Bellevue Blues Better Than Never Before

Bellevue’s changed from back in the day

The nurse took one look,

her eyes met his

You’re sedated she said

And over medicated

What do you mean he asked

I’m on prescribed meds I’ve been using them for about a year

I just got discharged from Beth Israel Psyche Ward and they gave me all these scripts but I can’t get them filled cause they cut off my coverage

These are my meds, he displayed his scripts; I have to get them filled

young man she stated we don’t just give out drugs like that

Her hand rested on her hip

She wore pressed white cotton trousers

Held a clipboard in her hand

She examined the prescriptions one by one

I get 30 capsules of Cymbalta he said it will cost 145 at drugstore.com and I’m not sure that’s not the generic one either then there’s this Canadian pharmacy sells the generic duloxetine (du LOX e teen) for seventy-three dollars and I live on social security disability I can’t afford all this money I need my drugs - I’m down on my luck waiting for disability retirement insurance to kick in because I really need these medications you see

It’s up to you sweetie she slid the clipboard in his hands, here are some forms to fill out

We have procedures we follow around here - just follow me sir

she led him to a separate room to see the social worker; be interviewed

The social worker politely informed him,

You can’t just fill prescriptions here; we have a clinic you have to attend regularly we don’t just hand out medications we’re responsible for your care and well being too

The patient explained Geodon keeps the hallucinations at bay

Lamogine’s for the bipolar moodswings

Cymbalta along with Mirtazapine works excellently for depression

And helps to control the suicidal ideation

I play chess for 20 hours sometimes I forget to bathe or eat

The Ambien’s to go to sleep - the Klonopin’s to stay calm

I suffer from anxiety and insomnia

Sometimes I take all of them and still can’t sleep

Without them I go manic

It’s just no fun never being allowed a really good night’s sleep

I attend a mental health center

They have doctors nurses therapists even social workers but they don’t have a pharmacy

Well the nurse said it’s up to you it’s either us or them - you have to choose, we give you a month’s supply when you come in each month and there’s no extra charge

you have to make up your mind - let me assure you we excel at treating mental illness

we have the best of everything here that they have there or anywhere else

after all it’s our specialty it always has been

plus we even have a bed ready for you, she smiled sweetly and walked away

He filled out another form and waited once more for his name to be called.

Note: Bellevue Hospital is in New York City's lower Manhattan area. Bellevue opened its first “pavilion for the insane” in 1879 and its first alcoholic ward in 1892. Bellevue Hospital has been famous since then for its mental health services.

Do me right tonight

The pale dawn light shined on his face
I could tell he wasn’t well trapped in his personal hell
Unable to pick himself up like a child who fell
Once too many times running on rhymes
a psychopathic rant
A flaming fuchsia elephant invades my living space
Parades by with a sycophant riding him
While a hierophant stands nearby
reciting Buddhist mantras nam myōhō renge kyō,
Before my eyes behold
a white marble palace
studded with gold and quietly buried
suddenly
beneath black sands of time
He begs admission to another sanatorium
a different mausoleum where the dead struggle
with the living over words written on winds
only ghosts can decipher
coming back to attack they deny the facts
fraught with desire the world’s run amok
a phantasmagoric a little white magic moonlight
dripping ice laden branches will do me
just right tonight poppy

I need

a massage, don't you need one too?

How can you go wrong with this half price deal paying $36.50. I'm treating myself for the holiday.

HOLIDAY CELEBRATION – a Libation

I keep trying to tread water in quicksand sinking faster in disgrace in the face of disaster
Life is a carousel of dreams
The famous radio therapist armond demille wrote me his words linger in my head ~you’re on a carousel of pain - allow me to help you
as a fellow therapist with professional courtesy due you, I’ll charge you only three hundred a session, a concession in my normal fees, I’ll cure you of your anomaly, your obsessions, give me your confession sacrifice your worldly possessions give up your attachments there’ll be no regression, I’m so darn good at my profession – no more transgressions no more depression
no more digression back to the blues tonight
I can’t be perfect I can only be me

A man stops me in Target all smiles, makes eye contact, nods.
merry Christmas to you. I say I don’t celebrate Christmas, you’re smiling so much why are you so happy?
Ah I’m happy to be with family at Christmas. u must celebrate something too what r u
I don’t know what I am Call me Jewish Buddhist if you want –
You look so happy too he says. Looks are deceiving I replied. You joke  with me you’re happy he said I see your big happy smile really I said I’m always blue no no that can't be true
I don’t know how to limit myself to one religion
Dubblex is confused they always pick you – why your pretty face in a store full of women- there are so many women around why do they always come to u - he accused
Innocent claim to  fame devious name your goals

The “all religion” ~ old religion
all religions are one – the word shall be one shall be done in heart space mind prevails so many travails hate to fail no bailing out I wail in my own jail hit the nail on the head
the world shall be one
one one one (((((((((oneoneoneoneoneoneone))))))) the one and one Irie
lightening and thunder
one nation under god indivisible with liberty and justice for all
one people united by love with peace and justice for all
I want the world on a string to spin in my my my my my my heart’s spin in a gleam with a ream of justice in economy for all full of bull
A wedding ring an office slur poetry in the afterlife
nose too big stomach too flabby
It’s inflatable unpredictable accounts payable receivable I’m not accountable for your bills my assets are not bequeathable retractable to your psycho babble circumscribable to your collectable circumstancial financials I’m familiar with the details

Fastidious and obsessive compulsive a hidden insidious agenda oblivious to the truth
I keep up with doctor ruth who lives in my hood
Embracing brotherhood understood under the fresh scent of cedarwood tree
The world will imbibe truth like a newborn with a new milk tooth
forsooth my youth I search like a sleuth
for the word shall be the truth
and the truth will set me free

bookstore

bookstore

Dangerous Ideals

The blues were pure enough to drink
Gallons of oil spilled and wasted
A huge delinquent samurai beguiled
My concentration wavered on the brink

A gallant giant waved wild red roses
At us with thorns that bruised our souls when we walked
Surrounded by danger on the edge of another impending disaster
We dreamed about leaving the trenches

Behind us the giant raged on the wrong balcony
And we ran for the safety of our huts
Escaping the blue monsoon that threatened us
Trying to recover the boundary

