30 Days of Haiga 2021: Method to Madness (Double Haiga)

 

Background image by Simon Hurry on Unsplash

Text art and effects by Ornery Owl (Cara Hartley)

Sharing With

Word Prompt: Method

https://girlieontheedge1.wordpress.com/2021/09/19/sundays-six-sentence-story-word-prompt-178/

https://poetsandstorytellersunited.blogspot.com/2021/09/weekly-scribblings-88-equinox.html

Notes if you Need 'Em

Though you don't have to read 'em

Just read the poem if you'd rather

I was inspired by the second and third poems offered for inspiration by Poets and Storytellers for the Weekly Scribblings, though my interpretation might be a bit obscure. 

My heart is indeed jaded, and reason would be welcome, but there is neither reason nor compassion when dealing with government agencies. I see them for what they are: sadistic and soulless collectives that delight in keeping people who are struggling downtrodden. 

I worked as long as I possibly could to avoid having to deal with these Nazgul. Then the day came when the final body part gave way and I couldn't work anymore. I still don't have full range of motion in my left arm and I have to use an upright walker to go more than very short distances.

The knotted, grinding feeling in my stomach and the grinding of my teeth are courtesy of SSDI, Medicare, Medicaid, and the Inhumane Services department here in Shitkicker County. My jaw hasn't ached this much in months.

I started receiving disability payments back in February. Can't live without 'em, but I'd rather not have to live with 'em. 

I was doing fine with SSD plus Medicaid. Then, here comes Medicare. The benefits from Medicare are quite good, but they cost me $140 a month...

Which comes out of my disability check...

The check which just covers bills with a little left over for food and fuel.

The bulk of our household's food comes from the food bank, but it's still necessary to buy some meat and cheese. 

Anyway, I was told to contact Medicaid and have them pay my Medicare premiums.

Which they won't.

Why?

Because my disability check grants me a generous sum of $1390 per month.

The cutoff for Medicaid to pay my Medicare premiums is $1308 a month.

You can read the following links to see how disability screws people.

https://news.cornell.edu/stories/2005/08/people-disabilities-are-forced-poverty-trap

https://blurredbylines.com/articles/ssi-disability-benefits-2k-limit-poverty-able-accounts/

https://ncd.gov/newsroom/2017/disability-poverty-connection-2017-progress-report-release

A person on disability is not allowed more than $2000 in savings.

A person on disability is only allowed one vehicle. So, if you think it would be good to have an auxiliary vehicle in case your main vehicle is in the shop? Ha! You fool, you!

What little money I make comes from doing book reviews. In a good month, I may make $150. Most of the time it's less.

My son and I are being allowed to live in the house where we reside rent-free, courtesy of my ex-husband who owns the house. He used to help us monetarily, but his reserves are tapped. 

I try to have a semi-positive attitude, but lately I want to scream, cry, and throw bricks at Congress and any smug one percenter who spouts off about the trickle-down theory. Also at the space cadets Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos. I'm trying to keep it PG-13 here, but as my late father would have said, these people can go pound sand. 

So, there's my story, it's sad but true.

I surely hope it don't happen to you.

~Ornery Owl Has Spoken~

I wish I could be doing this

Free-use image from Open Clipart Vectors

The Icky, Sticky, Nit-Picky Legalese If You Please (Or Don't Please)

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Food Bank feast

 

Free Use Image by Jamie Nast on Pixabay

https://pixabay.com/photos/turkey-roasted-thanksgiving-feast-448992/

eighteen-pound turkey

courtesy of the food bank

leftovers for days

~cie~

https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/2020-november-pad-chapbook-challenge-day-22

Write a bird poem

https://poetsandstorytellersunited.blogspot.com/2020/11/writers-pantry-47-breathe-in-words.html

note time

If all you wanted was the poem, you're done. See ya! Because now it’s time for the Power Haibun portion of the post. Buckle up, Bitches, ‘cause it’s gonna get wordy!

Every third Sunday, there is a food bank at the church in the little town where I live. There are two households in my house. My son and I make up one household and our unrelated housemate makes up the other. As Thanksgiving is coming up, each household got a turkey.

A giant turkey.

An eighteen-pound turkey.

