It has simplified my life and calmed my mind to live with a binary man. So much more peaceful.
Binary Man Binary man sees naught but ones and zeros which really ought to be enough, he thinks. No if/then charts for this man of either or, in or out. Bring in and take out are one in the same. Life is simple and free of burdens of chaotic numbers and choices too numerous to count. Eat in she says and being binary and not contrary he replies, bring in or eat what’s here? -By Marilyn Paluszak
Pinky Girl It’s a tepid color really. Surely not an emotional banner to wave about one’s head; capable of warding off chills and evil people. How can pink be a true reflection of the Girl? For her, pink seems to be too pale a color; incapable of reflecting the ruby within her soul, the passionate pomegranate ready to burst. Pink is but a ghost of the blush that betrays her moods. Alone, pink barely seems to do her justice. Except it is a pleasing choice for a floppy hat or mittened scarf. Girl thinks in more robust colors that bolster her thoughts. She is, after all, in the pink of perfection, is she not? Of late she often takes on a rosy disposition; has even cast off her tinted glasses. Although she does think in jagged edges, all ins and outs, about every situation as she cuts through life. Maybe someday she’ll sail a pinque, to Poland and let them call her Pinkie. by Marilyn Paluszak
Paluszak in Polish is derived from “mały palec” – little finger. I extrapolated that to mean pinky or pinkie. Is that poetic license?
See link below for the Fontella Bass, 1965 original song that so often runs through my head.
Rescue me Quiet loneliness sits ’round the corner . . . ever lurking in the Dark. Oh, Silence, sometimes healing, sometimes scary. Are you friend or foe tonight? Shattered. Broken. Silence burst by jagged noise. A calling from another world. Lover, is that you? Are you there? Yes! Friend tonight. You’re the blessed ringing in my ear. By Marilyn Paluszak
Reprinted from a poem first drafted in 1986 and revised in 2011 … I cannot resist tweaking.
From a poem originally penned at the Florida Writers Association’s 2011 Awards Dinner as I watched a new author read from her first book.
Words whipped left and right spoken aloud to still the fright they might waft away before the book could be deemed profound. It had been such a lengthy fight to reach this exalted height and gather strength and stand there, jeweled and gowned. Baring soul just to recite all the words of love and light that had erupted like a spring too tightly wound. Finally, pats on back that night announced the true delight echoed by this newborn fan that another laureate was crowned. By Marilyn Paluszak
Recurring thoughts and dreams revolve around a common theme about a light within a throbbing goodness ready to burst forth. Optimism wins each battle despite a cynic’s cooling heart as white knights on silver steeds wage war within. Reflections of a childhood filled with Brothers Grimm where evil lurks but cannot conquer as goodness triumphs. Tutored by a loving mother who believed in simple things like golden rules random acts of kindness and good deeds. Not surprising to find the seed For all the light and hope within that erupts as words on a blank screen not so random as they seem. By Marilyn Paluszak
Reprinted from a poem written in 2012 by Marilyn Paluszak
Allusive words where are you when the poem begins to fade and begs for something special to complete its mood. I call upon the Rhyme-Gods in hopes they will convey a way of resurrecting an ending for Monet. -- Marilyn Paluszak
Oscar-Claude Monet (1840-1926) was one of the founders of the Impressionist school of painting. People often confuse Monet with Manet until they study their art.
Monet worked largely outside (en plein air) unlike Edouard Manet who worked in a studio. For an interesting read on both of these artists, check out this illuminating article from Artst.
Monet started out drawing charcoal sketches that he sold for a few francs. It was Eugène Boudin who taught him how to use oil paints. Boudin also taught Monet the technique of en plein air painting.
Reprinted from a poem written for a friend in residence at the Brattleboro Retreat in Vermont. This poem repeated itself in my mind for the entire two-hour ride home where, to my relief, I found paper and pen.
There is a terror of the mind
that clouds reality
and gives shape to lie.
Black, dim emptiness
hangs heavy like a veil
to filter out the truth.
Evil throbs in tune
with bleak despair
to magnify the rage.
Retreat a bit.
Wait a bit.
Let the soul begin to heal.
When mist is blown aside
the radiance within
forms first a tint of gray.
That bright-striped rainbow
is pulsing deep within
to bring color into life.
Light is there.
Good is there.
Allow your joy to spread.
Erase the error of the mind
that clouds reality
and gives shape to lie.
-- Marilyn Paluszak
If there were anyone who could understand cognitive distortion I think it would be one of my favorites, the Spanish surrealist, Salvador Dali (1904-1989).
Gertrude Mother Nature's warped imagination left aches and loneliness within her breast. No babes to mother into life. Soulful eyes drooped to emptiness in her nest. Poor Gertrude, born to birth but forever barren, alien, unlike all the rest. Fate countered by a miracle of beagle birth abandoned, swelling her breast. Mother Hen to the rescue filled with coos, contentment and overflowing love, eternal. Happy Gertrude has puppychicks now. As if borne from her breast like all the rest. -Marilyn Paluszak
Republished by Marilyn Paluszak from a poem originally written in 1988 and edited in 2011 (thanks to Ted Kooser’s hints in The Poetry Home Repair Manual.
Inspiration came from a Ripley’s Believe It or Not! item published in the (Albany, NY) Sunday Times Union, December 4, 1988.
“Gertrude,” owned by Ken Hatch of Alpena, Michigan, had never laid a single egg, but when seven beagle puppies were abandoned by their mother, she adopted them and at long last became a Mother Hen.
They go to see the Changing of the Guard
and then, like ants, descend into the Tube
in a mad scurry to Speaker’s Corner
where they swarm in droves
around ice cream vendors.
And the world walks by unseen.
Not for the People Watcher. No.
For her, the best part of all
is strolling down Bayswater
on a Sunday afternoon
in the Fall . . .
Children’s laughter mingles with the crunch
of autumn’s leaves inside the Park.
Artists hawk blurry velvet nudes
aligned like the beheaded along the fence;
while punkers, three abreast, strut uniform weirdness,
shoving innocents aside.
Not for the Rambler. No.
For her, the best part
is turning toward the Serpentine
on a Sunday afternoon
in the Fall . . .
Little boys in short gray pants sail paper boats
while nannies scold and coax.
Riders post in precision atop huge bay mares
and saunter down historic Rotten Row;
while women wrapped in hand-painted silk
giggle behind veils of secrecy.
They all bring cameras
to record that they were there.
They run from place to place
to stand in front of monuments and pose —
from Sloane to Trafalgar Square.
And all the while, the world walks by unseen.
Not for the Traveler. No.
For her, the best part is in the knowing
that she’ll be back for another stroll
some other Sunday afternoon.
Reprinted by Marilyn Paluszak from a poem originally written in 1999.
My favorite city, London is filled with history and is visited by people from every country in the world. When you go there, be sure to leave time to stroll along the banks of the Thames some evening.
Even now that the wound has healed and the scar so barely shows there are times of pain and anguish when the nightmares let me know how fragile a mind can be as memory replays trauma into the night and yesterday's sorrow fills the void with doubt and aching heart brought low making it hard to fight the demons and see the cure lies waiting for tomorrow when the pain will ebb and joy return as dawn defeats the foe.
Reprinted 2020 by Marilyn Paluszak from a poem first written in 1986.
Some poems flow freely, without punctuation, and boundaries. I have chosen not to return to edit this one but to leave it wild.