Stumbling on: A Tanka Poem.

The breeze caresses

like your longing fingertips

fate glides through my mind

with lightning, thunder and pain

I stumble on day by day.

© 2020 Ronovan Hester Copyright reserved. The author asserts his moral and legal rights over this work.

You need to cry…to breathe. Men, I’m talking about us…you women too.

To the artificial us, the expected supposed to be, and to humanity begging to shine through, I give you one piece of advice. Cry. I began this thread of idea to speak to the men of the world and their need to cry, in order for them to release all the pent up fears, angers, humiliations, and confusions, but the audience later broadens to be all inclusive.

Through this release through crying we, as men, might avoid the catastrophes we inevitably create for ourselves. Catastrophes created by fear of failure, anger and humiliation leading to obstinance and inflexibility. Confusion of not knowing what to do with all these feelings we’ve been told and ingrained with not to let show, let alone to allow exist inside of us. Again, the fear of that confusion because if we have these sensitive thoughts, feelings, and reactions then people might think we are more woman than man.

But, as I thought of how men in society should support man to cry, I thought also of how women should let us cry as well. Then I realized that society doesn’t allow women to cry freely without judgement either. Crying is seen as weak. Crying by a man is often thought of as showing their feminine side, as though having a feminine side is a bad thing.

This led me to the thought of why we still refer to behaviors as feminine or masculine.

I believe crying and laughter are the two most powerful healing and coping mechanisms every person has available to them, and it’s free to do either. No prescription necessary or diagnosis required.

Just as men are seen as weak for crying, so to are women. I believe that view along with that about men has led to many wrong decisions in the 20th and 21st centuries that caused great losses. This is not just an opinion I have about the U.S. but one for all countries around the world. Some even worse than America itself.

Many of us have or will experience a life altering trauma. We’re afraid to admit it, afraid to show we are scared or hurting or completely lost. A good first step is to let yourself cry. It works. I speak from experience.

So to humanity, I once again say…cry, and cry often. But also remember to laugh just as much. It’s all about balance in ones life to have a good and healthy life.

Cry like a man?
Cry like a human.
Cry like a babe calling for the need of telling the world it needs relief of something.

Wash away the poisons of loss
of grief
of fear
of anger
of the loneliness of being you.

Cry from no one listening
of no one noticing
you are no longer the you they know or you recognize.

Cry…so you can then breathe…and laugh once again.

The Fool’s Loss

the-fools-loss

 

The fool’s big loss is

Your loving arms, heart, and mind,

Inspire me to live.

Much Love, Success, and Respect

Ronovan

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Losing it. What do I do?

There’s a saying that goes something like, “You don’t know what you got till it’s gone.” For about two years I’ve kind of laughed at that phrase. For some of us, when something is gone we don’t even know what it was which means we don’t miss it.

I’ve been fine with it. I go through each day with a new loss flittering away and I feel fine. That’s because I don’t know what flitters away. Okay, so I know something is likely being lost. I’m aware that memories are lost.

Normally I don’t stress about it because stressing leads to other problems. Recently a memory loss, a huge one, became evident—with vigor.

I’ll explain an “other” problem for a moment. Depression. Well, I don’t know that it really needs to be explained. We all know what depression is. When a memory goes away and I then have people forcing that memory back in my head, or trying to get it back in there, things happen. The brain snaps. I actually at some point feel a pop in my head. I am sure it’s not really anything physical, only a psychological representation of what is happening.

When that happens, Ronovan is gone for a time.

My huge memory loss recently led to such a situation. I would think things were going fine, then wham, another hit from a different side. Lulled into things being okay. Wham, another hit. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat.

Now, here I am, depressed, physically ill, and looking for the learning lesson of it all.

Memory problems make for a bad emotional entity. They also make for a bad relationship of any type. You wake up and you don’t know if that person who is your friend, spouse, significant other, father figure is still going to be that for you.

Who is it fair to in that situation? As I’ve been writing this I’ve been sorting through it all. I suppose the best thing is if it’s a repeat offender status thing, cut and run if the situation allows for it. I know live in family members can’t do that but there are things you can do.

Accept the memory loss person (MLP) for who they are, knowing what is possible.

Be supportive in the efforts of the MLP to handle it. Think for a moment about this. You wake up, or are even going along writing or watching a video and then—WHAM—you don’t know what day it is, or what city you are in, or who that person in the other room is. Ever wonder how a person handles that each day?

