I wake up and once again I can’t remember my name, where I am or where I’ve been. My thoughts are so disjointed that I can’t even form a sentence, a thought in my mind. I can’t even pull myself up and out of bed. After 30 minutes, it passes and the me I am familiar with returns. My thinking returns to normal and I recognize my surroundings, my pajamas, my bedroom. This was the first time that has happened and it reminds me of talking with Dad on the phone, when we were trying to sort out his taxes on the farm and he told a customer service representative and me that his two blue shoes were facing north on the highway exit ramp, repeating it over and over. Said he knew what he was trying to say but it wasn’t coming out right, could we please please figure out what he was trying to say because it was important. I can feel how fragile and how tenuous, how taken for granted it is just to know, to remember, and to think a simple thought.
It’s not where I wanna go again.
Not for long anyway.
Not even to vacation in.
It’s more of a dead end journey, than it is a ticket out of here.
Where I’ve been, as quoted fromMcBeth,
“Have lighted fool the way to Dusty death”.
Yesterday was just a day.
And tomorrow is just a dream, a hope, a maybe.
Where I want to be, is where I’ve never been.
Here, now in the moment.
In my moment.
Sharing it with your moment.
I have been making myself my ideal woman. I am a baddie around him, thinking of all the ways I could get extradited for indecency. This is the best way to deal with a sleight: to get tongue in cheek attention.
I am going to miss the children most of all. Not everyone gets a two YETI cooler relationship and plays a kid version of softball with makeshift everything while picnicking, no fast food, at a rest area in PA, we had that, and when they have forgotten, I will still have that. We had the road roar, and my private thoughts. There were ever so many of them because sometimes the conversation, to be having it all, seemed weird.
I can do anything, Just had a meeting with a supervisor about professional goals, thinking how I can do everything, and I included them as a 9 month gestation. This is how my ADHD serves me, I can do more than most. This time around, I wrote a ticket to Stab City, known as Limerick. I will leave in 30 days. I dare to dream.
I am well-adored. A coworker wrote me an appreciation email. I sobbed frenetically. Peter sent me a blessing. David sent me a diagram of in flagrante delicto. It may spur ideas of how simultaneously I am an impish mastermind, and known with “ducklings”, queues of children that follow me, and for my sweetnesses. Could a sober school teacher on a professional development trip get arrested? There’s that me again. Too irreverent to stay down.
My friends worship me. Not that anyone has to. I am not wearing a break up like a fur coat. My recovery time- there you go again. I can’t do everything, like make you like me. What a sweet act to let me go! It was not worth the exchange value of the really great coffee we drink, or the meals we plan, or the performative in person team we are, or as someone called us this van festival weekend, “power couple”. I can’t do everything, but I have way more to do.
Thrilling skill, reserve and hidden wink,
they call it a “hidden reserve” in the quote,
“literature” end quote
Where did you find that swagger?
that confidence that sway?
I’ve always been the one to make too much of everything.
I could be sitting in band or seminar and be filled or fueled
on another’s beauty. In my new car, I imbibe landscapes,
and roads, and varying velocities, and barns, and make
the acquaintance of trees, and a film strip of postcards.
I want to make a quilt of sorts out of the things I have seen
in the summer months, as if you could take out a July road trip
in February; I thought July looked good on everybody and
every place, and now, with my goldfish eyes, I wonder about
the yellowing slants of late September. Forgetting so easily,
it takes on a dreaminess, which may be the person I am when
alone with my thoughts, or the who am when I’ve unzipped
my limited beliefs and go skinny dipping in the scene, and speed,
and accelerating into the curve.
It may be a time to flirt with complete abandon, or harvest some
of the sweetnesses of a lingering moment, or a bon mot I do
not want to forget, but taste again and against the edginess and
dagger cold. I am not sure where to put it so that I may find it later.
“It’s not what it looks like”
Him holding my feet on his lap
We were Broken up a whole week now
Get over it!
As I lead him upstairs
Lights on
Than lights off
You next door see this all unfolding
You run home to mom
You can’t take it
I can’t take it
I can’t take you
Loving me anymore
Can I hurt you any more than this?
