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Life Gets in the Way

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Tinker

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Life in the way.jpgDeath and Taxes
"in this world
nothing can be said to be certain,
except death and taxes.”
                Benjamin Franklin


I bounce from pillar to pillar,
a pinball attempting escape,
fearing the IRS
more than the grim reaper.
Mind frozen from forming a plan
                                                                          to meet imposed deadlines,
                                                                          I deny reward until the deed is done.
                                                                                                  Judi Van Gorder

 
Last week I posted a day early, this week I'm a day late.   It seems writing often takes a back seat to all of the other stuff that happens around me.  I have no answer for this.  Most mornings I habitually make my cup of coffee and sit at the computer.  I read headlines, emails, new poems posted at various sites and I try to write something.  I do have a journal which I semi faithfully enter thoughts. I say semi because by the end of the year about half the pages are empty.  I'm pretty faithful January through March. but by April it is hit or miss, especially as the tax deadline approaches.  

Now there is life getting in the way, big time.  The tax deadline always throws me off.  I have an accountant who would like to get my records so he can work with them.  There is something about the tax deadline that puts me in a funk. I'm self-employed, pay estimated quarterlies and always owe money in the end.   I went to the doctor the other day and she asked why was my blood pressure so high?   My only answer was, I had been working on my taxes just before coming to her.  I've written poems about taxes, I use poetry as a reward for working on my taxes.  I've also denied myself access to poetry until I've accomplished my tax tasks.  Hence, I've fallen behind in my "poem a day" commitment for April and I'm a day late with my blog.

Taxes aren't the only stumbling block for not writing, life throws us all kinds of unexpected issues.  My furnace conked out on me two days ago.  I called for repair and was told it couldn't be repaired, he had to condemn it, it is one year beyond my warranty.    Of course, the weather has been less than cooperative, luckily I can keep warm with my wood stove until I can get a new furnace.  But building and maintaining a fire takes time and energy and I'm quickly diminishing my wood supply.   

Life has a way of doing these things.  When distractions occur and they will, take a deep breath and trust you will work through them.   One bite at a time.  And along the way maybe write about them.

Dreams

Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!                                                                      
My spirit not awakening, till the beam
Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.

Yes! tho' that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,
'Twere better than the cold reality
Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,
And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,
A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.

But should it be- that dream eternally
Continuing- as dreams have been to me
In my young boyhood- should it thus be given,
'Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven.

For I have revell'd, when the sun was bright
I' the summer sky, in dreams of living light
And loveliness,- have left my very heart
In climes of my imagining, apart
From mine own home, with beings that have been
Of mine own thought- what more could I have seen?
'Twas once- and only once- and the wild hour
From my remembrance shall not pass- some power
Or spell had bound me- 'twas the chilly wind
Came o'er me in the night, and left behind
Its image on my spirit- or the moon
Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon
Too coldly- or the stars- howe'er it was
That dream was as that night-wind- let it pass.

I have been happy, tho' in a dream.

I have been happy- and I love the theme:
Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life,
As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
Of semblance with reality, which brings
To the delirious eye, more lovely things
Of Paradise and Love- and all our own!
Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.
                                   ~~ Edgar Allen Poe

 

Waste Land (Exerpt)

I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.

Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.

Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.

And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened.
He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight.
And down we went.

In the mountains, there you feel free.

I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water.
Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
                                                  ~~T.S Elliot

I hope life's surprises are inspiring you.  If you write about them, share with us.

Happy writing,   ~~ Judi

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#23

frigid Friday
freeloading firewood from friend
furnace fried
            ~~jvg

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