Think about being in the middle of a sentence and forgetting who it is across the table from you. In this age of internet and digital conversations and friendships it’s even more difficult to remember without those constant physical/visual cues.

People might find it surprising that I wake up and have forgotten the people in my house. Or I will go through one of those situations above. My body goes through a routine each morning and I discover what my problems are and I just go with it. I’ve told myself in letters not to stress, that I am normal. This is normal for me. I tell myself to begin to write something from a list of projects I’m working on.

Sometimes memories will come back or at least enough of a familiarity to make things fine or functionable. Yeah, another of my made up words.

What about the other person, the person forgotten?

What would I do if I were on the other end of this?

I honestly can’t answer that with an all encompassing solution. I think patience is part of it, understanding, and you know maybe even just cut and run. I know people balk at that last one but it is an option. But that is the option people will focus on here because it is seen as the uncaring, cold idea and how could I even think of telling someone to do that if a person cared about the MLP or of the MLP cares about the person.

I’ve been living with this for two years. You get to the point, where after having written about it, thought about it, and lived through it, you cut through it all to the heart or heartless of it all and give solutions.

And what about the MLP? Should they keep trying to remember, opening themselves up to an emotional tug-of-war to then either go through the loss again, perhaps not knowing it, or then being shut off once a connection is established again?

What do I do?

I have no one answer for myself. Perhaps I should, it would make my life easier. Can a person live a life, a healthy life mentally without people? I suppose they can but I’m not that far gone yet.

Now, for those who look at my writing and things I share each day and think I seem normal and I have all these friendships and all, the MLP has tricks they use to get by. Don’t call out the MLP for this if you still want to be a part of their life. At least they are trying.

I’ll tell you one trick I have. It’s called the Ronovan Writes Weekly Haiku Poetry Prompt Challenge. No, that’s not a plug for my challenge. I am telling you about a trick. There are people who do the challenge every week, and that means I read their work, usually at least twice, think about it, review it, see their names, and all of that every week. It doesn’t work for each person because of lack of regularity but when I see the name I know it’s familiar and once I get to their site things come back.

MLPs have sensory/emotional impressions of people if not actual memories. I know by a name, if it has been around me long enough, if that person is someone that is positive for me or negative, if that person is a friend or foe, if that person is emotionally good for me or a life drain.

When you hear that old saying about first impressions, it’s true. Make a good first impression and good last impression as well. You are asking, “How do I know when that last impression will be?” Whenever you leave the communication presence of someone, that’s your last impression until the next time you connect with them.

Well, this has been a longer message than I had planned, and I’m not sure if it is even what I had intended, but it is what it is and that’s all that it is. So, as I have just now read back through it, you might find it surprising I forgot about half of what I wrote while I was writing this. But again, it is what it is. I’m not to blame, you are not to blame, there is no blame.

Oh, I just remembered why I was writing this. Seriously. That big recent memory loss I had, like a mind wipe almost, took some important people away and broke things. Hmm, never mind. You know, I’ve tried. I think I will just deal with the depression of it all, come out the other side, and say I am what I am. It’s all I can be. Even if I don’t like it, I have to accept it or wind up on the 6 o’clock news.

 

Much Respect

Ronovan

© Copyright-All rights reserved by ronovanwrites.wordpress.com 2015

Good-bye Bird

Go and support Eloise at this time. This is my Sunday Thought for today.

Thoughts by Mello-Elo

http://youtu.be/IsZvxuvu18g

Good-bye my pretty Bird,

Fly away free

Never mind the tears

They’re not for you, but for me.



Good-bye my golden friend

The one who drives me mad

Even now I smile at memories

That will one day make me sad.



Good-bye our precious grandmother

The children loved you a tonne

I told them when I came home

You gave me the last touch

So the game continues on!



Good-bye my pretty little bird

Death has collected you at a young age

How peacefully you left us

To kiss and watch your empty cage.



RIP Mum 11/12/1944 – 25/04/2015

Copyright Eloise De Sousa (2015).

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To your whim. (A Poem)

Desire falls to whim

In a heart’s beat symphony

I am all with you.

Let’s connect.

