Drive

Poem © 2013 by Joyce Mason
All Rights Reserved

Personalized plates
drive home my favorite affirmation:
High energy!

Gone are the days
when people didn’t get it
asked, “What’s a high nurge?”
I’d never think of a good comeback
till they were long gone.
“It’s an urge to get high.”

That’s my urge now
not on weed or other substances
but on joy and life force
body chemistry firing go-juice
torching my vitality.

Recovering from exhaustion
worried that my license plates
might be revoked
for violation
of truth in advertising

I sit in my energetic slump
wonder if the fact
that I’ve misplaced
my DMV renewal
is another sign
I still drive myself
too hard.

Rosary

 Poem © 2013 by Joyce Mason
All Rights Reserved

The men I’ve loved

are beads

interconnected

heart amulets

strung together,

beads I’ve prayed over

since my first love

in Catholic School.

He was my sign

of the cross

made with the cross

of the rosary itself:

start on my forehead

follow with

the chaste ritual kiss

on the cross

before the litany

of repetitious prayers.

First love, my passion

sacrificed so young

all the others

carried and continued

the loss.

No wonder to this day

I still sing the requiem Mass

spontaneously

the Latin words bursting from my lips

at the most inopportune moments

religious Tourette’s

a sanctimonious, musical tic.

Most of my men

were the Joyful,

Sorrowful and Glorious Mysteries

all rolled into one.

The Church taught me little

practical

about how to deal with any of them.

Thank God I disobeyed

about birth control

and didn’t drag

any children

into my

learn by burn

my hell

on Earth.

Now even with the cosmos

the only God big enough for me

I work so hard

on loving myself

as much as all those men

and every living thing

I still crave

the rhythm

of the rosary

the linkage

of all my loves

with a Bigger Love

the love

that now must start

and end

with me

on my own tongue

where I receive

Communion.

~.~.~

Photo Credit: © Pietro D'Antonio – fotolia. com

Confluence

Poem © 2013 by Joyce Mason 

All Rights Reserved

I did not choose you, Sacramento.
You chose me,
a con job
I never saw coming.

You drew me with lust and lover
a promise of gold
bigger life
hot sun
opportunity.

Something much more was gathering
beneath the churning surface
drifting gently
floating me on your two rivers of change

I did not know then
the Native American concept
tinkuy
the harmonious meeting of opposing forces
pain and pleasure
sending me toward miracles, reunions
transcendence

in the Sacramental City
the place where the rivers
of all that was right and wrong
in my life merged:

confluence.

~.~.~ 

In celebration of the 40th anniversary of my move to Sacramento, California on May 9, 1973.  Sacramento is the Capital of California on the Sacramento and American Rivers.

Photo Credit:  Ziggurat and Tower Bridge in Sacramento at Sunset © Andy – Fotolia.com 

Words

Poem © 2013 by Joyce Mason       
All Right Reserved

If only I could remember
the first word I ever wrote
fat pencil
tracing ABC’s
first grade
mean nun
still fun
wood in my small hand
sensation of transferring
thoughts to paper
the rush bigger
than any ride at Kiddyland.

I didn’t know then
what I know now:
Writing’s the record of who I am
how I think
what I experience,
what I find worthy of committing
to personal, sometimes
collective history.

I wonder how many miles
I have pushed a pen
or tapped a keyboard.
If I had an odometer on my laptop
it would have turned back to zero
many times over.

I’ve gone from fat pencils
and crayons to pens and typewriters
to keyboards on every gadget
large and small.
My love of word flow only intensifies
with it my perspective
of where words come from.

I am an open mind
a window for muses,
gods--the universe.
I wake up each morning
eager to hear what’s coming through
to start the day’s workplay
wordplay
same thing, different day
never dull doing life
indeterminate sentences.

I start each day making words
with dancing fingers
end only when fatigue
drags me kicking and screaming to bed.
I finally welcome slumber as the foreplay
an intermission to another day of words.

My fingertips hold the energy
of everything I’ve ever written
a replay I hope to see in the Great Beyond
where surely there are e-readers
of the energy variety.

I’ll put my etheric fingers on the cosmic gadget
watch the show with all my muses and inspirers
I finally get to meet “in person”
where I can be audience, not producer
where I can’t wait to write
the movie review.

~~~

Photo Credit: © kacperogo - Fotolia.com