I will be slow-roasting one of the turkeys all day and overnight starting at about noon tomorrow. Then early Thursday morning, my son and I will make the approximately 125-mile drive to my mother’s house. We will have a Thanksgiving lunch, and then my son and I will head home with a butt-ton of leftover turkey.

The food bank is a wonderful resource. I’ve heard people tell bad stories about food bank volunteers. One of my neighbors in the mobile home park where I used to live said that when she went to the food bank, one of the volunteers said to her: “why do you need to come here when you drive a car like that?”

She had a new car because her mother had given it to her.

The food bank where I live does not ask for proof of income. The food is surplus donated by grocery stores. It would be thrown out if it wasn’t given to people.

Today is Tuesday.

I went to the psychological evaluation part of my disability determination process.

I’ve been accused of being a space cadet, but it’s pretty certain that I don’t have dementia.

I do have depression and anxiety. I’ve had those pretty much my entire life. However, the reason I applied for disability is more because of my physical malfunctions than my psychological aberrations.

I have a lawyer, so I hope that will work in my favor. Because I’ve spent almost everything and am now worried about paying next month’s bills.

That’s 369 words

What follows is the CYA and promotional material that appears on every post.

Thanks for reading.

Have a happy Thanksgiving if you celebrate such.

If you don’t, have a good day either way.

This prosery was posted to these places:

http://poetryofthenetherworld.blogspot.com

https://lbry.tv/@poetryofthenetherworld:9

http://www.goodstufffromgrover.com

The Icky, Sticky, Nit-Picky Legalese If You Please (Or Don't Please)

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Our Last Stand

 

Free use image by Peter H on Pixabay

https://pixabay.com/photos/gang-floor-pforphoto-house-4058017/

When I was young, I believed that my dreams would come true eventually if I just believed hard enough. I believed that when I wished on a star that fairies or angels would work to make my wishes come true.

I believed that if I worked hard, I would be accepted into the Magical World of Shiny Happy People that lay beyond the Wall of Despair.

Then my body failed me.

My son and I moved away from the city to a town far from anywhere.

My Big Bright Dreams are dead and gone, but I believed that perhaps a few people would pay a few dollars to read my little stories.

My money is gone.

I had one last chance

to turn defeat to triumph

I failed our last stand

there is nothing behind the wall

except a space where the wind whistles

 

144 words

Prompts used:

D’Verse Poets: Write a piece of prose incorporating the given verse.

https://dversepoets.com/2020/11/09/of-houses-walls-and-whistling-winds/

The verse is:

“there is nothing behind the wall

except a space where the wind whistles”

from “Drawings By Children” by Lisel Mueller

What I wrote is a non-standard Haibun. For those who don’t know, a Haibun is a piece of prose followed by a Haiku. Mine is non-standard because I placed the two lines above at the end of the Haibun. I originally had them at the beginning of the piece, but I thought they worked better following the Senryu.

If this form goes utterly against the prompt, the hosts of the hop can feel free to remove my link. I won’t take it personally. I’m too damn tired.

What I wrote is not fiction. It is the Reader’s Digest Condensed Soup version of an entirely autobiographical situation. I would not recommend eating too much of this soup. It will give you heartburn and a bellyache.

The November PAD Chapbook Challenge prompt for today was to write an “our blank” poem. The title of the Haibun is “Our Last Stand,” and those words also appear in the Senryu portion following the prose.

https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/2020-november-pad-chapbook-challenge-day-9

The word of the day is Triumph, which also appears in the Senryu. I have to say that I feel anything but triumphant in this moment. In fact, I feel like I’m going to hurl.

https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2020/11/09/triumph/

This poem was posted to these places:

http://poetryofthenetherworld.blogspot.com

https://lbry.tv/@poetryofthenetherworld:9

LBRY is a decentralized content marketplace. I price the PDF versions of my work at approximately half of the Kindle price because I receive the entire amount rather than a royalty percentage.

You can get a free LBRY account through this link. You can earn LBC for viewing content on LBRY as well as from selling your content.