Wild thorns overgrown with mastery
They twisted and turned in our feet
Pouring our anguished blood in the street
Our images were replicated on the overhead marquee

That stood above the swaying balcony where disaster flowed for free
Searching through bleary concepts treading on blueberries
We rubbed rose petals on our wounded feet
Looking for the answers to the giant’s deceit

The rose petals grew as we touched them
As if ideas could grumble through a storm
the petals grew huge suddenly engulfing our feet
when we realized each rose had lost her stem

And the gentle giant raged no more
He had been beyond reproach
showing us a bloody brochure of what happened
threescore and seventeen years ago

Glumness is getting old as we sit drearily
Fixated on who outfoxed who
While a rainbow of cheery color
Runs parallel a bloody river numbly



for Elizabeth Bishop

jewelry poetry

hand crafts - magical things one can do with no training
with luck you can learn
you can even buy a book on how to do or just sit and play
whatever takes your fancy
my latest poetry jewelry
faceted authentic amethyst beads mixed with a few classy glass beads
the center bead is blue glass. The clasp is silver.
The colorful glass bead interspersed has mixed blue turquoise pink purple & white color swirls
authentic crystal beads border all other beads to set them off
on blue beading string

 

Then to divert and distract me from my tasks meet little kitty poetry guy - sweet potato Davie

Isn't he adorable ...

more crafts to distract me - a few of the dread caps I've made

a water color

 

An ink drawing on a large mailer

   

and a drawing with blue magic marker

distractions abound with opportunities ...

If you have children and want to introduce them to poetry created especially for them - check out the best poetry books for kids here.

Silver Spans the Sky

The earth so loved the sky she
opened her pregnant desire to him

and gave him her verdant green life to create a new day

The moon turned vibrant florescent
blue and the sky a flaming fuschia

My heart’s been aching

Jes sitting here hurting waiting on

you to come on home to me

I feel like rain inside silver stains the sky

Sitting here all alone a misery

Drying raindrops falling from my eyes

everyday is a just a new goodbye

hard to find a good guy

the weather is heavy like the storm
in my head waiting release praying

The strain of the rainstorm pulsates in my head

Imitating that storm about to explode

The light turned bright red

Feigned delight while waiting on green

That rain is sure to let go 

constrained by rain thunder claps in my brain the rain maintains

A steady downpour in my heart

If it weren’t for the sound of silence rain brings in its wake

I’d go insane waiting for rain

For the few who listen sounds of silence run deeper

than an underground well of experience
spreading tense suspense

It feels like rain relieves the pain I rein
in the mundane world around me

Like the desert needing rain I wait

For the downpour a steady rising in the sun

A false start a heady heart a steady downpour in my heart

Like rain I’ve never been smart in charting my course

Let me explain I try to refrain try to abstain
but it happens again and again

Like rain washes the dirt away, the pain lessens when I
eat dessert flirt with a new day

I revert to before the steady downpour of rain inside my heart

It feels like rain again today waiting for me take control

over a new domain in the fast lane

like a desert waiting for rain

I can’t complain I can’t contain the rain
inside my head it’s like a hurricane

Maybe the Dexedrine will dissolve the hurricane

A deluxe downpour of rain restrains my brain

A campaign takes hold for the rain to cease
along with my pain in my heart

Mozart the push cart prize to see the sun rise another day

Oh baby it feels like rain again today no
matter how hard I soothsay

It feels like rain today my life’s not in vain

A downpour of rain streams steadily in my heart

I sit and cry wonder how and why
the past has disappeared so fast

busy busy bee busy me

For those who don't know we finally got the Cartier back up and gunning.


If you want to download - click below
The Cartier Street Review

To only view - the link below is for you
View The Cartier Street Review 

We welcome Mike Finley here to our elegant hard working staff. Mike is responsible for layout and for getting our mag out this issue.

A hand to staff for their untiring energy in reading and sorting through submissions.

Marc Carver
DubbleX
Brad Eubanks  and click here too
Thomas Hubbard

If you are submitting for the first time- please follow these rules: Thanks to Mad Swirl for sending them to me!

1. Write something in the subject line in email to tip us off what you are sending, for example, poetry submission along with your name

2. Provide a greeting. "Hello" or "Dear Editor" works great.

2. Include a very short bio. For example, "I am John or Jane Poet". Wow, that's easy! 

3. Thank the people you are sending your submission to for taking the time to read it.

4. Include a closing salutation with a name at the end. "Sincerely, John and/or Jane Artist".

5. Don’t send more than 5 or 6 pieces maximum.

A celebration of a nation

I stand at the station

The vibration of dehydration

A severe water shortage

my hand lies upon the rail

They thought the industrial revolution

would be the solution

But it only caused humongous pollution

and made our situation worse

nursing our purse strings

There’s no absolution for the planet’s destruction

the summation of our nation requires

a delegation to provide an explanation

For the oil spill libation, the denigration of our earth,

the aggravation for future generations

Is there any salvation?

A dearth of information with the
roar of despair another new scare

As if you can make oil disappear

my words lingers like smoke the crowd inhales them

Join the midnight foray into the city wilderness –

express suppress obsess and transgress the information

deliberations lead to impressions

so - you got a standing ovation for a braised hen

dazed crazed and fed you’ll get phased
out too with introspection

remember - we’re only small atoms
in the evolution of this universe

we need to stay in motion for the duration

of our generation to achieve salvation for our planet

15 Minutes to Fame

A moment opens to eternity

Fastidious, attached to passing moments, 
I live in Warhol days

An open heart mends wounds

Are you for or against them? What’s your political game?

Everyone's got his 15-minutes of fame

Are you on their side or mine? Is it them or is it us?

Is there an us anymore? Who is us anymore anyway?

Anywhere I’m supposed to know? Did you know …

My headache keeps me awake to 
cover the worldwide news

An open wound  ~ Nightly sound of the evening news

A bleeding ulcer seeking to be healed

Closer to home news too, all news is bad news

Except the rescued puppy thrown in to control you

A news-forecast makes everything worse –

Ignore the news a week or two; say your regards to Pluto

Ignore my bleak forecast of doom

All of us are doomed anyway

The more you do - the more gets done

When you stop doing there’s no more to get done

Another open wound …

Always the dream remains of another go-round

Take care. Hope … to see you there

If & when there is another go-round

And the winner is

Congrats to Joyce Braxton Coley who won the $100 to spend. Have fun Joyce while the rest of us cry and wonder why we didn't win anything.

desperate for cash or goods ... sounds like a johnny cash song

Free!  Free!  Free!

