Read an Excerpt
A BETTER KIND OF MADNESS
Vivid Poetic Images
By Deborah Renee
iUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2011 Deborah Renee
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-5667-5
Chapter One
Earth Roads
Healing Leaves
Oh trees,
can you spare
a few healing leaves?
I will touch them
with my pen
and let the ink bleed
from wounds.
Bee Lessons
I feel nature's elixir
tickling my tongue,
flowing softly into my
throat.
Eyes closed,
immersed in the sweetness
that caresses my mouth,
fragrance permeates
my nostrils, unceasing,
until my mind clouds
with intoxication.
Joy is held still in the moment.
Warmth pours like the
Sun's oil in an unseen
aura as I become
the bee, thanking
these tiny pearls of liquid,
gold that once slept
in the heart of
the honeysuckle.
Walking the Country Road
I glance back, the view from here is vast.
The long serpentine country road reaches out,
surrounded by stoic trees that are moved only by seasons.
Standing tall as a massive army, the trees' only duty is to shade
lonely roads. Reaching through its winding paths, the road
seems serene but not content, beckoning me to return.
Was there something I forgot?
Knowing mystical roads speak loudly in stillness, I retrace
my paths. The amplified sound of crunching twigs and pebbles,
caused by the weight of my feet, reverberate in the hollow void.
Weary, I kick up dust until it swirls, blurring my vision. But dust
always wanes, and as it does, slowly I recognize the secret language
of old country roads that speak the wisdom of earth and trees.
Now, remembering, I bow to pick up fragmented pieces
of myself, scattered and strewn about. These abandoned shards
I gather from here and there,
long forgotten, now joyfully retrieved, become part of the whole
so I can continue the journey, restored.
And the wise country road nods, smiling.
A Kitchen Kind of Love
we made a potion
brewing with trust,
love, and devotion
in a cast iron pot
of simmering passion
over a slow-burning fire—
stirred it regularly,
seasoned tenderly
with a pinch of healing
herbs and spice,
then added our potion
to the stew of life.
Warm bread we ate
deliberately and slow,
savoring each bite—
giving strength to grow.
Immersion
Morning was sprouting, and with thirst
I drank visions of honey. Clouds curled,
leisurely on the ground, spraying soft mists
throughout the perfumed garden. The birds'
harmony vibrated like a hundred tiny chimes
throbbing upon realms of ether.
The newborn sun, wearing an amber
crown, sent a hint of pale yellow light that sliced
through the foggy mist in iridescent slivers,
causing flowers, leaves, grass, trees to sparkle
like polished porcelain. They all invited this
spectator in, seducing my consciousness with
intense belief that there was no better moment,
or anything mundane more important than
sinking into this ecstatic madness, becoming one
with their serene joy.
Mountain (Diamonte)
mountain,
high, majestic,
imposing, commanding, glowing,
alps, peak, meadow, pasture,
stretching, reaching, growing,
green, fertile
meadow.
Strangers
I am numb today.
Feelings, January-bitten,
are strangers
with blurry faces
that I don't care to know.
The sky sparkles
with unreal cheerfulness.
Clouds wink secret joy.
Even the dandelions,
feathered with thick
eyelashes of yellow velvet,
are smiling;
and I am bursting
with an urge
to step on them,
smashing their perfect
petals into the soil.
Sky, clouds, flowers:
they all look so annoyingly
happy, tugging on
my coldness.
Perhaps I should remove
this burdensome winter
coat and talk to strangers.
Jigsaw Puzzles
The dining room was a tiny square, always stuffy with residue from the coal-burning heater in the cellar. My maternal grandfather spread the box of puzzle pieces on the large rectangular table in the center of the room, a table usually reserved for Grandmom's buttery pound cakes, which she baked and sold to neighbors. When he was giddy with tickles from whiskey, Granddaddy rolled up his pants to the knees and did the Charleston or the Chuck Berry chicken dance. This was a hilarious sight as his long legs and arms flailed wildly in the air. Watching him during these times, it was obvious that he was in some hysterically wild world of his own, and was having a damn good time with it. My cousins and I loved it (Grandmom didn't). We would hold our stomachs in painful laughter and amazement, seeing our usually cool Grandfather act this way. We also loved these moments because we knew the routine: soon Granddaddy would begin to empty his pants pockets of all his loose change; and while dancing around the room, he would throw the coins across the floor for us to dive and tackle each other to fill our pockets with dimes, nickels and pennies.
Besides gambling, drinking, baseball, hunting possum for possum stew, and his skillful ability to suck raw eggs right from out of the shell, it was also Granddaddy's hobby to assemble jigsaw puzzles. Upon finishing, he would paste each puzzle on the dining room wall, neatly, in its own space. Eventually, all four walls, from top to bottom, were covered with his jigsaw puzzles, which always seemed to shock visitors. When they walked into the room, their heads would reel and their eyes would roll around trying to take it all in. As for me, I loved Granddaddy's puzzles and would sit, fascinated, watching him work his magic on the funny shaped puzzle parts. While he rambled on about his mother and his Cherokee grandmother from Georgia and her basket of herbs, her skill at "birthing babies," his days as a sharecropper and time in the Army, I could see his eyes twitching as he held each tiny puzzle bit between his long fingers like a rare diamond, turning it in the dingy yellow light. His mind would immerse itself into some other distant place and I thought I heard murmuring engines that beeped, gearing up with electrical energy that sparked inside his head, as he snapped together piece after piece as though he were joining their hands together.