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disability

 

Free use image by John Hain on Pixabay

https://pixabay.com/illustrations/aggression-attack-oppression-bully-683910/

there goes that weird woman, the people say

she's curvy, but not in the right way

an imagination that's wild

is all right in a child

but she should know better by now

she doesn't make any money

she walks kind of funny

she has a crooked leg

her kind should be forced to beg

she really ought to know better

I'm spontaneous, she used to say

but the truth is, she wasn't that way

her sense of priorities is bent

the money she brought in was fast spent

because she didn't know better

she deserves to be in poverty

because she can't rein in her anxiety

she should be ashamed to show her face

since she failed in the rat race

she really ought to know better

she's everything that no-one wants

hiding in the house she haunts

anybody so odd

is fatally flawed

and she really ought to know better

how audacious of her to believe

that her suffering should be relieved

she deserves to be shamed

for her broken body and brain

she really ought to know better

~cie~

http://www.octpowrimo.com/2020/10/octpowrimo-day-30.html

The fact that people are made to feel ashamed for needing assistance is unconscionable. I worked mostly in physically demanding jobs for 35 years. Now that I am no longer able to work, I am seen as worthless and the process for attempting to get disability is ridiculously long and drawn out. They really do not want to help anybody. 

It is difficult not to get discouraged. Every day I hope that maybe today someone will buy one of my books. But no-one ever does. I'd say I don't know why I bother, but I do. Its because I don't know how to do anything else and I don't like to do anything else. I know, you should do it for yourself and not the money, and I do, but sometimes it sucks when you know that you are just spinning your wheels like a goddamn zombie hamster that's too stupid to realize it's dead.

Want more disenchanted poetry?

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This poem was posted to these places:

http://poetryofthenetherworld.blogspot.com

https://lbry.tv/@poetryofthenetherworld:9

LBRY is a decentralized content marketplace. I price the PDF versions of my work at approximately half of the Kindle price because I receive the entire amount rather than a royalty percentage.

You can get a free LBRY account through this link. You can earn LBC for viewing content on LBRY as well as from selling your content.

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The Icky, Sticky, Nit-Picky Legalese If You Please (Or Don't Please)

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Quoting portions of the post for educational or review purposes is acceptable if proper credit is given.

Tan Renga Wednesday on Friday: Last Leaf

Image Source

a last leaf

swirls on the wind towards the east -

first snow falls gently

the falling snow is pleasant

the icy roads are not so

~Chèvrefeuille & cie~

notes

The Hokku stanza was written by Chevrefeuille. The Ageku was created by me. I do like the snow, but I hate driving on icy roads. I've had a couple incidents when doing so which left me with a bit of PTSD. I tend to tense up when I have to drive on icy roads, which makes doing so a bad idea.

I will try to catch up with the poems over the next few days. I was working on a short story for blog.reedsy.com. If you are looking for a short story contest with no entry fee, they have a weekly contest here. Go to the apps section of the page and choose "story prompt."

Also, if you're looking for help with editing or publishing your book, you can look at what Reedsy has to offer here. Using that link will get you $25 credit on any of Reedsy's services.

I believe I may have had another TIA. There always tends to be a cognitive shift when one of these happens. It's hard to explain. It isn't as if I'm having short term memory issues (well, no worse than I ever did). It's simply that the WAY I think changes. At this point, I find myself needing to be a little more measured in my output. I get tired very easily. It's frustrating because although I've never been a Type A personality by any means, I've always been very productive.

I know that I'm vulnerable to vascular problems because of my diabetes. Well, I'm perfectly happy to keep my blood sugars in check, which I can do if I have, you know, ADEQUATE INSULIN! Which my health care provider and Medicaid seem to be conspiring not to provide me. Going without insulin for weeks at a time is, I don't know, a bad thing when you're diabetic. 

The elite devils in charge of things don't care about that, though. They want the poor and the handicapped dead. Of course, then they won't have anyone to do the menial jobs that they revile, but I wouldn't give them too much credit for being smart.

Yeah, I said "handicapped" instead of the more politically correct "disabled." I honestly don't see what the difference is. I can apply both to my own condition, and I don't find either one offensive. Sometimes people become so busy picking nits that they forget to work on the issues that really matter.