I can try
I will try
I will succeed
Blame it on the bottle
Blame it on the lack of sleep
Blame it on the years of
Resentment
I blame it on you
You blame
Everybody else but you
It’s not what it looks like
It never was
Couldn’t you see it?
I bet you see it now!
Photo by Elizabeth Wheeler
In my own little corner. My happy place. Blues, purples, a new piece of furniture. Some papers finally filed. Pictures of family, beautiful daughter, a happy me. A lifetime of love, learning, hopes, dreams. Often my space to think, to write, to escape. To isolate. Yes, to isolate. Past tense. To have isolated. Today it’s not what it looks like. Mom, my daughter asked me,How will you deal with your “ corner” when you get home? It’s not what it looks like. I’m holding strong, steady. A bird on the edge of those mountains. Soaring with the winds of time time, no more fighting. Accepting the fate that has been dealt me. It’s not what it looks like. The past is gone. The wind blows with me. Blowing clean air. My corner is clean. I am home wherever I am now. It’s what I want it to look like. It’s mine.
One of those spontaneous – get up early, go now! –
Like an angelic voice awaking you from a drunken slumber in a Bruges inn, “Matthew, wake up! You must leave now!” And I did and spilled my cup of hangover remedy on my pant leg while on the train to Zaventem and missed my plane. Again.
Yeah, beer holidays can be hard to return from.
But it wasn’t that morning, it was in the desert. I’d gone to bed thinking ‘maybe a hike tomorrow’ and then it was first light and as I regained consciousness I regained the plan to go to a canyon, with a rare water-filled streambed and even rarer morning fog, moistly emancipating the shellac-smelling creosote bush and powder room bitter dusty scent of brittlebush.
And I came to that running wash and couldn’t see across, but there were large stones, maybe haphazard, maybe laid down by a hiker who felt the need to organize. I made my way to one rock in the dense fog, then another, never able to see all the way. But one leap at a time I made it to the opposite bank, on a cool desert hike of solitude. And I looked back at the way and the fog lifted and I could see the whole path.
It gave me clarity, a metaphor, for my life. Circumstances. And I thought, ‘Yeah, here’s what I found. I need that right now.’
In a hole down by the river bend for long have I waited the waters edge
For long have I driven the drive
To see you through the worlds window
Hollow stovepipe landing me closer
To a bridge of my own building design
Paper thin walls and
Planks to stand on
Hovering towards an open window
Fall back into line
They all said
Stepping lightly
Land hardly making
A sound
Care not what I have done than
Now is the now of my understanding
“The yellowing slant of late September … “
Thrilling skill, reserve and hidden wink,
they call it a “hidden reserve” in the quote,
“literature” end quote
Where did you find that swagger?
that confidence that sway?
I’ve always been the one to make too much of everything.
I could be sitting in band or seminar and be filled or fueled
on another’s beauty. In my new car, I imbibe landscapes,
and roads, and varying velocities, and barns, and make
the acquaintance of trees, and a film strip of postcards.
I want to make a quilt of sorts out of the things I have seen
in the summer months, as if you could take out a July road trip
in February; I thought July looked good on everybody and
every place, and now, with my goldfish eyes, I wonder about
the yellowing slants of late September. Forgetting so easily,
it takes on a dreaminess, which may be the person I am when
alone with my thoughts, or the who am when I’ve unzipped
my limited beliefs and go skinny dipping in the scene, and speed,
and accelerating into the curve.
It may be a time to flirt with complete abandon, or harvest some
of the sweetnesses of a lingering moment, or a bon mot I do
not want to forget, but taste again and against the edginess and
dagger cold. I am not sure where to put it so that I may find it later.
Dog tired. I remember this feeling from so long ago but it’s not a choice. Get up and go. The children are awake, the sun is slowly rising, the floor is cold, the snoring has eased, the dogs are whining to go out. Here goes. Fortunately, no hangover, only from a long day of traveling to this never land of adventure. Sideways rain through that little window on the plane just before kathump- landed safely albeit not gently. This week does not promise to be gentle. Maybe I should keep my seat belt fastened. Yeehah! Ida-fucking-ho. Here’s what I need right now. Idaho, my grandchildren, my daughter, my husband. The love my son used to so carefully sway me rather than push me to come. Here’s what I need right now-here is where I am.
