Nostalgia for War and Peace

I get it.  It was a simpler time

A sweeter time for rivers and old trucks

and tongue flicks

 

Or it was the music

Or maybe we are magnets

and memory aligns us back

to the crystal structure we were before

I’m not sure.  It doesn’t make sense to me

I’m aware of my ignorance.   I don’t need

everything to fit into hard little rows

 

It doesn’t have to be simple or straight for me

to swallow it whole and let it keep my stomach warm and new

 

I love winter. There I said it.  I love the cold, the snow

The bundling up with sweaters and blankets

I love hot beverages and rums and scotches

I love cedar in the swamp toppled with clean white snow

And hot steam from my mouth when I breathe out

In steam visions, touching your cheek

As my feet make a trail along a doe’s path

Over the creek into the meadow under the apple tree

Pausing to breathe and breathe, happy and sad

I like feeling the relief when I step into a warm home, when I stomp my feet and take off my boots and scarf and hat and coat, the hot fluster on my cheeks. And then smelling the wood burning fire,  the chimney puffing up

like my heart for you and our world

I love you.  I can’t help it.  It’s the music.  The step.  The waves.  The past or the future

It doesn’t matter.  But its here. It hangs on.

It doesn’t leave.  It isn’t sick or destructive

not disparate  or selfish.  It doesn’t hurt.

Its not a spring flower, nor a brown crumpled leaf.

It’s a rustic road that runs up north along lake Michigan and never seems to end

That leads to lake superior and cools all the fear out.

 

You can’t own or  fight it. There is no need.    Its here, in my poetry

These silent odes, from an old fat human woman

who is learning to walk soft and dream expansive peace

I don’t want to go to war.  But the war is here too.

So now I dream we are holding hands, like little laughing children

Who have not learned to hate or mistrust.

I am transforming myself.

I am focusing my intentions on life. I am forever restarting with me.

I am learning to live free of ego and hate.

I am eating the fear and panic one breath at a time.

It will take times.  There is times for you to learn too.

 

Put your ear on my heart, I am alive with you.  What more could we ask for?

 

[AL1]

guilt is a funny thing

 

 

 

it doesn’t matter if you knew better

or if you were doing your best with

the knowledge you had

 

if your own hindsight doesn’t shame you

someone else’s will

 

if it doesn’t, you’re probably not human

 

update on annieepoetry

 

mypicture2

Its been a year in this new town – this new world of cars and prairie.

 A year since I started to blog -post my poems and my thoughts about this mad world.  

I still long for Lake Superior.  I still long for friends who care for me and poetry and art and music.  But I am learning the true sacrifice of writing, of growing old, of loving.  Some years you are a lone.  Some years you spend inside your cardboard box and the only comfort from the isolation is going to grocery store and looking the clerk in the eyes.  Hi in there…. Its hard for me to reach out and say -play with me.  

I get so obsessed with writing that I forget to go and mingle with people.  I forget that poetry is a performing art and one of the many reasons why I was drawn to it in the first place.   As I get older (still too young to be president) I have the urge to sit alone.  

The days rush by so fast with daily activities of cleaning, shopping, and caring for my family, of reading, painting and writing -now a year has passed.  

Husband is doing good at the job, got raises, and working hard.  Daughter is adjusting, and learning so much.  Reading well and learning to ask great questions…. that I don’t always have a meaningful answer for.  She is learning to connect with the world and see the patterns, some skewed and false, others true.  My little teacher, showing me love and justice.  And she paints, this girl with the focus and heart of an old woman.  

Spring is coming to southern Wisconsin. The birds are twittering. I heard geese flying above.  People can be seen on the sidewalk.    Living in this condo, this city of normal. 

 

I have been feeling out of the loop, out of the world. I have been walking around with double vision -inside my body and outside of it -watching.  Its strange.   I keep listening and watching -looking for the first time and the millionth time.  Being an artist -a writer is not what I would have chosen If I had any smarts.  But being dumb and full of passion, a dumb kid, an animal playing this is where I am and  know – I love it.

 There is so much about my life that I love  -husband and daughter, writing – having a place to rest my head at night, food, ale… Scotch.books…  music.. that I can’t say that dreams don’t come true. In truth, my dreams are coming true, rolling on top of me, the universe bends for me and says get on my back.  My luck dragon, the universe.   But I want more. I want to write better. I want good friends as neighbors.  I want family closer…  want and want, despite having everything I need.  

That is one of the things about me that has stayed constant.  I strive and dream, and want utopia for you, for me – for the world. and that to me would be artists,music -dancing and singing, working and creating, loving and growing and learning. I don’t think I will ever lose that desire, that longing.  If I do, smack me and tell me to get real.

I Use Poems

I use poems the size of war.

I write them in the morning

after the pretty city motions work.

When other citizens shop

for beans or rake progress

I arrange sounds that fuck people.

 

So high they get, after my oos and aahs

they promise not to kill again