More of this

Fuck me.

I’m so god dammed angry
I hate that life returns me to this place
Again and again I come back to this failure
Of wanting something different, happiness outside.

I’m so tired of blaming myself
for these repeated mistakes
If I actually had a sense of choosing,
that would be an improvement.

Yet i can remember such a moment
at least in this pain, a thought on the first
night, this is going to hurt later,
I had no idea.

Yet that’s not here now, only this frustration
and anger at my life and existence
I’m not even motivated to do anything,
just seethe like a child, wishing I were absent

This is a comfortable place of anger,
a tight knot of self-hate that is furnished with
Self-judgment and condemnation.

Cetian Moon

Dark cold-water caries the Cetians call well

Grief and loss resonates in these depths

Of being so easily surfacing in solitude

Family life, community and society give us

Artificial buoyancy that is lost when in the grasp of

Luna driven seas within us moves us in its rhythms, old sure

Ebb and flow of life is dominant in these gentle depths.

Just this fuckin feeling again.

Grief and rage, grief and rage
No longer at anyone, it feels impudent without a target
Cruising aimlessly this shallow breathed anxiety without fear

The fear awoke and when met, left,
I thought in peace, but no, it is not that easy
Slowly growing disease flowers suddenly into anger
Leaving me feeling guilty and miserable in moments

Then peace. When greeted, perhaps not with open arms,
Yet not ignored or suppressed, these feelings shift
And my psychotic experiences evaporate suddenly in
Normalized blood sugar and I can find grace again here.

.

.

.

Everything falls away
All my fantasies
Identities
Knowledge gone.
The grief is the last to go
Then silence

Many Pieces

Many pieces make up a story
What happened is the easy part
Seeing how they fit together is difficult
In the attempt to find truth one may wander
And end up searching for fragments
In the light of the moment, when we may have dropped them
Long and far away upon an emotion darkened plain
And we may ask is it worth the journey to seek a clue
To an answer that may be found, but implementation
Obliterates all traces of the question.
Any story is but a collection of parts that are found
What do we find here, in this silence, between the pages of a book?
Or the sheets of our soul?

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.

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Peace (& quiet) or quiet in peace

Peace (and quiet)

There is peace in this house
As I cook dinner in the silence
Reading to myself, I listen:
The stove murmurs to the rice
Vegetables wait for the chef’s knife
My stomach aspiring to be sated

There is more here than that
There is years of yearning
In passion & rage; grief & ecstasy
To be here, silently within myself
No longer angry with the invited guest
Who has left the home, yet entered the heart.

Today

I'm coming along, this being alone is challenging. When i look within, to express what i want, there is a very strong, core desire for mothering. It brings me to my very sensitive edge of feeling feminine within myself, and perhaps my violence toward that woman. My disregard and rejection of the one within that could heal me. As if within the heart of every father is a mother. I see how quickly i conceptualize this. To "mother" nurture, embrace, suckle and sacrifice the "masculine ego" for the process of the child, of growth, of unfolding compassion with myself, here, today is my path. . .

.

.

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Waking Up

Waking up

I wonder how to spend this day
All my ideas of it unknowingly spent
Within a framework of plans
I sacrifice my imagination
What would it be like?
To live it even a bit more
Consciously aware, alive
In every moment of the activities
Of this day.

I often wonder if I need to eat so much
My stomach often feels full of last night’s dinner
Or perhaps yesterday’s activities undigested
As I think about breakfast
The habits of consumption
Whiter my thoughts or food
Point to my discomfort
To live the emptiness that
I glimpse I am.

.

.

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Slowing Down

Just less movement, perhaps less violence, a little space opening up
Between the Thoughts, Feelings, And Ideas. I write of compassion
Or the gentle softness natural to the human heart.
Overlooked in a rush to judge, protect and criticize.
There is a beautiful clear seeing that
Is graceful and poignant, So we realize, if we are honest with ourselves that
We really have no choice what is revealed
Sometimes in the midst of grief and sorrow there is joy and freedom
We are deeply challenged to surrender our ideas of what is happening
Who we are, and what is true, when for a moment, day or hour, we
Can just be OK in whatever is happening and participate in the beauty of the world amidst the suffering, there is such quiet beauty, grace and joy.
In gratitude we naturally share that
With you, everyone, everything.

a different

morning offering

wcw

Not Knowing

I don't know what to say.

I'm a bit confused.

I love you, I know that.

I have for a long time.

I don't know what that means though

Before, i always had a story to tell

Some fabulous future to run towards

Perhaps grow tired of not reaching.

Or,

appreciating a "Now" that slowly grows stale

Like a garden without imaganation.

This ache is the result of many beatings

self administered, like injections

By some crazed junkie.

So for truth, for any knowing to come

I have to be quiet, or at least try to be still

In my murmurings, I will write myself sane

Knowing your there, on your own journey

Shining brighter each day

We burn.

Life

When touched I usually run
Especially when I think I hurt
Before I even know if it does
I’m running away from life

Trying to slow the reaction down
I breathe through a throat grown tight
Into a chest frozen with fear of unease
opaque over decades of cold facts

However the sun is warm, & I have many chances
Every day to go out and thaw, a little at a time
This ice that has grown around my heart
The fire there is warm, in an icehouse
I once called love, I know now, simply is.

...

...

The Mirror

I’m always scrying
For the past or the future
Never looking into this moment
I miss my life

The past pulls with such violence
My own anger at others
Reflected rage at myself
Internalized rejection of a child
Grown into destructive patterns in the world
This gut wrenching grief
Again and again
Releasing into Joy?

I don’t know
I’m too confused
Just grateful for some movement
The constipation of suffering
Finally beginning to loosen
In the grace given rain of compassion

This Mourning depression

This Mourning depression

The perceived absence of life

Another gray day in purgatory

I know it is far from the hell most live in

I step into the role of torturer

So quickly, gracefully even

I raise the flail and strike harshly in offering to this pain It seems god has given me to awake from.

“You are alone, no-one loves you, you will die here, alone, by my hand miserable”

As I gasp and sob my first morning breaths, wondering whether to call for help

I despair to ever be free from this silly, contrived prison of depression, antique pain and

Antiquated fantasies of suicide that are a habitual response to solitude.

As I cry my anger of being alone, I attempt to lower the nexus of the sobs

Deepen the pitch of my own pain to something appropriate to a man almost 50

Yet as I stop resisting my feelings, they shift and the sodden gray day

Lightens to tarnished silver that I might, somehow polish.

WCW

all rights reserved

Ohh Mommy

Why did you leave Me?

How dare you ?

When you were not even barely here?

I’m so fucking mad.

All this emptiness is your absence

Dad’s was minor by comparison.

I’m tired of forgiving you, being understanding.

Fuck your career. You children need you

Not some therapy or concepts of growth or healing

Leave your anger with dad there and embrace your children.

I know that you can’t. And I grieve that as well.

Always this rage that I am the victim of a victim of a victim

That was the perpetrator. Where else but here now

Can I end this horrid fucking chain of grief?

I just want it all to die

Now.

Be over. Be accepted. Be healed.

Embraced finally as god. Or fact.

An opportunity just to be with this heartbreak

The one at the beginning, in the garden

From our mother

The earth.

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copyright ward c williams