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Not Quick Enough (A Poem of Tragedy Explained)

I hear your voicepoetry loss

Two words

They hammer at the wall

Of my mind’s death

Heaven sent

Or heart found

I am pulled from the darkness

I breathe

I grieve

I mourn

I want the death again

Why this torture for me

Why the agony of this loss

Why so here and so not

Why

Days of pleading prevail

Please, God bring my ease

Please, God bring me release

Please, God break my mind again

Please, God

Knowing but still nothing

Two words

Freeing me from death

Condemning me to worse

Why were you taken

Why

Where is the never ending joy

Where is my peace

Why does my heart need ache

Why every day

Free me from this tearing of my soul

I pray for an end

Not quick enough

 

@RonovanWrites

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The story of a poem. Think of a man who is in the hospital and unconscious. He hears a voice calling to him, he sees a face. He sees a little girl’s face. He opens his eyes to a place he doesn’t know, with a broken mind. The little girl isn’t there. Where is she? The little girl was never born. She called out to the man. It wasn’t his turn. She used what she could to tell him it just wasn’t his time yet.

Flash forward and the man remembers about the little girl. He remembers who the little girl is. He wants it to be his time. But his time is not quick enough. He wants the memory to go away. But it won’t go away quick enough.

I have seen comments to this poem and I have even seen poems written as  a response in which I am tagged in. Thank you for the thoughts and the words, but the suppositions are nowhere near the mark. This is one that cannot recover, cannot be brought back, cannot be made to have a better day. If  you pray, pray I forget that I once gain forget the memories that came to me that inspired this poem. Please do so.

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Free Me To Death-A Haiku

haiku-ronovan-writes

Two words created to inspire creativity. For some it pulls out of them a positive and uplifting experience as they tap into either a fun and joyful memory or moment. For others it may be the complete opposite. That is the magic of words. You never know for certain what will be brought to the mind, even to the mind of the one creating the words. Or perhaps for some there is no surprise where this lost mind travels.

haiku poetry

I hear you calling,

Forcing my lost mind to break,

You free me to death.

much-respect-ronovan

@RonovanWrites

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Bruised Heart-A Haiku

poetry

My plan for the week was, let me actually rephrase that, I wasn’t going to write a Haiku this week. In fact there was no plan for poetry at all in my foreseeable future. It’s not that I have given it up or don’t like poetry, it’s just something I am not feeling right now. I’m not a poetry mill. I’ve been there and done that.

Writing poetry, at least for me is about tapping into an honest place and sharing honest things that can be tender places in the heart that shouldn’t be touched. Even when I write a funny poem it doesn’t begin that way. It begins serious and turns humorous out of defense. Defending the tender places.

Some reading this are likely about to hurl. They don’t see how poetry is that big of a deal or how it can really be any more than a few words to rhyme about puppies, clouds and rainbows. True, some poetry is about those things, for that writer. Perhaps those things have meanings for them. I don’t know where the inspiration came from so I can’t say good or bad.

However, even though poetry was not in the heart for me this week, which is a requirement, even though I didn’t want to go there a friend expressed a hope I would write something for the challenge I host each week. How could I not write something when so many faithfully participate each week?

haiku ronovan writes

Do not fret, my heart,

While you beat slowly for now,

The chill of loss fades.

Much Respect
@RonovanWrites

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A beauty so high.

Stoneworth didn’t give a fig about life. As far as he was concerned it could end in a breath and that would be just fine with him. He had lived long enough and life was a bunch of bull. Every step he took he stepped in a big pile of a reminder of it.

“Mr. Stoneworth, may I have your autograph, please,” said the young girl.

Stoneworth looked at the book and pen offered. Gritting his teeth he put on his best fake grin and signed one of his somehow formulaic but popular mysteries. If he thought it all was crap then why did he care if the girl was happy or not? Perhaps he didn’t want it to be all bad, maybe he wanted a sign of something good. Or maybe he wanted to pay bills until the crap buried him.

He left the tip on the table and then the cafe behind. His burger was not even half eaten. It was not a normal bull day.

It was worse. It was like rodeo week and he was the head scooper.

He should have stayed home and eaten the frozen Chinese dinner. It would match the frozen ears he had from the early winter wind. His work was now going to suck the rest of the day and night and he was going to be hungry. Any flow of plot he had was gone. And he had a deadline. Ten days or death would be knocking at his door. Either death or his agent. They looked about the same.

His apartment smelled like burnt hot chocolate, not coffee. He had tried the stuff but couldn’t drink it until it had enough milk, sugar and chocolate syrup in it to taste like hot chocolate. Why waste the time and the money? Just cut out the middle men.

He looked at the wall thermostat and the screwed on lock box. Freaking landlord. 65 degrees. He left his coat on and turned the small electric heater on. He let it oscillate just to have some noise in the place.

