Surrender

I should have bowed down

And surrendered

Every day

 

I should have told you

I could see you

Lovely

Like the wings of all those geese

Who flew away

When we could not

 

Our minds are different

Every nuance

Every chord

Like tight wound wire

Exposed

 

All the songs and visions

Overwhelm

The feelings come in swarms

Through skin and bone

And brain

All those nerves

Are reaching

For a breath

Within the flame

 

Without it

Where would words be?

Would summer be so deep and hot?

Electric

 

Can we live without ourselves?

Maybe, for a day

What then?

A quiet respite

In an angry, tired grave?

 

You have a light

Surrender

To the weight

Of all these

Prayers

 

Heavy

Till you bow down

Head to earth

And shed the blame

 

© Angela Bigler 2013

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photo credit: chiaralily via photopin cc

mental haiku

Sometimes, when my mind is busy and spinning and sparking a notch too fiery, I tell it to be quiet. When that doesn’t work (that never works), I try to ignore it and find myself reading (but not quite retaining) self-help or reminders on post-its with advice for myself from myself.

If my mind is still reeling, unable to settle, I will write a list of the pulls fragmenting my attention. What books I want to read or research that needs to be done. There are scenes to be fleshed out. A page of displaced sentences impatiently awaiting adoption. Phone calls to suffer, people to connect with and appointments to schedule (the dentist – you must!). Not to mention the numerous life changes necessary for perfection.

The list expands into a fury of unrelated obligations and reminders about posture, forgiveness and potential dog behaviorists. I write a list of things to list on separate lists, and now I’ve really (totally) lost it, for underneath lies the compulsion to achieve it all instantaneously. It is the habitual inner crusade that drives all thoughts together into an impossible tangle of immediate demands. Now I am caught (again).

What I long for then, is to reset the mess and get clean. I seek out my haiku book. The white one with the fresh, spring green pear on the cover and open to any page. I carefully read one three-line set and float into simplicity and calm, thankful for respite and peace.

The time it takes –
For snowflakes to whiten
The distant pines

by  Lorraine Ellis Harr

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photo credit: jsbanks42 via photopin cc