Sandcastle Creations

Image by Marjon Besteman-Horn from Pixabay

I remember playing in the sandbox as a child

Hands digging into warm orange-golden grains

My sandcastles were, in reality

Nothing but cloddish bucket shapes

But, languishing in my imagination

I saw them as wondrous perpendicular spires

Climbing up and up to dizzy heights

Where a virtuous knight played out his heroic role

In the theatre of my mind

I couldn’t have imagined then

How pedestrian my life would become

No longer able to earn a stable income

I sit before the computer’s typewriter keyboard

Praying that the laconic moments

Will be few and far between

As I attempt to form a story

Of a dashing but broken hero

Through the curtains I see shadows of branches

~Cie~

Notes:

I chose the picture because from the back, at any rate, this is very much what I looked like as a child. There is no way I could have known what would become of me or my life. If that little girl had known what kind of worthless and hideously ugly creature she would become, she wouldn't have wanted to live.

I didn't stay cute for long. Even around six years old, it was becoming apparent that I had a terrible overbite. Two years of braces and that dreadful Martian headgear left me with a crossbite, which doesn't play a part in my appearance, but it is uncomfortable. It also left me with dead nerves in a couple of my front teeth and it couldn't close the gaps between my teeth. I ended up having to get an abscess removed, root canals, and caps on my six top front teeth to hide the remaining gaps and the fact that my left front tooth and left incisor are black from the nerve damage.

Dental veneers can hide how ugly my top front teeth are, but nothing can hide how ugly my face is as a whole, unfortunately. I am not at all a good-looking person, and in a world that is biassed towards a certain type of beauty, it has hurt me very much to be as ugly as I am.

November PAD Chapbook Challenge 2019: Day 7: Angie Blue

Image by Alexander Lesnitsky from Pixabay

in a time that came and went long ago

whether I was taking down my walking cane and hat

or wrapped up in my bell-bottom blues

I guess you could call me Angie Blue

I was that girl who lived my life in the songs I heard

on the rock and roll radio

I dreamed of wide spaces and endless love

and maybe if I'd been pretty

instead of an ugly duckling girl

maybe I'd have found something more

than fire that quickly turned to ice

and shallow-hearted boys looking for a hookup

that didn't last any longer than a song

you could call me Angie Blue

the ugly duckling girl who learned the truth

that there will never be a prince who rides along the sea and the mountain

my collection of colorful hats now sit collecting dust

my walking cane is now used to support

a body that doesn't work very well

the boys who wanted a good-time girl

are now middle-aged men cheating on their wives

with foolish young women not much older than I was then

I suppose it was better to live my truth

then to get caught up in a web

of love that was no more than lies

but I have been lonely

there is no one and only

unless you count only lonely me

footloose in my mind

with a body that can't dance in reality

and not so fancy or free at all

~Cie~

Note:

The November PAD Chapbook Challenge prompt for today asked for a poem about an article of clothing. I thought about the song Rubber Band Man which begins: "hand me down my walking cane, hand me down my hat" and of another favorite song from the same era, Bell Bottom Blues. The rest of it just flowed. The other songs referenced are Albatross, Angie Baby, At Seventeen, Endless Love, Factory Girl, Fire and Ice, Footloose, Jackie Blue, and Only the Lonely.

I was never the pretty girl that all the boys wanted to take to the dance. I was always the ugly duckling that sat on the sidelines, and guys sometimes asked me to dance if they thought that someone as dowdy as me would be desperate enough to do what they wanted. Usually, I knew better, which made them angry.

OctPoWriMo 2019: Day 16: Harried to the Grave

Image by fancycrave1 from Pixabay

it does not matter

matter one measure if

if you measure your time

time on an Apple watch

watch your time on an old

old beat-up analog tick-tick 

tick-tick the sound

sound as time is running out

out of your wasting life

life where triumphs come

come slowly and don't seem

seem to stick around at all

all the while your life is wasting

wasting away fast as a wish

wish you would stop

stop giving away 

away all your me time

time to see time as

as a commodity time

time does not come free

free time does not align

align with being a successful

successful mess who never

never ever stops

stops to wind her old watch

watch time slip away 

away until one day 

day when there are

are no more days

days are numbered from the first

first moment you take a breath

breath that leads to death

death comes for us all

all of us must fall

fall back into the time

time when time didn't matter 

matter meant nothing

nothing meant anything

anything was possible

possible dreams

dreams become schemes

schemes become obsession

obsession consumes life

life becomes lie

lie down and die

die and become

become as you were before earth

earth before your birth 

birth

earth

~Cie~

Note:

I was always one of those "I'll sleep when I'm dead" kinds of people. I worked long hours at physically taxing jobs. I worked long weeks filled with long hours. I was proud of being able to push myself well past the limits. 

