Resonating Choices
This or That.
I choose That.
It Resonates,
This does not.
Then comes the Other
That or the Other?
The Other really Resonates.
I choose it.
But what of That?
What of loyalty, commitment?
I was really happy
to choose That over This.
So now, going with the Other
I am left with
A sense of
Having betrayed That
Which does not Resonate
At all.
The mechanical metal arms
Come coldly down
One on each side of my psyche,
Great fused fingers of freezing metal
Approach, close in on
my warm psych-mind,
About to touch icily and squeeze
And squeeze into an area of unspeakable pain
Or, in Dune terms, of no-pain, a pain not sensed,
Beyond sensation,
A long dark suffocation of the soul
…
Caused in tiny part
by much beloved but ancient dog’s
Demanding whirring whine
Late at tired night
When deep dreams beckon
…
Or, more significantly,
a ‘friend’ interrupting a share
with matters mundane when
My psyche silently screams for
Communication, for connection
…
And, closest, my spouse, would be beloved,
Pathetically, incessantly,
pleading for help
With his chaos,
invariably caused by another, of course,
for help which cannot be given,
with his impossible
agenda which exists, unrecorded, only in his head
…
While I crave
And my soul yearns for
A soul mate,
Or
A mate
or
Perhaps just for myself
At peace.
&&&
Hello I am jean, wee jean they call me
To distinguish me from the Grandmother
Who would ever be Jean, way beyond the grave.
I am friendly, small girl friendly
I need a friend,
To play with
And talk with, with whom
To share the fun of learning, of
Little girl observing, of playing
And dreaming
But
I am told to shut up
And listen
To the garbage
That emerges from mouths attached to unaware minds
And I start to think
That to be heard, to have friends,
To belong
I need to spout inane inconsequentialities,
Which wee jean eschews, can not do,
so gets buried
And so I enter a life
As jo
of drugged unawareness
Ever defined by others
But jo knows there is a moreness beyond
And searches in all the wrong places
And, after years of walking death,
jo learns to reach out,
A pleading hand stretching through the bars
Of the cage formed
By cognitive constructs,
by misunderstandings nourished by
A fear filled ego
Nourished and confounded by
the seven deadly sins
And there is a path from that cage
Which emerges,
Rocky, steep, but her own,
On which at first she stumbles a lot,
Helped by many different teachers
On the way
And still she stumbles
But always she remembers to reach out
And so returns to the path
So
Perhaps
It is not too late
For wee jean
To once more emerge
And find friends
With whom to share
The fun
Of learning
And playing
And dreaming.
jo's offerings 