I'm hosting a giveaway from CSN stores worth $100.  CSN stores has everything you could possibly be looking for - from unique coffee tables to the kitchen sink and everything in between with something for everyone and prices to fit every size pocketbook for all you bargain hunters.

CSN Stores has pocket books, furniture for every room, even that new red bicycle with rugs, clocks and everything under the sun with over 200 stores to choose from.

One of you lucky people who who leaves a comment, sends me a private email or twitters about this $100 giveaway will be the winner. Twitter-ers please send me a heads up to let me know you've twittered this. I'm violetwrites on twitter too!

It's hard out here for a poet for everyone I hear
Almost too much on a sister to a bear
I keep trying to make that moolah
Hooray for you and me - money for free!
free is an offer difficult offer to refuse

Next Monday September 27th I'll put all the names in a hat and pick one. Good luck everyone.

Comment Published at NY Times online

The link to the article is here:
Court Dismisses a Case Asserting Torture by C.I.A.

My comment is published here!

I think torture will never end and the populace can't possibly know what is going on because we are not permitted to. Europe is a little better than we are in providing information but in general information is controlled. Every news report will have several things; worldwide, state and local by county in addition to a few human interest tidbits. Remember we had a president who was going senile and knew nothing about anything - for god's sake he was an actor! And Ollie North took the fall! And we were told zip. Till today we still don't know who killed Kennedy and I suspect the CIA was involved. Hell how many of you are so naive you believe one silly guy who was killed did it all on his own.
Of course it's absurd for people to burn the Koran because it makes no sense to call this a protest; it's another hatemonger act. To destroy religious symbolism for the sake of protest. Kind of reminds me of the 60's when women burned their bras and men burned their draft cards but what makes this different is that it's outsiders who are being destructive and hurtful. If for example, Muslims want to protest something in their religion or culture that's a different thing.
Protesting a religious book because terrorists who happen to be Muslim hit the towers doesn't make sense. It would make more sense to distribute these books as a gift to a Muslim organization.
Actually we killed more of our own on 9/11 by forcing them to stay in a building where they'd be trapped and die and this was done supposedly with the good thoughts about preventing stampede. I know one woman who told me about how she escaped and sneaked out.
The world is a crazy place and hate will make it more crazy.

10 most amazing slam poets

I got an email from Onlineuniversities.com asking me to share the following link with my readers. I'm excited to share with you their article 10 Most Amazing Slam Poets on YouTube published on their blog at the enclosed link.
It seems to fit right in with our previous post of shared poetry, music and bluetry.

THERMODYNAMICS

I keep trying to create order amidst chaos
And am engaged in a losing battle
I try in little ways: I make up the bed,
Call creditors, respond to landlord complaints about DubbleX
Call doctors, write letters to tons of official agencies

Very little seems to help
I keep trying to create order amidst chaos
Life is stories strung together like grapes
Hanging unpicked b4 my eyes
Right there why can’t I see it

I keep looking and trying to touch
I can’t see all the fuss
Ur sweet soft lips pressing against mine
I look into your eyes, your face so fine
I see the little boy inside your eyes
Hidden away from prying eyes
Longing to be freed
The hurt small boy deep inside
Longing for a sheriff’s pin

I want to get back to where I thought you used to be
Wearing your red knit jersey hoodie
Your soft brown eyes shining thru
The dichotomy of the one I see,
the one who isn’t inside

I was going to ask you a word
Umm that sandalwood smells so good
Can’t remember what the word meant
Forget it, everything is falling apart
The bridge on 225th Street is falling down
You tell me on your return

I keep on trying to keep order amidst chaos
Amid stories strung together for their own sake
Sharing our poems about love, tranquility the strife of life
Park walks with chalk talks & loving challenges
To the world, I keep trying to hang on
To hold together the I & I as the cracks in the glass
Increasingly multiplying forming 2 X 2 numbers
The cracks so deep it’s like a crevice where lava has run down

Flowing like my intuition
I’ma’ sit for a minute enjoy the sweet warm taste of the java I made this morning


October 2008

purple hair photos- joy & dubblex

David Died

Last night he struggled for his last breath

Flailing his arms, his paws pushed against my chest

Grabbing for me with his last bit of strength

Disbelief in his eyes –

And then they were devoid empty

calling out to the doctor

“He’s passed already”

She looked at his lean slim body

“No,” she said, “his rib cage is still moving,”
She put her stethoscope to his chest

She shook her head, “You’re right,” she’s said. “He’s gone.”

Questions along with accusations swim in my head

Why didn’t I recognize his symptoms?

Why didn’t I know?
I blame myself - feel guilty

He ate normally until yesterday.
Today he died in my arms

Went about his normal activities

I noticed his shallow breathing a week ago

but his behavior seemed normal

Today he meowed loudly, staring in my eyes.
I saw he was dying

The doctor proclaimed he was too far gone
Nothing could save him

My heart aches
I doubt it will ever be the same

Longing and sad I wait for him

Sitting at my computer I see
His shadow at the periphery of my vision

About to jump on my lap

He would sit for as long as I’d be still

His soft fur like silk against my hand

purring, rumbling beneath my hand

Bright blue eyes staring into mine

He was different from the moment he was born

A malleable mellow fellow demure and docile

David would remain in any position

Siamese are supposed to talk

Not him, he preferred touch

So beautiful and sweet

Why do they have to go first?

I want David back

In memory of David, born January 27th, 2007 – August 10th, 2010

David is the one on the left in both photos.