Absolutely everything
must go
I got left in the free
pile with the random
cooking utensils
romance paperbacks
a broken fan, cookbooks from
the 80s, a tennis racket
and those sneakers you
lost last summer
good company for a
Sunday afternoon.
Hey there! I took another look at my life.
It does not say how long I will be around.
But with the time I have left I
Need to work on it,
Make it better to be.
I will do my best,
So I took another look at my soul
To make it whole again
I took another look,
Because really?
I never really looked at myself,
I just told myself that everything was just fine.
Until it wasn’t
But there I was in prison
In a nine month drug program—
And in the back of my mind
I figured I would always get some kind of high once in a while.
Everything was fine
Until it wasn’t
Because that same high
Took my husband’s life
So everything was not fine
So I took another look…
Who cares?
We’ll certainly I don’t
I gave up caring a long time ago
Without caring nothing can hurt, it just
doesn’t matter
Only the numb matters
I just don’t want to feel a thing
I don’t want to participate
I don’t want to be seen
Really, I just want to cease
Or better yet, not to have existed at all
I’m no good to myself, nor anyone else
I don’t matter
I don’t fit in
And you can’t make me care
I’m picking up my marbles and walking away
I’ll be a vapor, disappearing in the sun
Please, won’t somebody care
Because I really can’t go on living like this.
Angala has been a WFR regular for years now, and her voice is honest, kind, and true. Here are five of her recent poems.
What I forgot to Tell You
No more doubts
Just a reflection
Why was I this way?
I got a feeling you were reading my mind
Why was I pretending?
I lied all the time, To myself
Wasting time
It was all the same
I got a feeling the bottle fed my doubts
Why did alcohol want me?
Why did I crave its poison?
I cried all the time at the bottom of hell
I know today alcohol was reading me, studying me as I cried in my bed wishing I was dead.
It was always the same when we talked
Alcohol was my distraction from my mind
Sober now I don’t pretend or lie
I forgot to tell you I don’t miss you, no more doubts
One day at a time
Take a Look Around
Screaming, crying, throwing
Take a look around?
Things are not like they were when your world wasn’t upside down.
Smiling. Giddy, joy, proud
Take a look around?
Places, people, things I found I can enjoy again simple pleasures like babies coming into the world, strangers smiles underneath masks I sense with smell
Take a look around ?
The world is slowly coming back together again
Sometimes I forget the simpleness of the front door but if I pull turn around and look at my home I’m reminded it’s a cozy place not scary like before
So I take a look around and find comfort in my gratitude and laugh a little with a grin.
I’m Not Going Back
Saving my last breath for you… Hell No
It’s hard sometimes to say the truth out loud
Pulling the truth out
I’m not going back to that time when the fear of their words scared the vomit through the bathroom door. Crying in the lunchroom all by myself
It’s hard sometimes to breathe in and breathe out
I wanted to run down the paths that led me home but instead I took a long winding detour that led me to broken door.
I drifted away for a while with every step I took, steps that showed me a different side of that broken smile.
Time takes time that’s why my footsteps move forward now and I’m not looking back
Today I need my pain to feel the truth
I don’t love you anymore
I’m not going back
The pain of my forgiveness, time to fix the broken pieces
I’m not going back to that day where my mind gave up on itself
I could have been my families tragedy even they let me back in
This is as honest as I’ve ever been
I sat in shame, guilt and pain but not today that was my back
There is no reason to relive all the pain
All my addictions each and every one still lives down in my makeup they scream every day to come out, I calmly smile and say no. Why go back when today is my creation?
No more shame, no more guilt, no more pain
I found joy
I found change
I found Grace
I found love
I found one day at a time
I won’t go back. Why?
Because I finally found me
It Was a Puzzle
You are not hidden
You will always be in the open
Waiting patiently for me to walk out the front door.
Just waiting to bully its words its glare as I walk place to place.
My heart trembles at the sound of your name
In your presence I was always defeated
Everything I’ve done
I am not worthless
I am not hopeless
I will stand tall
I will not cry in fear
I sent an army to rescue myself
This is where I am now
I no longer fear you
I look up and not at my feet
I know my HP had my back all along
My heart doesn’t tremble at the sound of your name anymore
Let the mountains roar
It was a puzzle for years, but not any more.
