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barbtries a blog
Sunday, June 18, 2006
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Friday, June 16, 2006
6-16-06 7:02 am
Rory’s 8th grade Disney trip, me your mother the poet-Woman,
She is like… like…
Like I went schizo or something and She is
Somebody else clearly, and me, Barbara, your
Mom, the poet that was – is no more?
Have I fried cells of my brain, have I a
Foot well into the grave?
Often I feel intelligent yet. Short on energy and that
Story is old already.
And I wanted poetry. And am acutely aware of the
Month to follow, and the anniversaries therein. Your 26th
Birthday. Your fifth deathday. Is it really possible
Bekah; or might it be that, upon bereavement a
Mother’s time kinda quits being? Like for instance =-
I could have and should have spent preceding hours
Ensuring clean clothes for today’s despicable
Commute. And. I did NOT. I clicked and clicked and
Clicked and that’s truthfully all I did and that was for
Hours. And yet Bekah! you can’t have been DEAD for
Nearly FIVE years? My knowing that it is fact does not serve
The bereaved mother whose every cell says no no no….

Am I crazy/wrong
from every kind of daily labor that
made a home livable?

Can I write lists now even though I am nearly
51 years old, and a grandmother, and apparently have made
a truly clean break from the woman/me who pursued
romantic relationships, cooked dinner, vacuumed, was punctual
as well as dependable and indispensable?
For Bekah I believe that because I do embody
Those last two (AW. What are they? Adverbs is it? Fuck! So you
Get the sense of my questions do you girl, do you have a
Clue about how long my future in this lifetime is?) mmmm
And don’t wanna dress commute be in Van Nuys @ 7:30 am no
Fuckin’ way, right?

So anyhow. To ramble is allowed as long as at some point, I
Clean the house! Right. For three years my career was grief –
I wrote the book. Then I went to work, almost two years
I thought that was a measurable accomplishment
Meaningful to the UTMOST girl, with respect to my perception
Of what I call, “Recovery.” And so it is – I support
Rory and myself though it remains difficult always. But after two
Years dontcha think it’s time for me to

Clean house
Do Dishes
Cook ?

Yeah, me too honey. And by September there will be a true need for consistent virtuosity on the parts of both your brother and myself.

So I write you a prayer today
Deep as my mind may reach
I don’t feel the will I need…
I don’t have the energy…
It seems to me.
So I write you a prayer today –
Angel Daughter Turtle Bekah,
Invest once again in the woman who made ya,
Would you? will you amen amen
I'm going to be sure July does not pass
With you in obscurity.
Yes darling, I know it’s for me, but still I hope,
It works for you too, and I imagine the circle of you and
, the bubbling running smiling package of love life energy,
And I help you as you help me. Let it be please amen

Love for all and all eternity Bekah,

Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Websites as Graphs
Websites as Graphs

thanks to Deb at Sugarfused

Thursday, June 01, 2006
Morro Bay

The view here is given generously
To each house built densely
On a hillside. The fog ends
At the freeway, and
Just short of the top of the rock.

John is subdued;
I think it’s me, then think I’m paranoid.
Bekah is quietly bored.
Emily is sweet
And mellow and being raised well.

I wish I could draw! These tops of houses
These swallows and their noise.
The wires and the traffic,
Beyond, the great Pacific.
Investing me with serenity I may attempt to maintain.

But MUSTS are plenty and pressing;
SHOULDS so numerous too—
If I can be a phoenix I’ll rise, and shine
For you and you
And you and you and you
And you too-----------------

As words rise and fall
Like tides unceasing, flow of cars
On an interstate. As children grow,
Become adults, babies grow into children,
Eggs turn into babies—

All this while it sits in me.
It flows THROUGH me.
It becomes me like
A soft light
On a late night
In a dark room
Where I’m happy, and
Allowed to be.

Rory is on the balcony swing
Imperiously demanding, “Faster!”
In the distance I hear Journey sing
“Wheel in the Sky,” which seems to be
Appropriately philosophical, as I

Stand at the threshold of 40,
Dusting off my knees,
Homeless but not yet hopeless.

Who am i, what am i
A picture's worth

moon phases

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I stand on the sand, and I'm rocking grief to sleep in my arms.

Poetry roll
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