Manga Popart Butterfly

Manga Popart Butterfly

Saturday, December 2, 2017

Dear Universe:

Why me?  Why now?
How much loss can one heart stand
before ending it all: the pain & loneliness?
Why?  Why my fucking cats, for fuck's sake?
You took 2 of my cats from me!  WTF is that about?

Nobody wants an older woman.
Nobody even sees me.
I am a ghost in an invisible house.
No one sees me no matter where I go.
It's a painful thing, to be here but not...

I may as well be dead.

Why am I still alive?

December, 2017

Wednesday, September 6, 2017

Dear Autumn:

I was mowing the front yard,
one-fourth at a time, when
the pain forced me to rest.
Upon finishing a row,
one bright red leaf
fell on the sweetly-scented grass

and there you were:


Wednesday, June 7, 2017

Saturday, June 3, 2017

Dear Diary,

Do not ever forget this horrendous day.


Wednesday, May 31, 2017

Dear Diary,


Delicate purple striped blossoms
on strong, slender stalks,
soon to become indigo eggplants;
a bee in a sunshine yellow squash blossom,
bee-yellow, drenched in pollen; a royal violet Morning Glory,
it's tiny godlight shining brightly;
my garden, wild(!), wild(!) with new growth;
tomatoes, peppers, squash and beans...beans(!)

I tell you

it is all too much, too much---

May, you fertile, fecund bitch,
thank you, thank you, thank you!


Sunday, May 28, 2017

Dear Sunday,

You arrived, weeping---
your soft tears gave new life to
four Moonflower seeds.


Saturday, May 27, 2017

Dear Diary,

Were it not for the flowers,
& the blue dragonflies
I'd be long gone.


Wednesday, May 10, 2017

Dear Morning:

I wake with these lyrics
going round and round my head:

"And the days go by
like a strand in the wind
in the web that is my own
I begin again..."  ~Stevie Nicks, 'Edge of Seventeen'

I put the coffee on, then
head out the back sliding
glass doors to the patio.

The morning dew glistens on the 
freshly cut grass and
dragonflies dip and sip
like flying jewels,
wings sparkling
in the new day's sun.

I am present for this moment.
I'm alive and I see.
What more is there?

I water the garden.
The Bush Beans are
leaning, reaching
toward the rising sun.
The Squash blossoms 
vibrate with yellow-ness.
The Tomato leaves 
generously release
their unique fragrance---

The Catalpa tree
drops a blossom at
my dew-covered bare feet.
I look up...there are no blossoms
anywhere on the old tree.
A gift, this little Orchid-like
flower.  Thank you, tree.

Birdsong surrounds me,
a chorus of life and joy.

Thank you, Morning,
for your generous gifts.

Friday, April 28, 2017

Dear Garden:

Newly planted in fresh, organic soil---
the first rain is approaching.

Are your fragrant leaves
quivering in anticipation, or
in naked fear of the unknown?

Does the thunder rattling your roots
cause them to retract defensively or
shiver and expand at the unexpected thrill?

And what of the lightning flashing
like fireworks at midnight?
Are you confounded by illumination
in the obsidian darkness or are you
reaching skyward in eager anticipation
of the sporadic electrified light?

Do you feel the ecstasy of a tiny blossom
becoming a heavy, luscious, red tomato?

Do you recall the dry, embryonic safety
of the seed, the void from whence you came?

And when all your food is taken, ripped
from your stems---do you mourn the loss
or exalt in the hundreds of seeds
you so generously left behind?

O, garden, mirror of all of life,
how I envy your transitory,
fecund life...

Marion Lawless

Friday, April 21, 2017

dear e,

You are the color Indigo
on life's color wheel:
beautiful beyond imagining---
elusive, mysterious & hard to capture...

You are the softest paintbrush
(resting in the old tin peach can)
which paints silken, velvety
red Roses.

Your scarce, illusory words,
like seeing a rare songbird,
fill my hungry heart
and keep it beating strongly.

Thank you
for being---
& for seeing---


Wednesday, April 12, 2017

Dear Blank Page:

A day can be the blink of an eye
it can be an endless scream
of pain.

The dragonfly lives for only
a few short months
and it is enough.

Time is too long
and I'm weary of
the battle.

I want to rest in the
ashes of what was me...
where there is no more pain.


Saturday, April 8, 2017

Dear Sunshine: How I love You!!

Look how the hardy Zinnia loves the warm sunlight, reaching longingly, lovingly toward it's life-giving rays!  The ten cent pack of seeds transmogrified into a rainbow of colors, feeding the bees & Hummingbirds & my starving soul...for months on end.  This is vibrant, vivid, colorful, alive...seemingly endless---ENDLESS!!! But, but... the clock is ever ticking on the Zinnia & on you & me...tick-tock...tick-tock...tick.............

