Cleaning Cwirks !

THANK YOU SO MUCH, POETIKAT, FOR INVITING ME TO PARTICIPATE IN A LITTLE HOUSE CLEANING CONFESSION SESSION. QUIRKY YOU SAY ?...
I'll have to reach for that one. THANK YOU, KAT, FOR RAISING MY CONSCIOUSNESS!!
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No, that's not the entrance to my apartment. That is the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. Just a bit of gallows humor. Anyway...
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I'm almost overwhelmed by the introspection necessary to explore this task. It's been a long time since I've pondered anything this deeply.
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1. Cleaning is not a concept that immediately comes to mind. My cleaning arsenal consists of a neat card, with a picture of a dust mop on it, and a telephone number for Merry Maids, Inc.
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2. I have not abandoned all chores. Milo (cat) lets me know if I'm not doing my part. But I must wear rubber gloves to empty the litter box. Otherwise I'll be ill. That stuff is so yucky.
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3. Kat uses a bikini on her face to filter dust. I use mine the normal way, for my kind of house cleaning, when I sometimes swipe table tops for dust. And to see how far my neighbor can lean out his window before he loses his balance.
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4. I no longer get any newspapers, so it's hard to clean windows anymore. The only "windows" I do clean are on the Internet. A bit of spit on my finger tip takes care of drops of sticky food on the screen.
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5. I always have tape wrapped around my hand, endlessly picking up the hair that Milo sheds. You'd think he'd be bald by now.
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Well, that's it. It is rather exhausting just writing about cleaning. I salute all of my bloggy pals who use something called
elbow grease!!

A Game of Memory

ANOTHER FACE



Lined up against the wall,

tilted not to slip and topple into shards,
stand mirrors that chronicle an endless life.
Departed faces
who's plainness or beauty
shimmer yet on the glass,
must be my various selves.

Recognize me please if you can,
what do you recall?
Put a name to a reflection, whisper my identity.
Play a game of memory,
I'll do the same for you.

Yet all companions have flown to dust.
A fragment can't know the facet
from which it came.

A perfect me
wouldn't keep searching through new births,
but sleep in a noble dream like Buddha does.

Eightfold paths multiply to infinity.





TWO GHOSTS
poems
Lyn Rochelle

order:
call: 888-795-4274 ext. 7876
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or at your local bookstore



I realized today that I've been talking to my recent dead quite a bit. They seem to like me more now, but not yet enough to grant me miracles.

Tomorrow's another day......

Me Too

YOU TOO
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We all have
non-
existence
within us.



But I am mostly the element
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that feels like forever,
dancing in front of the mirror,
always praying always asking
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please God let me have him, let me have her,
let me have me and
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Thank You,
yes I remember that is part of the prayer,
not just the asking,
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but a Big Thanks, so God will know
I'm not always for me me me,
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on the contrary, a grateful humble seeker on the path
to the truth with the blue edge,

next stop Heaven,
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where a sweet mother stirring broth spots me,
a hallowed saint relieved of arrows, pierced no more,
smiles at last,
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or Jesus Himself who once asked the Father why he was forsaken,
found out he wasn't,
just like us.
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If you don't love Jesus don't be affronted,
pick your savior,
the one who lives in your ego,
x

or save a place in the black hole of nonexistence,
wear the cloak of skeptics, the oblivion they pray is true.
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How plucky to be a fleeting spark within a voice
bound to be halted forever,
to arise at first light's beam never blessed by Heaven,
know that born on earth is good enough,
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and happily ever after is a tale of Grimm.