Latest Tweets:

The Day that Yes Was the Only Answer

When I’m 83 years old and very white haired,
getting out of my car to cross a parking lot,
to walk through a building to play my banjo
on the back porch,
will I remember today and how
the runny-nosed dog walk was long enough to
save me from the edge of depression
and how I felt ashamed in that moment for asking for what I want
and for what is more than what I want but that is
what I am
and then also found the gumption to
keep with it and follow the sparkling rocks
and purple flowers and those
marigold-colored daisies?
I clarified my position for myself while I was out there.

About the time I hit the marina and paused before turning around,
I realized that my mood had shifted and
out of sadness and defense and dejected
verging-depression,
I was now thinking of doodling.
When I’m 83 will I remember how I thought about that
and was eager to get home and
announce it on-line?
What will on-line be
when I’m 83?
And will I recall how I kept on walking,
relieved, and thankful for the doggie,
and smelled the pines and flirted coyly with the sun-loved lake,
and came up around the bend with yet another idea?
No, tonight instead of doodling, I’ll do that other thing,
that thing that will loosen my fears and maybe work magic
and keep moving me ever in that yes direction.
Will I remember even having that thought,
smelling those pines,
and thinking how I should sit on the balcony tonight
and watch the lake?
At 83 will I remember today as the day it turned around,
and the day I gave an unyielding yes to myself
and to life’s inner kisses and outer kisses and support and
celebration?
Or will I simply remember sitting here -
like now -
and hearing three different bird sounds and
cars on the road
and the rattle of the open window,
knocking into its frame while the sun
starts to go down and kisses me now,
and also those trees,
just like it does the lake?

humansofnewyork:

"One day a crazy looking homeless guy came to the door, and we were about to close the door on him, but my mother saw him and shouted: ‘Hey Eugene!’ She knew his name! Then she ran around the kitchen putting all sorts of food into tupperware, and brought it out to him. After he left, we asked my mom why she gave him so much food. She told us: ‘You never know how Jesus is going to look when he shows up.’ She was always saying that— it was a spiritual thing. Then you know what happened? Two months later, that same man showed up on the door step, clean shaven, and wearing a suit. And he had an envelope with money for my mother. ‘Ms. Rosa always believed in me,’ he said. I’ll never forget it! Eugene was his name."

humansofnewyork:

"One day a crazy looking homeless guy came to the door, and we were about to close the door on him, but my mother saw him and shouted: ‘Hey Eugene!’ She knew his name! Then she ran around the kitchen putting all sorts of food into tupperware, and brought it out to him. After he left, we asked my mom why she gave him so much food. She told us: ‘You never know how Jesus is going to look when he shows up.’ She was always saying that— it was a spiritual thing. Then you know what happened? Two months later, that same man showed up on the door step, clean shaven, and wearing a suit. And he had an envelope with money for my mother. ‘Ms. Rosa always believed in me,’ he said. I’ll never forget it! Eugene was his name."

I bought this shawl in India,
where we used them for everything.
I took it to the beaches on Maui,
familiar, light-weight, hippy.
In Austin I washed it and
left it on the iron half-fence
that keeps me tucked in
in my little green cabin at The Writing Barn.
In high school I had sweaters, sweatshirts and
prom dresses
the color of this cabin, that bush, these eyes.
And as I write, my eyes, too, see the colors —
my sleeves like long limes and a blanket
across my chest, neck and belly.
The page’s right margin,
like my sleeves mixed with a little yellow,
a little poo.
And under my left elbow and sitting on the wooden step at my side,
the shawl, this sarong,
whose smell always smells like India,
like all of my dupatas tucked away in Don’s attic
along with Hanuman carvings and candle holders and incense burners and memories and blankets of wool, fleece and fairy lights.
Sitting on this step at four in the afternoon
on a cool April overcast day,
the greens pop and I see my toe hair —
yes, my toe hair,
and how long it grows on the dry big toes
and how unkempt and wild it shows itself to the spring light.
It is meant to be quiet, without other things to do,
with a fresh pen and a new notebook.
This is _our_life! the Breeze sings, as she
wraps around my body and touches my hair
like a lover.
This shawl now comes in use,
tucking in my body from the chill,
and I see even more green on the notebook,
now that I’ve turned the page.

4/5

Because I Can

Because I can,
I make a little poem before I get out of these jeans
and sneakers and
finally get into bed,
when seven hours ago
I was hunched over my arms,
head on the table at Strange Brew,
somewhat afraid to come home,
but not sure I could tolerate much more
of out and about either.
So much conversation about future:
about how it’ll be for me when
this
and then
that
and also how it was for her
or for him
or how we suppose it must be
for her
or for him
or for me, for that matter,
cuz isn’t that just the way that
we tell each other how the other is
or will be
or should be.
"Remember,"
they say,
"that you know what to do in those moments,"
to which I say,
"to Hell with that,"
not meaning to be ironic or punning
but when Hell is where I’ve been hanging out anyway.
Three times this weekend
I heard Oliver Wood’s in-exchangeable voice —
this morning right there in the room —
just feet away, as if we were singing in my kitchen,
like I used to do when I had a kitchen,
late at night alone,
having been stopped on the way from
the bathroom to the bedroom
by the little guitar in its stand
and the quiet house
and the wooden chair
on whose lower bar
I’d prop my foot,
bringing up my thigh
to hold up my guitar.
That same foot is propped now
on the lower bar of the table
on which rests this computer
on whose smooth tablet
rest the heels of my hands
as I type,
stomach gripped while still in these jeans,
unnoticed until just now
when a breath comes to relax.
"Let’s get you out of that belt,"
says a voice in my head,
and me, pretending it’s that next love,
the one I can accept,
the one who says,
"Come, let’s take off those sneakers.
You know you can never wind down
til you take them off.”

travelry:

The Hanging Gardens Hotel in Ubub, Bali

Also I would like to go here with you. <3

I stay in beautiful places. #nomadinaustin

I stay in beautiful places. #nomadinaustin

Hearing Wharf Rat in Zilker Park.  #resting

Hearing Wharf Rat in Zilker Park. #resting

Sharing the passport renewal this time without giving away my ss# to all of social media. Or just a chance to show off my Maui love anklet again. #traveler #yes #readywhentheinvitecomes #warmweather #madeonmaui

Sharing the passport renewal this time without giving away my ss# to all of social media. Or just a chance to show off my Maui love anklet again. #traveler #yes #readywhentheinvitecomes #warmweather #madeonmaui

*1

The Sleepless Ones

What if all the people
who could not sleep
at two or three or four
in the morning
left their houses
and went to the parks
what if hundreds, thousands,
millions
went in their solitude
like a stream
and each told their story
what if there were
old women
fearful if they slept
they would die
and young women
unable to conceive
and husbands
having affairs
and children
fearful of failing
and fathers
worried about paying bills
and men
having business troubles
and women unlucky in love
and those that were in physical
pain
and those who were guilty
what if they all left their houses
like a stream
and the moon
illuminated their way and
they came, each one
to tell their stories
would these be the more troubled
of humanity
or would these be
the more passionate of this world
or those who need to create to live
or would these be
the lonely
ones
and I ask you
if they all came to the parks
at night
and told their stories
would the sun on rising
be more radiant and
again I ask you
would they embrace

~ Lawrence Tirnauer

♡