More to forget than PTSD cares to remember. More to avoid, let slide or quickly drop.

Avoid, slide and drop are curious components of my PTSD. A tangible experience when it happens. Movements as things vanish; seemingly down or to the left. I’m sure there’s meaning there – hidden behind the flash of movement, behind the sudden jolt of recognition, a realization of something gone, rush of emotion, fear of loss, of cautious longing. More curiosity than care to know.

And so, on this day, I stare at the pink pig, smelling his flower, an odd almost heart shaped red burst upon his back. And wonder, what is that, and how is it he stands so still, intent upon a single flower?

 

[Photo by permission of Meredith Rose]

 

 

Time/Wasted

This, a few days ago. A little wasted time births poetry from tired mind.

I
Weeping, the face of your brightness now obscured, beauty in despair
Aranea glistens as frosted morning fades


II
Within the grey, eyes still bright … stars remember the glory of the day … ah morning, come softly into the quiet of our dreams


III
I pale as stagnant waters puddle behind my eyes, tired dregs of longing, th3se yesterdays and tomorrows struggle in endl3ss eddies, desperate for release

Reflection

pexels-photo-405238

pexels-photo-405238

As today is one of my down days (non work days), I slept.  When I woke I sent a brief note to an art group keeping each other company through emails … and wrote this:

Poem / Reflection

A cup of tea to toast the day and hope to wash my yesterday whose isolated state was bathed in lysol-laden gestures drawing hope upon the air and touching light on momentary contacts I hope we do not share.

All stop and start and wait and run exhausts my inner gears. Ah rest, you’re welcome,  though in bursts a little hard to bear. I have forgot, but toast and tea and quiet gives me time to think and stare at mental notes and images; reflect upon them here.

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