Skip to main content

75 miracles logged; return of the odd sock pile & a vivid nightmare



Recognising a fear definitely counts as a miracle. Fear makes you appreciate life,  knowing what you fear helps you know yourself etc. 
And no one should ever underestimate the importance of socks. 








57.
Laid like pulled teeth
In fields, straw monoliths 
Celebrate transition
Summer crop winter fodder 


58.
Along the pavement shines
Islands of mirrored light
Rainwater pools in uneven
Corners of wonky slabs


59.
In each reflective surface 
An upside-down lamppost
It is an image, a visual
Echo, bouncing back


60.
Under tarmac, under earth
Deeper, geological dramas
The rock is boiling
Pushing at plate boundaries


61.
Tectonics are beyond control
At the fault-lines, minerals, metals
Water, volcanoes bubble up
The gods and monsters of geology


62.
Night rests above, not across
All of Earth, there is not enough
To go around, we share 
Day and night in rotation


63.
In the cloak of sleep, fears
Are smuggled in, revealing
Points of weakness as we 
Wake to check the breech


64.
In sleep, destinies are
Settled in or driven out
Dreams can solidify, be
Processed into truth


65.
Seven odd socks heaped, one
Close to reconciliation, four
Close enough to match
Two keep company and wait


66.
Messages are sent at all hours
On rising, we can be busy
Immediately, night images
Compressed, not deleted


67.
Describe the different densities
Of darkness, if you are awake
Go outside, away from
Artificial shadow


68.
This night is solid, cast from lead
Endless solidity, the infinity of it
Can provoke vertigo, the weight
Of it presses out your breath


69.
Close your eyes, it will not
Get darker, the abyss is 
Everywhere, it is not part
Of you, you are part of it


70.
This is the shade of feeling
Perfect beautiful sadness
In which you curl up and hide
Like a tiny shell under a storm


71.
Curl small in the depths
Allow the squall overhead
To pass, there is nothing
To be done to influence it


72.
This is the safe vantage of
Gentle nostalgia, this darkness
Loops around, wraps you up
Swoops, holds, suspends


73.
Anxiety rises like a bruise
A tender point of recent injury
This hurt cannot be compressed
It must be free to heal


74.
Like strong black coffee
Alert to the point of
Paranoia, the air quivers
Shakes with fear


75.
Cold limbs tremble cannot 
Move, heart thumps hot, it
Burns to live, longs for another 
Ordinary day to marvel at

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Contact Pants Conundrum

There is weather today, I do note it: take a few moments to reckon the size of a cloud (big) and the frequency of rain (sporadic.) Centre of my interest though is a stack of magazines. Not the fashion kind. This is martial arts research. I'm not even sure what it is I'm looking for, but intuition calls loud. A range of old adverts skew some amusement. Contact pants, for example. Pants are not trousers where I come from. They are underwear. Professional contact pants: improved smirk value. But why would a person be likely to purchase a grappling hook and a lock pick set? For specialists and hobbyists only, the blurb assures. Guidance on the pheromone spray that attracts women against their better judgement? I doubt it works any more proficiently than the mysterious potion that defines your muscles while you sleep. But, then: I wonder is some sprayed on this paper? What was my intuition thinking, making this ghastly shout… Tea break time. There's a lot of words...

Back From The Future Blog Party

Another joint blog adventure- if you want to see who else said what the list of participants is here . The premise is this: 'You're up before dawn on a Saturday when the doorbell rings. You haven't brewed your coffee so you wonder if you imagined the sound. Plonking the half-filled carafe in the sink, you go to the front door and cautiously swing it open. No one there. As you cast your eyes to the ground, you see a parcel addressed to you ... from you. You scoop it up and haul it inside, sensing something legitimate despite the extreme oddness of the situation. Carefully, you pry it open. Inside is a shoebox -- sent from ten years in the future -- and it's filled with items you have sent yourself. What's in it?' Here's how I imagined it: Before dawn? Shadows outside, first forming. Sleep has gone, I don't know where. Coffee I can find. All the way from Machu Pichu, this fair-traded pack. Scissors are in the drawer, which ...

A Glitch Or Two

My Chromebook has been crumbling. It seems a little like dementia, this inability to upgrade its powers of communication, it makes me sad, even for an object. It's one of the reasons my posts here have been put aside, that and generally being tumbled by tiredness. I have saved up money for a replacement, also I have spent that money on trees and shrubs. I have two novels to sort out however, and this will be the reason I save up again. I don't stop writing, even if I don't tell anyone. In the meantime should you need a calm place to go, I have begun a substack account. Please do drop by. If the kettle crumbles we can make tea (or soup) on the firepit. Me on substack:  Lisa Southard