Decolonize - What do our ancestors say?

I have an illness.  I write then lose what I have written.  I cannot remember which PC I was writing on, nor whether I wrote longhand, in a booklet, on bond or in the back of a serviette. I know it was written.  It rests in my mind.  Where is it?  Where is it?  Then, as I look for it, I discover writing that I have no recollection creating.  I know it is mine.  It is in my handwriting.  Here is an example of the latter:

In response to a FB post by a friend who said, and this is a quote: "We cannot correct all of the transgressions of our ancestors/relatives"  (Or, maybe it is paraphrased) and in my preamble to the holographic poem I followed-up on her post with with Response: "True".

This poem is dated November 5, 2012, in the midst of, or advent of #INM and reflects on my motivations for posts in the FB group #HTT going back to June 2008.  My poetry about colonization began in 2003. I had a slow awakening before that and have been on stream of learning.

I do not remember writing this.

(click on the poem for a close-up)

The 2nd last option - before nail biting.

The Dangerous Pen

Here is a test.  Try it.
Oh no!  No clock!  No device!
This would never happen twice
But here I sit
In a tyre shop
No book to read.  No magazine
My purse is tidy now
I know the greeting by the shop phone crew
So what?  Just ponder.
It's just a slow leak so no big deal.
Oh know!  A pen!

She ripped apart the envelope so the white side became her canvas
Then relaxing, diverting, out
Out, the thoughts spilled from the smooth ball-point
Free - from the community store
And then she thanked the cosmos
Her thoughts more random, less connected every day
But still beautiful and fun.
To laugh at one's own foibles is a joyous passing
What folly to believe in the importance of it all
So poems so deep can silly be
These ones of lark are right for me
  nem - Oct 13 in Integra Tire

Whew!  That is a relief.  What does everyone else do while sitting and waiting.  Maybe I should start carrying my knitting (though I shit at knit - tried and failed) to keep me from this perilous habit of writing poems about poems.  Check out my metapoetry series at www.mouthethepoem.blogspot.ca from back in 2010.  I have many others.  It is a neutral habit.  Neither good nor bad.

Hah!

Relief for Routine

Years of nestling and misplaced priorities - money, travel, shelter - have all coiled around the spindle of time and brought me to this moment.  It is a place.  I am drawn to pull it together in this place, far from Huntsville.  Thanks be for that.

I am surprised about what I need around me to feed my distractions so I can settle back to placing words in order, and free.

Dull be thee the strings of my old guitar.
And annoying, worse than vacuuming, is the task toward making them again bright.
But this too must be.
Thanks to the U. of Youtube.
Low E, then A, now high E and only three to go.
Then again my friend will sit near by, as I ponder and drink.

Yes the drink is my second companion.  Maté.  I even brought a kettle, a sieve and a thermos so my supply is continuous.  Coffee begone but for your fragrance and some socially appropriate gestures.  Among whom?  And the laughter buckles my belly though no sound comes out.  Therein lies the rub.
And my extended screen.  This helps too.  I can watch scripts unfold and action and character development.  I can fast forward through the car chases and battle scenes.  I can observe trends... more and more and more blood.  Frontal penis.  Smarter, more articulate children.

And some comfort on the walls.

And a window with tree limbs so close by.  A blue jay today.  And some sparrows have bumped the window, twice in the past two days.  I will begin to mark the time of day.  It must have something to do with the reflection.  I do not want bobbly detractors nor cute stickies.  I need another way to divert the poor wee things.

And a bit of music from days gone by.  And a nice comfy chair where I can read.

I will nestle a bit more in here, but it is almost perfect.  I can pee out my maté a mere 5 steps across the hall.

Just watch me.

Waking thanks in part to W.B. Yeats

Who cares if I cry out loud
At the death of a man so long ago
Just to know he passed and was mourned
Makes tears flow

And much much more has brought this flush
The time the place the visions lost
Yet hopes are borne these long years past
Beneath the frost

In heat of January tides he left
Me here now under snow bound boughs
I hear his calamity and watch
His voice arouse

My soul and others too who know
He was just only just a man
But shrieking through he pushed for truth
I hope I can

So Done I Cry (The Death of WB Yeats) by Nancy E. McLennan 2001

And here I am.  That one was written in a chilly November almost 15 years ago.  It has taken me a long time to return to my work and here I am, scrabbling through piles of papers and electronic files.  As always, I have a goal in mind and I am nearing the finality of my nestling.  This will be my last attempt and nothing will stop me this time.

I am listening to Ooh La La - Faces.  It pulls me back even further.  I am wakening to my life.  It chokes me but it is also invigorating.