Category Archives: Stuff I’m proud of

Mental Health

 

I have tools at my disposal

To keep my house happy

Good for trimming overgrowth that presses against the house

Or repairing damage from the environment.

That one is good for sawing down trees that might work their roots under.

This one helps me patch holes in the walls.

This glue prevents things from falling to pieces.

This paint keeps it cheerful and waterproof.

If I spray the house often, I keep the bugs out.

Moisture is inevitable, but it shouldn’t damage,

And it’s most important to keep the bugs out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

When the world is first frostbitten

 

When the world is first frostbitten

tender trees touched in thin ice

When summer shows its back

abandoning you for a faraway land

When winter’s wan face smirks at your peephole

hard fingernails tapping your door

knowing it will soon be strong

enough to crack your lock and let itself in

When everything disintegrates into blue and white and crispy brown

and the wind, mad surgeon, lacerates your summer softened skin

 

then the clouds part

affording you

one

glimpse

of heavenly light

a welcoming patch in which to stand

 

When you know you are about to lose it for good

that is when the warmest sun shines

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

You’re always so distant

I didn’t do any inking or writing today! Instead I bought a lot of food and brought it to my sister for her birthday.

Here’s an old, old poem. Back when rhyming came more naturally to me.


 

You’re always so distant

You’ve left me behind

I perceive I’m still there

In the back of your mind

I’ll be patiently latently waiting for you

To see how you’ve gone down now — just one where were two.

When you start to look back

Will you start when you see

Right behind, looking back at you, silently — me?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

Proud

 

Dad said he’s proud of me.

I well up inside at the words.

What the hell is he proud of me for.

And why should it matter?

I’m fucking thirty.

Part of me thinks, oh Dad, I don’t need that anymore.

Part of me thinks, what have I done that’s any good?

Part of me thinks, I really am something, aren’t I.

And part of me deep down

A very early, primal part

Starts jumping up and down and clapping her hands.

 

I have no success in work

I have no success in art

I have no success in home making

I have no successful mate

I have no success in health or beauty.

I do moderately well in most things.

Proud?

Of me?

Just… generally?

How does a parent think?

Why does he feel proud?

Maybe he’s just happy I turned out okay

Maybe that’s all a good parent really hopes for.

And he was a good parent.

He still is.

A really wonderful parent.

I’m proud of him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

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