Rotations of Quotations

The urge to merge, that surge of exploratory
circumference leading from that universal inner desire
Splurge on love with furious abandon and concentration
so powerful it feels like rage always on the verge of the next glorious conception,
A reception of unrivaled perception like a climax
And get this no hidden taxes, no more sales taxes, inheritance taxes, gift and land taxes even stamp taxes
every way I turn I spurn the next tax crack the ax on it estate tax poll tax license tax
Cover the tracks of my pain, skip the lines of taxes back on climax anti war tax withholding tax too bad we don’t relax these taxes and rely on Marxist taxes and don’t think antioxidants will cure me of the blues
Purged glory to gory what a story isn’t it always
We have so many clues
A mischarge recharged a large electric charge
A surcharge a cover charge a take charge explosive dishonorable discharge
Vindictive surly abrasive afflictive action
Can’t alleviate the stain on that purple blue velvet so soft like rain drops drawing cursive on a window pane
wild adrenalin addictive chocolate’s submissive dripping from my chin
My anticonvulsive cardio selective beehive alive behind the iron curtain
The jewish question, he shoved Mein Kempf in my hands I read the jews are not lovers of water, especially the ones who wear black dresses they have no state of their own they only learn languages not assimilate to different countries they’re like parasites waiting to take over the world,
they’re a different race, he tried to erase all traces the US turned their faces away until our army base, pearl harbor, was hit by the Japanese.
Did he think the Japanese were a new Arayan race
Hitler a curse on the human race
Kwan Yin show mercy on my brethren no more suffering
The intro says they publish this book to show the world that humanity is never ever exempt from responsibility ignorance is only a pretense they intend to commence at my expense
Now it’s past tense pray for a new line of defense
Grow a new healthy skin to cover the wound of my eloquence

Going Postal Emotional on Peaches

Did you know Pakistanis sell the best fruits downtown on street corners all around
Downtown furry peaches with skins have dark strains of orange and red
3 for a dollar choose 3 for me please Mr. fruit man
Even street sellers don’t want you to squeeze their fruits and bruise them
He displays the 3 fruits holding them up for me to see
Perfect tender moist velvet am I talking about a peach cause I swear it sounds like my pussy
From beneath the cart he grabs a bottle of water blesses my trio,
I politely thank him on my way crossing another dangerous street
juice drips down my chin I catch it with a napkin
my palette yields the taste gives me a momentary memory lapse is it heaven
up here in Washington Heights ghetto - even Riverdale
matter of fact any good store here where I go there’s nowhere to procure a fucking good peach,
or nectarines nothing like that apricots también
Store bought peaches are slightly moist mealy-mouthed fibrous fruits with no flavor or taste a pulpy consistence for twice the price and half the weight
who will pay for pitiful dismay I swear I think there’s some foul play somewhere
I can’t understand how none of the stores know how to find fine juicy peaches but these Indian and Pakistani men do
I told my neighbor about buying tasteless peaches from a local green grocer –
isn’t that funny she said you’re saying exactly what I told my daughter earlier today
See it’s not a conspiracy I’m not imagining these peaches are truly yucky
if store bought peaches taste this bad how good can they be for our health under constant attack
do you think the rich & famous eat these mealy mouthed peaches
Criminal to betray us - matter of fact stay on track Jack and present the facts
I’m looking for peaches to savor the flavor of ripe red sweet orange peaches
sink my teeth into ripe sin fulfilled and gratified juice released on my tongue
I guess I have to go back downtown and look around for those Pakistani and Indian fruit guys
They showed me whom to seek when I need to buy sweet ripe red tender peaches

EX WIFE TRIBULATIONS

What’s all this discussion about an introspection she’s having
We have our analyzations but
We can only imagine her situation
What’s her objection to the time and place
of her previous selection
what’s your impression about her disposition
to a new meeting place each week
Dragging your son around to new destinations
This week it’s Chinatown. What’s the occasion?
Some unknown purpose a distraction a new fixation on the Asian population
Every week it’s a new transmigration
A communication problem a clockwork creation every Friday
I wish I could give her an examination to figure out why she has such disorganization
why her convictions are like the weather
Why today it’s another subway station another combination a new calculation
a different regulation, the justification for another dozen calls
with hesitation you ask where’s today’s location
another starbucks a different barnes & noble in another section of town she says she’ll call you later after some further investigation on her formulation to set the details she needs to use her imagination to figure out
the navigation for where today’s exchange of your son should take place
with her mitigation and exploration of another new NYC place
Josie’s observation is that ex wife’s harassment is a violation of your rights
not to mention a terrible inconsideration
As if you have an obligation to change location forget her protestations
The orchestration of this battle of wills must have some correlation but to me it’s a mystery
If you give in once it’s like giving her an invitation to begin a new rotation to free association
All the misinformation the procrastination the vilification
We can’t understand the formation – doesn’t she know the child needs stabilization instead of an improvisation of complications each visitation day at the last moment
You mean last night she had no clue that today she was going downtown
We’d show appreciation for some clarification of the circumstances
Why can’t she call when she knows her plans instead of relying on manipulations for which
We can’t figure out her motivations
What’s her inspiration for this orchestration of wandering pick up & drop off points
her consistent continuation of these indignations
It’s getting worse every day
Congratulations on being the craziest person I know with no further deliberation and without discrimination
I gotta stop this preoccupation – this persecution is getting to me now
I want some mediation mixed with medication to
stop this perpetuation of this humiliation and domination

I’m Not The Me I Used To Be

I’m not the me you know
I’m not the me I’m gonna be
Tomorrow or the next day
How the hell would I know
Who I’m gonna be tomorrow
Or the day after that
Don’t judge me by what you see when you look at me
You don’t see the real me – you see the me you think you see the me you thought you saw yesterday when we met for dinner
you only think you’re who you wanna be today but come tomorrow you dunno either who you’ll be the day after next
We all used to be somebody and now we’re somebody else
Faced with unforeseen and unseemly experiences that just seem to get in the way of everything
We can’t always become the mes we want to be
I’m not the same me you knew yesterday
I’m different than her today
Whaddaya I know?
Nothing except this: I’m not the me I knew yesterday
So how can I be the me you think you see the me I really be
I can’t be the same old tired me you see when I stood here beside you in this new place
Repeating the same worn out words
I know you heard this before and the same tune plays in your head alongside mine
If you don’t judge me – the me who you think you are – then I won’t judge the you who I think you are either and in that way we will have peace
Let’s have peace like dat!
Let’s have peace like dat!
You accept me and I’ll accept you.
You don’t wanna see me be who I wanna be
It’s ok I can take that too
You keep away from me and I’ll keep my distance too.
Don’t look at me like that I don’t want to be mean and play games I just want to be me with out thinking how being me feels about you today when I only have the memory of me and you – the me you knew yesterday and the you who stands here today
Yesterday is not tomorrow and today is not yesterday I can’t tell you more about who I’ll be tomorrow if you wait around and see you may catch a glimpse of the me the she the me became when you thought you saw her emerge yesterday forget about tomorrow’s merge
Or yesterday’s surge of energy forget the rage
We may not be around tomorrow
We may only have only today after all

Attached - who me?

