Posted in Musings

Depression 1.13 – The 8 Slash 6 Cylinder Man

I have come to the conclusion that I fire on six cylinders.

The issue is that I am an eight cylinder man.

I can’t remember the last time I was firing on all of them.

They aren’t knocking yet, but it’s just a matter of time. There’s a lot of miles, hard ones, on the odometer.

It’s a wonder six are still firing. It makes it rather miraculous that I can make it through the day, let alone accomplish anything.

It seems I am pulling off on the side of the road to doze more often now. My mind knows where to go. I am just so tired and it takes so much fuel to figure out how to get there.

Others race by. Their exhaust exhausts me. Death is the end to this race. Why try to get there quicker?

Elegiac grips me until my mind spins.

Lethargy holds me down.

I am captured between the two, racing, yet going nowhere.

I am a six cylinder body with an eight cylinder mind.

Come close and you will catch the faint scent of burnt oil.

Posted in Musings

Depression 1.12 – One Stroke at a Time

It is not that I have nothing to do or that I don’t have the time to do it.

It is that I don’t have the energy to do whatever it is I can or need to do.

My mind continues to swirl with a myriad of creative ideas. I know what I could be doing. I struggle to rise up from the depths.

Lethargy holds me down. I can only move against the weight of these two, which seems to increase the burden. I swim through a frozen sea, one clutching hand in front of the other.

I am learning to let go of the big picture, to take things one stroke at a time.

I place a piece of wood inlay there.

I write a word, sentence, paragraph, page here.

Suddenly, the craft is complete, the story written.

And for the briefest of moments, my dark-winged companions are lost in the pulsing waves behind me.

Posted in Musings

Depression 1.10 – The Other Is Lethargy

I mourn the loss of the moments of lucidity.

When the words run like liquid gold. When joy envelopes me. When clarity ceases to be a mystery.

Then Elegiac spreads its wings and my vision falls once again into the shadows.

What I saw disappears and I am left wandering through the rest of the day stumbling like a blind man after elusive Braille.

I am so tired. Yet I cannot let go of what I thought I glimpsed beyond the veil.

Another winged companion joins Elegiac. It alights upon my other shoulder, a weight so heavy and cold that it seeps into the very marrow of my bones.

Its name is Lethargy.

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

Rip Current

the day begins
with or without me
carries me along
in its wake

the list inside my
head is endless
running along like
the so called
breaking news
at the bottom
of the tv

to do to do
so much to do
yet i still wonder
what is the one
necessary thing

oh to let go
be carried away
and under
to let the
glass darkly
fade into obscurity
rather than
this struggle
to make it
clear

behind me
the rising sun
casts my image
upon the screen
to disappear
when i arise
to be swept
up into
the current
of this day

Posted in Art & Photography

The Atlas Of My Day – Diurnum 2

The Skabebjerg (Danish – Skabe meaning “to create,” bjerg meaning “berg”):

The Diurnum and Key:

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

I Live In Molasses 

I live in molasses, but it is not a sweet delicacy. 

I am completely encompassed by that which hinders me. 

I attempt to swim but seem to only accomplish lethargy. 

I do not know how to get it off of me. I flap my fins frantically. I am the darkened creature on an oil swept sea.

It is a kind of syrupy leprosy with nerve endings lacking viscosity, where the ideas of the brain are not strong enough to move this sluggish body.

I live in molasses, but it is not a sweet delicacy.

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

Hebetudo

I knew not what to do
with this hebetude,
so I added mas musica,
a more joyous etude,
something to dance me
out of this lethargic mood
like a world music CD
and some spicy Indian food.
Now my mind’s filling with a fine curry of gratitude.

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

POEM – Tired Head

confusion
cold synapses
thoughts in limbo
brain freeze

mouth moving
nothing said
going nowhere
tired head

numb nerves
busted stem
winter holds
my cerebrum

solar wind
risen dead
resurrect my
tired head

Posted in The Sunday Driver: Life in the Slow Lane

Accidie

I am overwhelmed by the bigness of it all.
I feel small,
a whirling dervish of a dust mite in the spinning tempest of the Fall.

I am seized by a lethargy of soul.
I am an apathetic mole,
digging blindly through swirling muck gone chaotically out of control.

I wait in trembling doubt for some semblance of relief.
I am a falling leaf,
driven to a ground frozen by the chilling winter of my unbelief.

I am a laborer whose work is not in vain.
I am a summer rain,
cast from angelic clouds to soothe a world that throbs in pain.