Even though he knew his purpose of the day was ruined he sat down at the laptop anyway. The 1 appeared at the top of one tab of the many opened in his browser for research on ancient Central American civilizations. His thoughts improved with hope.

He had mail. The list of songs were long and not quite his usual fare but he listened. She had sent them. He didn’t listen to much music. It caused headaches. But from her, the headaches didn’t happen. They inspired him.

My beauty has given a gift to me

One I don’t often have time to take

It could not be more sweet and dear

Unless the music her own fingers did make

How is one so beautiful

How is she in my life

If by chance life did change

“Stoneworth!”

He looked up at the ghastly form approaching. He stared through it. Why would it not leave him be? The ghost of a past that was no longer his. All he wanted was the now, the reality of what is.

He did not need what was the never was. He closed his eyes and pressed his hands together until his fingers turned white. The music started again in his ears.

“Worthless! Invalid!”

Stoneworth moved his hands to his ears and pressed hard. Forcing the music in. Driving the hate away.

The pain seared through his brain and down his spine. Cackling laughter reached his now unprotected ears. He slowly sank to the floor unable to control his movements. His body arched as spasms began.

Laughter.

Music.

Laughter.

He shut his eyes tight. Focus on her eyes, those brown eyes, focus. The cackling continued. The pain continued. But suddenly he did not care. He felt warmth touch his skin. A smile crossed his face. It didn’t matter. There was a light he could see now for the first time. And music. He was climbing higher and higher. His dream was there, higher than he had ever been before. A beauty like he would never witness again.

**

“What happened?”

“I don’t know officer. I came in when he missed his deadline for a book he was writing and found him.”

“Did you turn that heater on?”

“No officer. It was already going. I moved it away from his face though. It was really close.”

“Well, it looks like a heart attack.”

“He always said that’s how he would go.”

“Well, this looks like another case he solved before he ever got a chance to write it.”

stoneworth

Ronovan

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Truth buried deep within… (A poem)

The truth of it is,

Something you don’t want to know,

Is my love runs deep.

How deep you may ask,

Does it run into this man,

Whose truth is a search?

That truth is a loss,

Of something he cannot find,

Buried dark and deep.

But with truth in love,

I will return to the light,

So deep in us all.

silhouette of man looking out window with flare
gettyimages © Original Photo by Tara Moore

Ronovan~11~19~2014

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Where have you gone?

It has been some time since we last flowed as one
Wrapping around one another
You reading my mind like a seer
My playful taunts pulling you further
 

 
Where have you been hiding yourself
I have been searching for so long
Did you find another
Did I do something wrong
 

 
I thought there were moments of your return
But they were mere shadows of a touch
My mind playing tricks on me
Wanting you too much
 

 
I am still waiting for you to come back to me
I struggle even now
These words I write
Tumble out but not from a happy brow
 

 
Yes, you are sorely missed
I need you to fill my mind
Without you here, my dear poetic pen
My release of thoughts I cannot find

 

Where has my poetry wandered?

 

Ronovan

Ron_LWI

 

 

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2014 © Copyright-All rights reserved by ronovanwrites.wordpress.com

To my darling . . .

To my darling . . .

It has been moments since we said ‘until next time’, as ‘goodbye’ is not a word we share. I already feel infinitely smaller with your absence. A many layered ghost of ice surrounds me and my universe as I think of you as you are so far away even after only short seconds of time have passed. I feel as though I am floating in a nothingness  I cannot touch or feel but cannot escape.

My thoughts are already swirling in confusion of images and feelings and wishes. One on top of the other on top of the other and repeating until there is no semblance of one cohesive thought. I must breathe. I close my eyes and squeeze them with all my strength to grab hold of just one wish, one feeling, one image to settle this loss inside.

I know there is no reason for this feeling of dread. I know that you love me. I know that we are one. But I know you are not here. I know you are moving further and further away. I know things can happen. I know I might never know. I know.

“Have a good night’s sleep and dream of me,” you say. I dare not for fear of what those dreams bring. Joy? Passion? A world of love not realized in a life ever existing? Yes, but also the disasters await. As my mind turns faces into images of heartbreak. Sleep is not of my world.

I am restlessly content in this world we have created. Through all the sleepless nights and days and the floating naked through cold dimensions of dark emptiness . . . I shout with joy that you are mine, I am yours. No matter the dread of feelings of confusion of images, I smile. My heart beats stronger and defeats all attacks. My mind with you as its partner fights against all doubts of self.