I've often spoken about attachments on this blog and how our attachments affect us because with attachments come inevitable loss. Kind of the way of life, including birth and death. This is a difficult process for everyone. I'd be the last to preach about attachments. I've also spoken in my poetry about how people places and things only have the meanings we attribute to them and the power we give them.
This is a story about a book, The Gospel Of Buddha by Paul Carus - copyrighted in 1894, that strangely came to be in my possession and led me this digression about a transgression.
Some 30 years ago I was attending Columbia University for my undergraduate degree and was in love with this young Hungarian bike messenger who moved in with me. We were both avid readers and he knew I'd studied and followed eastern philosophy.
One day on his bike messenger travels outside of a fancy mid town - east side office building he espied this book on top of a box of trash and took it. He said he'd imagined I'd love it and that he couldn't think of anyone else who would appreciate this text like me. And he put the book below in my hands. I carefully accepted the gift as the book cover was already worn. The cover feels like leather.

I began to go page through this book and above is what I saw. I was enthralled by the hand drawings illustrating the text.

Imagine my surprise and delight when I saw how old it was and that the illustrations were so lovely.
This is a 1917 edition by The Open Court Publishing Company and is only available in libraries and online pdf of this edition. If you'd like to read the entire book online with the drawings - click here!

Suddenly I realized this book was not only old, it was ancient in the publishing world. It doesn't even have an ISBN number. I searched for the copyright  and found 1894 on the preface above.

Occasionally I read the book. A while back I went to retrieve the book from my shelf and it wasn't there. I missed the comfort I feel when I handle this book. It's become imbibed with meaning.

I realized that my more recent ex had taken it with him when he moved out. I trusted he'd leave my things be when he moved but I was sadly wrong and I was unable to locate many items. It actually took me some time to discover that this book wasn't where I'd kept it.
After our break up I was overwhelmed with trying to get my place my life and my records back in order (and it's still not) and many things slipped by me, like my membership in the National Association of Social Workers lapsed and later it was very difficult to convince them to give me the retirement rate. Five months passed before I realized the book had gone missing. I contacted my ex and he paused before he said he "believed he could locate it," Another month passed before my beloved book was returned to my hands. Guess I'm lucky to get it back at all.
So now here I am with my lovely ancient leather bound volume with original illustrations so I decide to do an internet search to see if it has any value online but in my search for the monetary value (I figure I won't be here forever to enjoy it) I discover uncover Mr. Peter RF Brown and his amazing website, Inter-disciplinary Publications of Peace and Great Souls.

Underneath his title is the following greeting:

WELCOME YOU ARE! to this ... Small Island of Inner Space 

and to the right side of this little tidbit is the following:

"There is a mighty mountain pass,
the causeWay of the sun;
to whom all earth gives homage,
for whom the days began."

mountainman,
deep Himalaya,
1976-1977

Actually the way mountainman has the text from my book laid out on his site is how poetry is laid out which is nicer than my book but Carus' translation is untouched on both. My book also has wonderful hand drawn illustrations.

For those interested in reading reviewing or exploring - esotericism - this man's site would be an excellent place to browse about. His topic listing is extensive and ranges from Western Science to Western Mystics Poets and Religions to Eastern Mystics Poets and Relgions and much much more including but not limited to the Dalai Lama, Australian Aboriginal insights and the Universal Declaration Of Human Rights published by the United Nations General Assembly. I am impressed by the depth of the subjects offered and the quotes Peter R.F. Brown, the designer and everything person I assume, who maintains the site. It took me a second to find him.

For those wishing to know more about what I'm going on about - check these links below:

Inner Self: Esotericism - What Is It? Andrew Schneider

On Wikipedia 

Other online books by Paul Carus

Cambridge Centre for Western Esotericism

TUPELO HONEY

JoAnne is one tough broad,
Italian Irish descent
from the Northeast Bronx
Through sacrifice and dedication
JoAnne is now a nurse at
Presbyterian Medical Center

This is her story
bout a methadone baby
born addicted
on JoAnne’s ward
This boy had tupelo
honey colored skin,
and hazel brown,
almond eyes
Birth mama’s blond and curly haired
A blue eyed Nuyorican
Daddy is a dark skinned African

Mama named the baby Shonequon
The nurses called him “Sweet”
Sweet’s a boarder baby who
lived on the ward
for 2 and a half months
BCW tryin to decide
what to do with that tiny
methadone addicted baby

Now me amiga esta sin ninos
she has no children
e quiere uno mucho
she wants one very badly
so she fell in love with Sweet
talked about him constantly

JoAnne said,
Sweet is cryin all the time
He holds his body rigid
his cryin is so fitful
Kindled by the pain
cause Sweet’s addicted to meth
and this is how he sounds
eeehhhhhh
eeeehhhhhh
eeeehhhhhh
eeehhhhhh

Sweet’s tiny fists
are always clenched
his spindly arms crossing
his scrawny chest
This baby can’t relax!
He’s got a monkey on his back
Sweet’s addicted to meth

The Doctor confides
he wishes he could
keep Sweet tranquilized
cause he’s screamin so fretfully
eeehhhhhh
eeehhhhhh
eeehhhhhh

JoAnne loves to nurture Sweet
She embraces him reverently
comforts him with
the rhythm of her heart
she whispers soothing sounds
cajolingly,

her voice falls like soft waves
caresses tender hollows
of his frail anatomy
her soft warm breath
glides down his velvet neck
Sweet responds with purring sounds

JoAnne’s gentle devotions
linger on
like a mango blossom’s scent
fragrant on a breeze
Sweet watches her giddily
clinging with his
tightly gripped fists

Yesterday Sweet smiled for the
very first time
JoAnne bragged
as though he were her own
Sweet, my boarder baby
is delayed in his response
yesterday was the
first day
God graced me with his smile

Her eyes rimmed with blurring droplets
Dewdrops silhouette
I love him, she said
I want him to be mine
Even though he’s HIV
Even though he surely won’t survive
I want him to be mine

