Cloak of Invisibility

(No one should live their life at the side of the road)

The last in the queue,
the last person picked,
the last phone to ring,
the last door to knock;
the last person asked
the first person told.
The last thank you sent,
the last present bought,
the last person noticed,
the last to be heard;
the last person trusted
the first to be blamed.

Ronda R. Scott-Marak
© 26 July 2015

“Just Call me Inspiration”

(with thanks to Carrie Newcomer whose lyrics inspired it, and a nod to Stevie Nicks) 

There is a voice in my mind, just beyond silence; just beyond sound
I recognise its resonance deep in my bones, just beyond hearing; just beyond thought.

I feel it on my skin, like feathers, like grit, just beyond contact; just beyond thought.

It howls with the wind, crashes like waves, it is as sharp as a bird’s beak, as sweet as its song, 
it echoes like canyons, and babbles like brooks, just beyond thunderous; just beyond sigh.

I can’t discern meaning, I cannot catch words; just beyond earshot, just beyond grasp
but I might learn its secret though hidden within; the voice is possibly mine.

Ronda R. Scott-Marak
© 19 July 2015

“My Name is Pain, you Belong to Me”

   (With thanks to Bernie Taupin)

Unflexing, non-malleable, overstretched, taut;

the cords of my neck have tightened like a noose and defeated me.
cold, heat, pills, rubs, fascial and trigger point massage.
raised my work surface with a ream of paper, my elbow with a beanbag.
circumventing right turns, and reversing is challenging.
muscles swollen and clenched, leaving my view to only what’s ahead.
just one night of sleep, one morning without distress, one action without pain.

Gods know I’ve tried to hold my ground, giving not an inch;

I’ve eschewed my pillows, using only the tartan travel horseshoe I bought at Logan;

I avoid the phone unless I can use a Bluetooth, shun the landline;

Every type of stress in my life is bound up like macramé in my neck and shoulder;

The prospect terrifies, the outlook is bleak, the spectacle blurred;

Ronda R. Scott-Marak
© 15 July 2015

“How many times can a man turn his head pretending he just doesn't see?”

(With thanks to Bob Zimmerman)

Morning Terrors:

Whose family, whose savings, whose home?

Whose healthcare, whose safety, whose guns?

Whose husband, whose wife, whose child?

Whose taxes, whose income, whose job?

Whose buildings, whose bridges, whose roads?

Whose water, whose food, whose air?

Whose future, whose present, whose past?

Whose country, whose scripture, whose book?

Ronda R. Scott-Marak

© 10 July 2015

“I’ve been Down so Long, that the Tears Roll up my Cheek”

(With thanks to Bobby Darin, and a shout out to Martin Yarbrough)

Burned out

Bone weary

Run down

Out of steam

Done out

Done in

Enervated

Lost my edge

Worn out

Worn through

Gone stale

Out of tune

Dragged down

Dead-tired

Overstressed

Lost my nerve

Ronda R. Scott-Marak

© 9 June 2015

“You’re so vain… you prob’ly think this blog is about you.”

(With thanks to Carly Simon)

Some of the plainest people glow with internal beauty; 
some of those with the most perfect looks have nought but external prettiness.

Some of the loneliest people care more for other’s troubles; 
some of busiest find time to give comfort and support.

Some people care for nothing but themselves: 
are so wrapped up in their desires, their looks, 
and their egos… that the real world becomes invisible, 

and everything not focused on them is a petty annoyance.

Self-absorption is a drug more potent than poppies, 
obsession with one’s self is a disease more disabling than paralysis.

Vanity in its mildest form is a form of domination, 
at its most dangerous self-aggrandising is the scourge used to torment others’ souls.

Ronda R.  Scott-Marak
© 3 June 2015

“Quoth he… ‘Are ye going to Deerfield Fair?’ ”

(With thanks to a famous ballad, and an infamous bird)

It was cold, dreary, it was windy; 
I warmed my hands on Goldens’ tongues and St. Bernard fur
I smiled.

There was music, coffee, there were funnel cakes; 

I drank in my fill of texture and colour
I smiled.

Copper, and ceramics, paintings, and photos; 

I shopped in my mind placing each just so
I smiled.

Ceramic tiles of cats and ravens; 

a printed orang-utan with a rubber ducky
I laughed… I cried… I smiled

Hottish water, Epsom bubbles, 

closing eyes and sinking into oblission; a well-read book
I stretched…I smiled… I sighed.

Ronda R. Scott-Marak
© 31 May 2015