You make me who I am. I was nothing before you. My life was simply existing in a routine until you became my inspiration, my joy, my love. My heart was meant for love and you have allowed it to fulfill its purpose. With it I can do anything. No pain, no illness, no mental state, no . . . distance . . . is too much to overcome.

I feel every ounce of my love expanding inside of me ready to explode as my love grows for you and wishes to wrap you inside of it to feel what complete love is like. A love that is total. A love that includes every aspect of your being. A love that desires, respects, is amazed, awed, humbled, and completed by your existence. Before you knew I was, I loved you completely.

RosePoem2

Completed by the one who is ever inside my every molecule of life.

My skin is caressed by the air she has exhaled a world away and drifted to cover me.

My world rotates as her footsteps move the earth.

She is the one that inspires me to live life to the fullest and love with heart so completely.

I may die in a moment, a flash of an eyelash,

But I have experienced what perfection of love is to be.

How much can one man take and not erupt with joy?

If this time is over then I can say that no man has ever been loved as much as you have loved me.

 

Your Lover

 

2014 © Copyright-All rights reserved by ronovanwrites.wordpress.com

Feline Friday: The Missing Kitten.

My pal Spunky is missing. He has been for a few days now. I’ve grown dependent on caring for him and having that affection. He makes life better. Kitty is still here sometimes, but Spunky was here always and all I had to do was call his name and he came running. So if I’ve not read your articles or been quite courteous in my comments I apologize and just know I’ll get better sooner or later. I just hope maybe the lessons Kitty taught him in Kat-fu will come in handy.

 

Kat-fu
ronovanwrites © Original Photo by RonovanWrites

 

© Copyright-All rights reserved-RonovanWrites.wordpress.com-June 13, 2014.

They Too Shall Pass

They Too Shall Pass
by: Ronovan

I cannot look
As they burn our land
No affording to pay
They take it all
Now we have nothing
He stares on with strong eyes
But I cannot bare it
I know the hardship to come
I know his humiliation
He braves onward for our little one
I will brave onward later
For now I cannot look
For now I simply comfort with a touch
But someday…someday…I will comfort
With justice
Someday they will burn

 

Inspired by a statue photo by Mara Eastern entitled ‘A Depressed Family’.

© Copyright-All rights reserved-RonovanWrites.wordpress.com-June 09, 2014.

Fixing A Hole-The Beatles. I hope you enjoy my anthem.

Yes, I have a sense of humor about my life and situation. I know I am a Beatles fan. So here is my offering of one way to look at my life.

 

A Loss of…?

A Loss of…?

by: Ronovan

Loss: The experience of having something taken from you or destroyed.-Webster Dictionary

 

Everyone loses something in their lives. Sometimes there are happy losses, like you lost that hideous sweater your aunt gave you for Christmas one year, actually your mother’s aunt so you had to wear it, until it mysteriously was ‘lost’.

Most often the word loss brings about feelings of sadness. I’m no different, in a way. This is a story of something I lost.

August is unbearable in the South. The sun burns through the walls of your house to tickle your skin with a glisten of perspiration. I’ve said in poetry that the sun is a jealous lover, and I say that with knowledge.

Early Sunday mornings are for relaxation and rejuvenation in most small southern towns. You make sure your clothes are straight and unwrinkled and you sneak in the back door of the steepled building with seconds to spare before the opening prayer of your class.

That’s an ordinary Sunday.

August of 2013, the first month of my life, wasn’t an ordinary Sunday. The sun had taken its toll on me over the course of the previous week and it was about to take revenge on my having enjoyed life in spite of her.

My Sunday sneak in for prayer did not happen. My brain ached, my world spun, and I needed a splash of cold water on my face. Or so I’ve been told. Mistakes are made without warning. You walk down a hallway you’ve walked down thousands of times before, passing slowly from the bright white walls lit from the living area through the grayed area midway and into the dark.

 That is when IT happens.

 Broken Glass on Floor

gettyimages © Original Photo by Matej Michelizza

Was it passing from the bright lit walls to the dark? Is that what turned my mind from light to dark? Was that passage what made me lose my mind?

A few hours later I was in the hospital with strangers around me. Everyone was a stranger.

Days went by as white coats came and went along with brief hopes that quickly vanished. I say I write through the eyes of a Lost Mind. That’s what I lost that day. I lost a filled mind. It is empty now, except for brief flashes of what might be memories.

“It’s so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone.”
― John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent

 

© Copyright-All rights reserved-RonovanWrites.wordpress.com-June 05, 2014.