Child Welfare lets his Mama visit
she hardly came at all
Daddy was there
every day
he was always drunk

Today they let her come and
take my Sweet away
Honey, JoAnne said,
This baby’s in a lot of pain
he suffers from anxiety

You don’t have to hold him
24 / 7,
but you need to let him
see your face
smiling, talking
into his

Sweet’s Mama answered
I know mucho more than you do
let me tell you somethin’
You don’t know what I been through
All my kids are born on meth
and that’s the way it’s always been


The baby started fussin’ then
his spindly arms
clenched across
his scrawny chest
eeehhhhhh
eeehhhhh
eeehhhhhh

Sweet opened his eyes
he focused on JoAnne
reached out to her with open scrawny arms

His Mama reached the baby first
and took him from his crib
Esta te quieto, nino
she said as she rocked him
dispiritedly
to her methadone beat
Esta te quieto, nino

It’s gonna be okay Mama said
Grandma said she’s gonna help,
She’s carin’ for my other five
My oldest girl’s gonna be there too
And like I told ya,
All my kids are born on meth
And that’s the way it’s always been,
but we know how to get by.

First published (where it can be viewed in its original format) GRIST ON LINE, 1995, an online edited web publication http://www.thing.net/~grist/golpub/golmag/gol7/gleftow2.htm

Friends awarding me too

And I would like to pass the awards on to the list of THIRTEEN random awesome poets below, who can choose either or both awards. Some of these multi-talented bloggers also publish other creative fare –  so get all their goodness at their one-stop shopping locales!
The following recipients may fling these awards with joy to the moon, or wherever!
1.  Joaquin
2. Joy Leftow
3. Paige
4. Talon
5. Snaggletooth
6. Davina
7. Ana Goncalves
8. Glenn
9. Fireblossom
10. Sara Healy
11. Mama Zen
12. Thomma Lyn
13. Mad Cat Lady
I look forward to meeting more poets and reading great poems over this weekend!!  And maybe even to linking up new poets in future posts, if I do the Thursday Poetry Rally again.   Thank you.

In Commemoration of 9/11

I have to tell you
Nothing’s changed from 7 years ago or even 15 or 20 years, many more
A cockcrows, pseudo psychos run our town, our entire country betrayed by nationality
Threats weighed in all around
We stand our ground
Another bomb can drop anytime
No more Hiroshima mon amor
We never know how long
Victims never expect the expected
We destroy ourselves again and again
A full course in humanity
Educators told to slow the word holocaust
Like if they don’t use the word holocaust that means it never happened
It happened again tell me your ancestors didn’t get here by slave ship
I hope it’s a different
new nation under god
9/11 is different
We never knew
They knew and had ideas but hid it from the populace
We never know exactly when a bomb will drop
Isn’t that the point of terrorism
Only those dropping it know when the bomb goes KA – BoOM!
They claim millions didn’t die and we helped them pretend we didn’t make it worse
Our World Trade victims shut in from escape
Sent back from exit doors to their deaths
Why did we do that why why I cry over and over
The first estimated death toll was over
6000 reported they didn’t match any lists
why then did they find 10,000 unidentified bone and tissue fragments
now they say 3000 more unmatched to any dead or missing list
Our brothers, our sisters, our mothers, our people told to stay put to prevent a rampage –
not good or sage advice – it’s our government right or wrong
kept my brother caged to die inside the world trade center
Killed by accident – friendly fire – at least half would have made it had we let them descend and exit the building
How many dead at Hiroshima
How many lost to the gas chambers in the holocaust that never was
Besides 6 million jews, homosexuals now called gays, Romani citizens, soviet civilians, prisoners of war, Poles, Jehovah witnesses, so many more
Pushed to the brink of extinction
and now they say there’s no more holocaust
no more prisoners of war

* Written to commemorate 9/11 last anniversary 2009 and I didn't post then - guess I should've & would do if I had it to do over again.

I Want Some Tanqueray

Tantalize me tranquilize abnormalize my soul to eternity
Eyes on the prize no more lies scrumptious skies
revise and improvise a nobel peace prize
Before I crumble away and decompose I want to weigh less
Portray the prepaid finance for a valet in France
A strawberry soufflé sorbet to lighten the ash gray drab day
Morosely foreboding forbidding decay on a field day
Make a bad thing worse
It’s not a fucking curse
Amy Winehouse is coming back as black as she wanna be her white is right she’s got the blight but she’s gonna make it through to you
I have faith in Amy – she’ll make it through her blue day in spite of the cockamamie
I still reminisce on JonBenet - pray her killer will find judgment day
Lost and found is not the same as a red river running flowing
Amber to red hysteria widespread another unwed mother
no area Lumeria Manchuria maria listeria peoria
It’s dangerous out there advantageous ambidextrous ambiguous and amorphous.
Not a shred of evidence analogous barbarous
Hypochondria indicanuria
She said he wants to be disabled and not work only because he sees how much fun it is to be around you
Hmmm… Interesting theory
I wish I believed that
cabled fabled labeled and tabled enabled and mislabeled then unlabeled
Poetry controls me inside my head

Perception and Misconception

Ur so stabile she inquired so where does all this
Anti-establishment rage & anger come from
If she only knew what we’d been through
Starting six weeks ago she wouldn’t stand there
Asking the same silly questions over and over again
Holding the mic under his nose
As though I didn’t exist
And I know for her I didn’t
Even though I’d already answered her question
About how we’d found the reading
She asked the same question again
the mic steady under his nose
When music man deferred camera girl to my response
She then repeated her question a third time
Pointing the mic at his mouth
Not realizing we’d already given her the answers twice

Where Did the Day Go?