Thus, I learned that life was a series of jigsaw puzzles; each individual puzzle represented a different phase of life with its mysteries and challenges to solve. Earth moved in predestined cycles, its cosmic story unfolds, fitting together like a puzzle; history stacks itself in different stages, repeating its patterns in new generations. I would help Granddaddy with putting the puzzles together, but would mostly fall asleep by the time he finished. The next morning, at the first scent of coffee brewing, I would eagerly run downstairs to see the latest portrait. And sure enough, there would be the latest puzzle pasted on the wall in its designated spot. For me, this was the best moment ... when I could see the total picture. Each puzzle displayed a different part of the world in glorious hues and textures. Perhaps this was also Granddaddy's way of traveling the world. I studied the details through the eyes of a six-year old; and I assigned each puzzle its own story. Time's metered seconds announced themselves from the wind-up clock on the telephone table in the far corner of the room, causing its soft ticking noise to drown out all other sounds. Within the room's bareness, the sweet aroma of coffee, the sharp smell of burning coals from the pot- bellied iron furnace in the cellar began to fade into a distant realm. As I studied the puzzles, each one became a world of animation; and I slowly floated into those worlds. My imagination was born into curious new places of discovery.
I strolled upon black opal cobblestones
in a summer garden, where fuzzy bees
placed honey on my lips and cobalt skies
dropped huge turquoise bubbles; each one was filled
completely with bright beads of the rainbow.
The bottoms of my feet burned as they sank
into golden powder in the middle
of the desert. The sun poured warm liquid
on my back while the Sphinx whispered to me
ancient secrets and mystical journeys.
At dusk, I climbed to the top of a green
checkered lighthouse, stained by time, and watched the
circles of wind cause the ocean to rise
up, salute, and then bow to the tanned seashore
as the scent of seaweed sprayed in the air.
I sat by a fireplace in a hut
and stared through icy windows to observe
the moon weave and sprinkle silver dust on
white velvet and then, with tender fingers, wrap
it upon naked branches and bare fields.
I browsed through an exotic marketplace
busy with colors and merchants. Woven
baskets and earthen jars competed for
coins. Silk garments swung in the breeze, and strong
spices mingled with the scent of jasmine.
In rejoicing, I ran along the bluff
through long, cool grass as the prairie trembled
from rhythms of wild horses carried by
spirit; their thick muscles rolled beneath tight
brilliant coats shining with brown, tan, and red.
I climbed up rings of time on a pewter
tree, held its leaves of brass, bronze, and copper
up to the sky, and gazed at their subtle
veins that shimmered like gold in the sunlight
that caused the green grain to burst through its sheaf.
I slid down rainbows to bounce onto clouds
like trampolines, and glided over storms
on the back of an eagle. Classical
music was the cricket's song; and I ate
moonbeams for popsicles on August nights.
The ticking clock became louder, luring me from somewhere far away. I looked around to see Granddaddy, tall and thin, standing in the doorway. He had just returned from work, and the bare wood floors resonated under his heavy construction boots as he walked into the room. He carried the familiar box under his arm. With a face of contentment, he quickly pushed Grandmom's cakes aside and poured the box's jigsaw bits onto the table as though they were precious silver dollars. As he scrutinized the puzzle pieces, Granddaddy submerged himself in a sea of concentration. I watched, circling on wings of anticipation; and as we hovered over tiny bits of colored cardboard scattered on the square table, our hearts merged.
Aromas (Nonet)
Grandmom baked cakes with pride and sold to
folks who found her cakes delicious;
the fragrance of vanilla
filled the air; when she was
finished with her cakes,
she'd always let
me brush her
long, thick
hair.
It's Like This and That
it's like this:
your spirit tingles for the vision you see, igniting
your soul with fire, the mountain
in the sky is real; and you can climb it.
bombarded with gloomy words from
outside and within, you close ears tight like a
window shut in anger, to insulate from drafts
of doubt that threaten to make a burning heart cold.
a fight against waves of exhilaration and fear, a flight
without wings, sailing without direction
as the earth removes itself from under your feet.
you stand, misplaced and isolated in thick woods, but
the trudge continues pulled by the gnawing
of thirst, and pushed by an unseen grace.
believing in yourself when no one else does, a refusal
to let go of the vision that's bursting into reality.
a genuine dream and joy of inner being that you
gasp for like air after being under water ... your
longing for it, so fervent, it's almost combustible
like fireworks in the night.
the passion of the spirit.
passion ... it's like that.
Cerebral
worms ate through
the caterpillar's shroud.
melted by the ruthless sun,
he gazed upon fields—
kicked the old paint-peeled
white bucket
full of ruby apples.
his hand squeezed
bruised purple fruit;
the sticky juices glided
through his fingers.
I wondered why he
lifted his crusty hands
to the southern winds,
sniffing dusty gold.
no time to study
his dull ceremony as I ran
to fields of coolness
where colors became gray.
here I lay sprawled naked
upon spongy emerald moss
moist from the sky's breath,
in all my absurdity
a tease to the eye,
cerebral vigor spikes
while I tattoo myself
in wicked obscurity.
Spring (Haiku)
Sun, ripe with yellow
penetrated the soil's chill,
waking tender sprouts.
Bluest (Haiku)
a sacred treasure
bluest beautiful planet
being stripped by greed.
Autumn (Haiku)
They painted themselves
shades of yellow, brown, red-gold,
settling down to sleep.
Anticipation (Tanka)
frozen silhouettes
branches of elegant form
in silence waiting
for the sun's golden satin
ribbons to wrap them in warmth.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from A BETTER KIND OF MADNESS by Deborah Renee Copyright © 2011 by Deborah Renee. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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