I Took Another Look
Some kind of magic
Don’t let me get comfortable
Got a tendency to let go
Won’t be happy either way
Addicted to blue
How lucky am I?
There isn’t too much to say
Go have fun
Got good at faking smiles
You wouldn’t even notice
The focus on a thousand eyes
I can’t undo what I have done
We can take all night, if we know where this goes
Why did I play with fire?
You got to grit your teeth while you smile through all the pain
If I let the ground swallow me whole
I am just trying to build myself back up to take another look.
What do you see?
Take a look around:
do you see your innermost motives
set in an array of artifice and votives?
Do you see me looking at you seeing me?
See with your humanity, as if through the skin
as you careen through your busy life
on your roller coaster cart.
Cats and rats scurrying around each other
in a game of catch as catch can
like bats chasing mosquitos in the dark.
Observe your surroundings before you scuttle off
to a restaurant in the upper section of town
to meet the friend who withholds
his permission to let you mount
the clouds and soar above him
or even next to him
stop to hear the robin in the old oak overhead
before you jump into a cab without finishing your bread
What’s the rush? Just shush
the motor in your head where it hovers.
Tread gingerly, compañero,
it’s over before you remembered
to savor the moments
you can never recover
We’re proud to share that the work of six WFR writers is featured in “Rebirth,” the current issue of Paper Dragon, the Drexel University literary magazine. The pieces are really fantastic, so be sure to share them. And thanks to Nonfiction Editor Beth Ann Downey and Editor-in-Chief Bill Vargo for inviting us to submit to their wonderful magazine!
I’m trying to be more aware of
the water flowing in Otter Creek
and the trees reflected on its surface,
the silvery branches, thinly decked
bright early green
against a blue cloud-puffed sky
Not long ago, I looked
across the puddled field
on the other side of the road
at a heron, sitting tall in the marshy grass.
Then taking flight, gliding
barely above the grassy ground
and rising quickly over the creek
to become part of the reflected image, the
newly leafed trees, the blue sky
and a couple of deep and dramatic
grey-white clouds.
“Mindfulness”
Often, I forget to remember:
I’m trying to be more aware
of my surrounding
of my ever present brain
and its shenanigans
that ride me on repetitive routs
patterns I try to eschew
kind of like letting go
of an old foe
I surf the wave
of conditioned reflex
unaware how i share
my space with all around me
all of the all including the fall
from grace, before I could
even walk or talk
so many years of restrained tears
meet me on the verge of a surge
of emotion, from which I attempt
to glide astride
and ocean of salt and brine
that i made more
so very long ago
Awareness, that beast I
have tried to repress
now wants to vault out
and no longer behave
before I cave in
to an monstrous rave.
“Abnegation”
I stood on a tall great wall
100 feet above the ground
and I felt wobbly.
I tried to keep my balance
like a drunken ballerina
on a tight rope.
A burly phantom climbed up with a ladder
and I floated over to pull me down,
but lingered on the ledge of oblivion;
he threw me a ropelike a lasso, but missed.
To fall or to stall
the inevitable until
it came naturally?
He threw the rope, again
though not like a lasso, this time
and I teetered as it reached me;
it was a long way down!
But I grabbed the rope
and held on tight;
Then I fought to survive;
Then I wanted to be alive
to give abstinence a chance
without a brooding or rueful
backward glance.
I clutched on to salvation
and climbed down the ladder
one rung at a time
and out of the clouds
to descend to a less fickle world.
On the last rung, I jumped into the phantom's arms
and almost toppled him.
All at once, gratitude sprang up
and carried us both.
If only I could send you
the fragrance of the apple blossoms,
you, beleaguered ones, running for shelter as rockets and
bombs hail down.
Why do the nations rage so furiously together?
Why do the peoples imagine a vain thing—
the Psalmist’s plaint, so ever-contemporary.
The Sabbath bread is baking.
I offer my heart.
If only I could gather you here in the garden,
in amity, without judgment, joined in our common grief—
you Jews, you Muslims, you Christians,
you: Palestinians and Israelis,
together at our Sabbath table.