My morning begins with a whirlwind I start a poem and leave it in mid construction
I make coffee, wash cat dishes, my plates, saucers and cups, clean some Tupperware
Do a wash - separate Cleo from Magic pass the litter box remind myself to clean it and continue on my way to pee I’m busier than five buzzing bees
Then I spy some jewelry and figure out a way to reconstruct it to a different form
I conduct a search for the missing parts
I look outside at budding trees raise the window and stick my head outside to try to feel a breeze and see a blue bird nearby
I look for my glasses then remember to search for those movie theatre passes and hang my keys
I return to the poem to find the word and discover I’m lost in my mind confined and in a bind it’s totally intertwined I have to unwind
I clean the litter box listen to my neighbor play the sitar I think maybe I should make some apple fritters to kick the day off
I pick up my see through blouse think about sewing it tighter I’ve got to get out of the house by two to make that deposit I hang the blouse in the closet
take out my new dress I guess it’s time to rhyme I pin the hem to make the dress more feminine what’s the crime in that
I want to mend everything seems to blend I think the stress is getting to me
I return to the computer to try to find the word I was looking for before but forget what it was or what it meant I need roto-rooter in my brain to stay sane
Continuing to look for the word I search the net betting I can find that set of dishes
I light some incense the smell is intense and I get the foot cream intending to rub it on my feet but place it on the countertop as I pass by
I pick up and eat a sweet on my way to feed the cats and take a shower
five minutes later keeping neat I scrub the tub and try to remember where I put the feet cream down I search all around clean the toilet seat, I’m a bit over heated and overwhelmed I remind myself to put the clean sheet on the bed instead
I pull a pair of white panties from the drawer and stare at them in disgust and decide to go bleach them in the sink on my way to the kitchen to get water for the plants
I just can’t seem to get things in order so many chores before I get myself out the door
I dry myself off and put the towels in the washer the wet wash in the dryer and scramble around like I’m running from fire
I vacuum the bathroom floor clean the second litter box
on my way back to the bedroom to get dressed I pour bleach in the toilet and sink and remember to sip my coffee
Run the vacuum over the living room rug and the word returns to haunt me
So I run back to the computer picking my glasses up from the counter when the phone rings disturbing my linguistic delight and the word takes flight I see the light
I keep moving until the middle of the night
Maybe some adderall will solve it all

gcast up front again

G Cast doesn't work or exist anymore. It was a recorder that played my music and poetry. Now you can hear that right on my front page - click here.

Steig Larrson and me

Steig Larrson, the man behind the stories that gave him his name fame glory posthumously led a fascinating life. Larrson could be one of the characters he became famous for writing about in his millennium series. Fighting to right Nazi wrongs in Sweden, he was a well known journalist who founded Expo, an antifascist magazine. Here in the states people don't usually think much about the Nazis but in Europe people give more importance to World War II and the havoc it created in history. In Sweden, its importance is even more meaningful. According to Lev Grossman in Time Magazine, "Fascism is a live issue in Sweden, and fascist groups have been known to attack reporters who investigate them." This makes me wonder if someone stuck him with a needle to produce the heart attack, especially as he was a well known Nazi hunter and Sweden is known to have sheltered Nazis seeking refuge and places to keep their bounty. And who would have known?
Larrson was a known target as the founder of Expo, the antifascist magazine he published. Larrson had built himself quite a reputation as a dragon slayer and his daily life and that of his life-long companion, Eva Gabrielsson, were affected by the backlash. Since Larrson was well known as a journalist and a political activist, most of his writing was reporting. His life was quite stressful because of his political affiliations his widespread writings of unpopular subjects. He was a feminist before men were allowed to be defined as one.
Now another drama ensues from his untimely death:  inheritance issues complicated issues of control surrounding other things in his estate, including his writings. Because Gabrielsson and Larrson never married in spite of being together over thirty years, the Swedish government has given his birth family all rights in spite of the fact that Larrson had very rare contact with them. Not a good situation for the bereaved partner. What deepens the suspense is Eva has a copy of the number 4 book on his computer in her possession. I watched her speak about this in a recorded television interview. Apparently they've always worked together and she edited most of his work.
I first felt compelled to read The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo because of the colorful cover plus all I'd heard and read about it and the author. Then after I'd read, I became enthralled with the mysterious powerful heroine. Larrson's gone and passed on but I love his shit!
Larrson wrote fiction to relax and he loved detective stories. I guess it gave him a break from the harsh reality he faced daily. Strangely even the aftermath of his life reminds us how life is often as strange as fiction.
Larrson proves that writers can create anything. Like my friend Anthony Whyte recently said over coffee, you can take a usual situation where people are sitting at a table drinking coffee and all you need to do is put a gun on the table and boom - the center of attention changes drastically and you can do what you want with your characters. All one has to do is let things fall into place and put things where they should be to add a little drama and spice.
Hooked on Lisbeth, the heroine whose intelligence and resourcefulness never fails her, I sped read the entire book submerged in the characters and events. Little Lisbeth, my heroine, is barely 4 feet 9 inches and 94 pounds soaking wet, is an exceptionally skilled computer hacker who survives impossible circumstances. She is lithe, super strong and can kick karate ass as well as Sarah Michelle Geller plus can defeat any enemy intellectually as well. I also love "Kalle fucking Blomkvist" another main character in the trilogy who could be Larrson's alter ego. Together he and Lisbeth could solve any mystery.
The wording is sometimes a bit dry but according to Grossman, that may be due to the translators facility with subtleties but it didn't damage my attention span or interfere with the excitement. This fast paced thriller kept me spellbound like a movie playing in my head.
After this I was compelled to read number two of the Millennium trilogy, The Girl Who Played With Fire, the perfect mix of action and expository to drive its thrust. Now I'm going to read number three next.
It is fine writers like Mr. Larrson who excite me to write. His characters are so finely tuned and defined that we know them as intimately as our closest friends. For those who don't know the series, I wasn't surprised to see Lisbeth buried alive at the end of part two of the trilogy. Lucky for me the first chapter of part three is included at the end of part two. I can't wait. I'll keep you updated!

Pain travels & travails ...

OK I did expect a play about mental illness - that's how it's advertised after all. I've known Dan Berkey for many years, since 1993 to be exact when we met at a poetry reading. We've been in touch on and off since then and more often now that we've discovered the pleasures of email.

I am Dan Berkey a schizophrenic actor in remission he announces as though we were all together at an AA meeting. Hi I'm Joy and I'm crazy too which most of us are but how many of us have spent time in the psych ward being evaluated and treated and let go again and come in again and again. Some of us slip by this maneuver by the hairs in our nose - we manage not to be there, but somehow this play makes me feel like I signed up for a degree in craziness please, which in some ways I feel I have but not purposefully or at least consciously. I just am crazy enough to be a magnet for people who need help and seem to have a natural ease to understanding their dilemma.