My diabetes got worse, I had a small stroke, and I had a severe injury to the median nerve in my left arm. My ability to work long hours at physically difficult jobs was gone forever. At the point when I had a small stroke, I was fired from my job as a home health nurse.

I live with fairly frequent suicide ideation, but the actual planning levels are pretty low as a rule. After I was fired, I started making plans to commit suicide because I felt like the world's worst fuck-up, like without my job I was nothing. 

This is not going to be one of those "oh, but I'm so glad I didn't because I found God, got down to a single-digit pants size, somehow started looking half my age, married GQ Cover Model Guy, and now my life is a Hallmark Channel movie" stories. 

Nah.

Still a crabby, fat, romanceless, agnostic, middle-aged, broke-ass curmudgeon. Still would be homeless if it wasn't for my son's kindness. 

But I am glad I didn't commit suicide because if I had I wouldn't have been able to help my son get this house, and I wouldn't have found me.

Me is kind of an asshole, but we're on better terms these days now that I've had the time to get to know her a little.

Also, I have a feeling that sometimes those Hallmark Channel happy crappy stories about pretty people hooking up and living happily ever after might even make some people depressed. Like, you know, me. I think some people may need to know that an old crabby fat bitch learned that old, crabby, fat bitches have something to offer too without changing one fucking thing about themselves.

Carpe Diem Renga with Issa: Sparrows

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spring peace--

after rain, a gang war

garden sparrows

the seeds that I have planted

are a victory buffet

don't let the plum blossom guard

cut your tongues...

Sparrows! 

let voices be a whisper

until you are safely past

are the sparrows too

having a private party?

plum blossoms

no, I was not invited

I now watch from the window

while I watch

he's off to make a living alone...

baby sparrow

sometimes the ones who leave home
invite the parents to stay

living in harmony--

the sparrow has

both parents!
will the parents be able
to live in harmony too?

on the tip of the

newly sprouted bamboo...

a baby sparrow
a small and innocent thing
in a world without a heart

~Issa and Cie~

Notes:

The Hokku stanzas in these Tan Renga verses were composed by Kobayashi Issa (June 15, 1763 – January 5, 1828). The Akegu stanzas were written by me.

The Akegu in the last three verses are references to my son, without whose kindness I would be homeless. The property he bought will eventually also become home to his father who is currently living in Arizona helping his own father. When his father passes, he will sell the place in Arizona and move here.

We were divorced in 1994 when our son was four years old, and we have lived in roommate situations since then, although I was always relieved when he moved on to something else if I am honest. That probably won't happen this time, due to compromises in his health as well as mine. However, this is a big enough place that we should be able to keep from killing each other.

About Cie Monday + Inspire Me Monday #241+ Promote Yourself Monday + Carpe Diem Acts of Devotion 2019: Adam's Peak

Image Source

I can only dream

of walking up Adam's Peak

body compromised

~Cie~

Notes:

Once we are fully moved into our new home, I would like to begin practicing remote viewing again. I will also be taking daily walks to the park and hope to increase my endurance enough to be able to walk from one end of the main street to the other. Grover is a very small town, so I don't want you-all thinking: "Wow, Cie, impressive goal walking twenty miles!" 

I would also like to rehabilitate myself to the point where I can walk up a set of stairs without having to pull myself up using the banister or to lean against an opposite wall to support myself. However, one thing I need to avoid is making this a shame-based goal, i.e. calling myself a loser because I need to support myself to climb stairs. We are taught from the time we are very young that it is shameful to be in a lesser state of physical ability than a competition class athlete, and I'm not being particularly hyperbolic when I say this. It's horrible.

Your physical abilities and disabilities are not a marker of success or worthiness. They are simply conditions that exist.