...and one fine morning you awake & wander to the Zinnias & sigh with deep sadness because they're desiccated, dry & dying (like me! like you!) & then...dead.  

Does nature mirror life or does life mirror nature?  Everything in nature lives again, seeds dropping wildly, carelessly, like dust to the wind...

I plant trees, herbs, vegetables & flowers obsessively...knowing each new tree will outlive me, but we're plugged into the life force that is endlessly whispering into our ears:  live...


Saturday, March 4, 2017

Dear Diary,

Oh, how I love rivers!  The metaphors they inspire are endlessly running through my spirit, feeding my soul, watering my body...Mama's baptism in the mighty Mississippi to washes away her sins...the fact that I can never step into the same river twice, the whoosh of the water as it decimates the magenta clay banks, the earthy smell of the much to ponder.

Our lives are a river, always in flux...flowing, flowing, flowing toward the ocean that is eternity...

I've been thinking and meditating on the rivers that have run through my life.  The Red River is my Mother, Teacher and Friend...the Mississippi, my first cousin.

Some river quotes I love.  xo, Marion

Who looks upon a river in a meditative hour, and is not reminded of the flux of all things? Throw a stone into the stream, and the circles that propagate themselves are the beautiful type of all influence. — (Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nature)

I do not know much about gods; but I think that the river
Is a strong brown god—sullen, untamed and intractable.
(T.S. Eliot, "Four Quartets," in The Dry Salvages)

The river itself has no beginning or end. In its beginning, it is not yet the river; in the end it is no longer the river. What we call the headwaters is only a selection from among the innumerable sources which flow together to compose it. At what point in its course does the Mississippi become what the Mississippi means? — (T.S. Eliot, Introduction to The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn)

Rivers are the primal highways of life. From the crack of time, they had borne men's dreams, and in their lovely rush to elsewhere, fed our wanderlust, mimicked our arteries, and charmed our imaginations in a way the static pond or vast and savage ocean never could. — (Tom Robbins, Fierce Invalids from Hot Climates)

Wednesday, February 15, 2017

Dear House:

We are mirroring each other.
Your roof is battered, leaking.
Me, too.

You are slowly rotting,
boards disappearing.
As am I.

You've been neglected
for more important things, like food.
I am the definition of neglect.

Nobody is caring for your foundation,
letting it crack and sink.
My heart is broken.

You exist for another's
shelter and comfort, not for yourself.


Tuesday, February 7, 2017

Dear Wind:

My Indian name is
"She who hears the wind."  I
gave it to myself on a
camping trip many moons ago,
sitting alone at a picnic table
in a national forest among majestic
Longleaf Pines.

Thank you, wind, for bending
and blowing the trees:
you strengthened their roots.

Thank you for scattering the
seeds of the Dandelion plant
---they grow everywhere---
so children can blow them
and make wishes &
butterflies can feed on them.

Without your breath,
the winchimes would remain
silent, with no songs to sing.

The leaves of autumn would
never fall, stuck in last year's

Kites would never have been
if there was no wind
to lift them
from the earth to the clouds.

And how would the mighty Hawk
soar without your invisible arms
to guide her?

Thank you, God,
for the wind.


Tuesday, January 24, 2017

Dear Winter:

Rain, rain, rain.

Humidity & teasingly
warm Southern air.
Ah, zone 9 winters,
so like life:  unpredictable.


Sadness sandwiched between
the rain-plastered leaves on
the Goji Berry bush.

Low, dark, menacing (tornado?)
The not-knowing,
the storm-fear---

season of death teasing life...
an annual event...
keeps you on your toes:


Winter, always pregnant with Spring
here in the South---
bulbs pushing skyward
before Christmas.

Tiny new leaves
sprouting at the
base of the Goji bush---

roots exposed from
the brutal rains...

Note to self:  add soil,
then mulch...again.

tied eternally together
from the moment
of conception.

Ouroboros alchemy
cycles of samsara.

Born to die or
born to live?

Your choice.



Wednesday, January 18, 2017

Dear Life:

Dandelions sprouting,
loosening winter's slippery, weak grip---
vain white Narcissus fully bloomed,
always first.

Forgotten Hibiscus
shyly peeking out
of the warming soil---
pink, fragrant,
blush-colored petals
opening, opening,
defining lush, fecund Spring---
new life
amidst the brittle barrenness
of last year's dead flowers.

Nature mirrors our life,
all our lives---

Dearest one,
go ahead...
choose your final season:


because it's coming.

Every year of your life
you've cluelessly
blindly past

the very
day, hour and minute
of your death.


Saturday, January 14, 2017

Dear Diary:

Tomatoes in January,
ice, snow, then heat,
summer-like heat...
typically typical
Louisiana weather.

Sadness, pain & rain...

Clouds & fog.

Hidden, engulfed,
illusions of safety.

Today the flute bird sang
me her 5-note tune.
I refuse to discover her
true name.

There must be mystery
or why exist?