Berkey jumps through so many hoops and has so much energy it unnerves the audience, puts us on edge as he sits on the ledge ready to hedge through the next interlude minus the quaaludes that used to be so popular in the 60's. He leads us through his life showing us what it's like to hear voices and drink to suppress the voices but instead in Berkey's head - alcohol only serves to make the voices more rambunctious. I sat on the edge of my seat as Berkey announced he "would touch" us which he clearly intended to do physically mentally and emotionally. I longed for his touch and dreaded it in the same breath just as he predicted I would.

He exposes his childhood calamities and what appears to be a childhood rape but it's unclear as to whether the rape is real or imagined. He lies on the ground humping the floor and speaking to someone asking them to stop then threatening to tell mommy. The other voice threatens back and his resistance to tell is quelled. In my head I'll go for this is real and the culprit is obviously someone very close - family or close friend. How do I know this? Because I've spoken to over a hundred abused kids, many of them sexually abused by their step dads, uncles, or mom's trusted boyfriend. This particular issue is enough to make me cram my fingers down my throat. While working I got so I could just meet a teen and know she'd been sexually abused. Eventually this work became too painful for me and to make it through my last five years at the Department of Education I had to switch to pre-k - 3 to 5 year olds. Not that they aren't abused but not to the same extent as older children nor are they as verbal as their teen counterparts.

Why did I want to see this play? Because all my life I've worked with and helped people with problems. Forget about the diagnosis - Diagnosis -shmiagnosis. I can talk about that too but that is never what interested me. What always did interest me was motivation and introspection. I find the I in others and examine myself there and there's the rub and fascination. If we can find the whys of our behavior we have a chance of understanding the whys of others.

We were brought full circle as Berkey finally let his pain go along with his medication and alcohol abuse. He chose to be alive be healthy and to be in remission. If he had kept drinking he would've been dead by now. Not only was his liver fucked but he had pancreatitis too and we can't live without those two organs.

Does that mean one chooses to be ill or chooses to be schizophrenic? I think not but I think Dan Berkey has a point about it being in the best interest of the medical profession to keep the ill ill because that is what maintains them - not recovery. I asked Dan if he thought stress had anything to do with his remission and as far as he is concerned it's a mystery where recovery comes from and where illness goes, but his healthy lifestyle combined with clean intent with meditation and yoga practice are certainly factors that help reduce stress. Another factor that influenced his remission is his attitude of letting the pain go, letting the illness go, letting the voices go ... well if you let go of things - those things can no longer influence or control you.

Riveted to Berkey's voice as he took us through his adventures, his sex addiction his alcoholism his bike messengering job and through his successful acting career, I watched him fly through the air, do somersaults, share his inner tumult, and swing right back into the rhythm of himself as naturally as a dog shakes off snow from the winter storm and curls up by a warm fire inside himself. His props are quite creative and strangely believable, especially the bike I imagine I saw him riding, but it's actually strapped to his head and chest as he runs around the stage - showing us another page in the life of ... whoever is running inside my or your head, please make them stop - it's getting sore from being trampled on. His message is loud and clear. We do need to be our brother's keeper.

I know, I'll go do some yoga eat a double nut fudge sundae and watch the fringe while contemplating on the me in me and the me in you and the you in me and us together in society.

Seriously folks, there's only one show left this coming Tuesday and if you're in New York or plan to be and have any interest in the subject matter - go see Dan Berkey in Remission at PS 122. When you're through you can visit Enchantments across the street and pick up some candles and incense like I did.

award winning poetry sites

These are the last 5 awards I received plus a great place to check out many other poets:

1. http://www.onlineschools.org/top_poetry/#Joy_Leftows_Poetry_Blog         Winners for your 2010 Top 35 Poetry Blogs award were announced on July 8, 2010.

2. http://www.guidetoartschools.com/tips-and-tools/poetry-blogs the top 40 poetry blogs on the web, May 2010

3. http://www.accreditedonlinecolleges.com/blog/2010/100-best-poetry-blogs/  link now dead because they do not publish this any more
100 Best Poetry Blogs listed under female poets.

4. http://www.onlinecolleges.net/2009/10/05/100-great-web-sites-for-poetry-lovers/ listed with 20 other blogs

5.  Kreative Blogger Award The Seven Kreativ Blogger Awards May 2009
Joy's Poetry Blog - Joy Leftow is an inspiring and intuitive poetess who is also capable of lampooning or exposing society for its ills and shortcomings, she also provides insight into a host of important topics to the contemporary world.

Joyce Kilmer save me please - we got history

The dead stay talking to me I feel as helpless as a tree
They speak through to me
and I’m definitely not a tree
and they are most definitely dead
I’m forced to be an embossed embassy another Berlin a magnet for their raw charms or languished cries
Explaining longings telling me where he expected to be if it weren’t for this one little thing but in my dream he didn’t know he was dead he was a wannabe alive guy
Hats off to Manny
telling me his plans like everybody else
Voices vicariously strewn like spring flowers falling from boughs outside my window
The scent of dead flowers buries itself deep in my veins
I breathe it out and in
I am I am a tree
Voices from the past exist in my head I ask for more put them on play - replay fast forward exit start over again and again
The hypothesis of life over again replay
A come hither look
Think deeper
From way back to before birth infancy a fantasy I’m torn in two
Should I stay or should I go a lifetime of going ahead
instead of staying and regretting is what I do best at my own behest
I’m challenged trumped set ahead to go make that next jump if not literally than figuratively
In my head I jump a hump
Ahead to where I don’t know where I am or how I got here
Yet here I stand
A tight bright white light goes off fast in my head flashing faster red green green red yellow stop on yellow hit those brakes or barrel through it
Careful take the next step and do it
Just call me
Crashing catastrophe meets the coroner on the corner for the very last time

A shout out to Ninua at facebook's networked blogs for their tireless energy and help in keeping these blogs organized. If you're on fb so should your blog be!

A shout out to Bob at Apple for helping me solve the mystery with his tenacity and alacrity. I love apple.


A shout out to my readers: this blog is for you, the you inside that hurts and wonders about the way we choose constantly - the you and me who seeks more...


my writing is me - what you get is what you see


Joyce Kilmer and Robert Frost were the first poets I memorized in elementary school. They both wrote short poems. Even back then my mind jumped a lot and memorization was difficult. Ironically I can recall words from ancient conversations at will.