With physical therapy, I was able to bring my left arm back to a state of functionality where I'm not in constant debilitating pain. I still don't have the full range of motion in the arm. I am not a better person for having an arm that functions reasonably well than I was when I had an arm that I could barely use, and having an arm that was fully functional and had normal sensations would not make me a better person than I am now.

Physical ability is not a hallmark of greater worth, and physical disability is not something that people should be punished for.

Visit us at www.goodstufffromgrover.com. We're nearly there! The moving truck comes Friday!

Come as you Are: J.O.B. to Poor but Free

Image by Grae Dickason from Pixabay

This poem describes very well how I felt about being in the Employee Mindset for nearly 40 years. The line "grey upon greyness" is particularly evocative.

That's exactly how I feel about the Life of an Employee working a J.O.B., which I did from the time I was 16 years old until this year when my disabilities knocked me out of the working life for good. (I'm 54 now and am working from home.)

There were some things about the jobs I did that I liked, but, overall, it was an extremely soul-destroying situation. I absolutely felt like I had to give up bits of myself all the time.

I certainly don't like living in poverty, which I am at this point. However, one thing is true which it never was when I was working a J.O.B. (stands for Just Over Broke). I am really and truly myself, not someone else's servant. On a soul level, that is tremendously freeing.

~Cie~

Troiku Challenge 2019: Day 2: My Native Town

Image by David Mark from Pixabay

my native town

far, far away--

burgeoning trees.

my native town

i never fit anywhere

and now i must go

far, far away--

i make a new life happen

i will still see you

burgeoning trees

buffeted by prairie wind

my new home is here

Santoka Taneda & Cie

Notes:

The Sleigh portion of the Troiku was created by Santoka Taneda (3 December 1882 - 11 October 1940). The three "horses" were created by me.

I was born in Denver, Colorado on 15 February 1965. My parents were actually living in Laramie, Wyoming at the time. I was born in the middle of a blizzard at 6 A.M. and have caused nothing but trouble ever since.

After my brother was born on 17 March 1969, my parents moved to Albuquerque, New Mexico so my father could finish his doctorate. We lived in a rundown house in a bad part of town. There were fire ants, black widow spiders, and cockroaches the size of school buses. However, we had a half acre of land and were allowed to have chickens. We planted corn and beans. There were horned toads and skinks. The neighbor had pheasants and bees. He was an okay guy who pretty much kept to himself. His wife was a fire-and-brimstone Fundamentalist who called me a filthy slut for taking my shirt off on a hot day. I was four years old at the time.

A New Mexico accent is similar to a Texas accent, and when we moved back to Colorado when I was ten years old, all the other kids ridiculed the way I talked. I was already shy, and this led to me becoming even more withdrawn. I always hated school. I was never well-liked or anything even in the same zip code as popular. To this day, I still hate the sound of my own voice and I hate when people ask the innocent question of "where are you from?" My knee-jerk reaction is to answer "Mars," because I've never felt like I belonged on this planet.

Many, many years later, I live in the suburbs of Denver, but it costs too much to keep living there. Denver is one of those cities whose working classes can't afford to live there. A condo or small townhouse in Denver costs around $250,000, and then the owner still has to pay HOA fees which average $600 per month in the Denver area. The average salary for someone in the working classes in the Denver area is $12 per hour. See how that doesn't add up?

For someone who is disabled, things are even worse. There is a waiting list to even be considered for subsidized housing. The homeless population is growing by leaps and bounds. Even a modest apartment is out of reach for people in the working class.

Thus, people in the working class are moving out of cities like Denver to rural areas. If they continue working in Denver, they have a long commute. If they are unable to continue working, they end up on the dole. 

My son and I are moving to Grover, which is approximately 110 miles northeast of Denver. He has a modest amount of money being given to him by his father following the sale of farmland. This money allows for the purchase of a six-bedroom historic hotel and renovations on said structure. Property taxes in this area are low. The average person living in this area falls below the median income for the state and many fall below the poverty line. My son and I are among the people who fall below the poverty line. We are both disabled and neither of us can work conventional jobs.

Moving to this place is a risk but also an opportunity. 

It is also our last hope.

Here's to Grover, my last stop on the journey, and possibly the first place I'll truly feel I can call home.

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