Existence

I imagine a huge, flexible plastic bag,
Just large enough to fit in and move around,
but not large enough to breathe freely or see clearly,
through the dark synthetic, recycled rubber.
Large enough, though, to punch and fight and try to escape.
Eventually, however, there is resolve to sit quietly.
Panting, feeling my chest heave,
I perform the necessary duties of the day.
Eventually, I find out that the punches only stretch the lining,
they never penetrate or puncture,
so I stretch my eyeballs to see something.
beyond the smothering, smolten chemicals.
Can I do otherwise?

Life

Life in the Fast Lane

Isolation and violence parade.
Disguised in righteousness
hate or costumed in self-contempt.
Marching to the plan of abusive intrusion.
Biting and chipping and pulling and prodding,
lying and loathing, and laughing.
Acting the part, playing the game,
but never knowing the truth,
I listen, I watch, I tremble.
I know. I know you. I know the truth.
Pretending not to look, to listen, to know,
I endure the bitter turmoil that errodes me,
I no longer exist.
Keep watching.
Ressurect your dead.

Colleen Klaus

The Wrapper

I have been thinking about how everything is covered by something else.

Wrappers. Wrappings. Everything is wrapped. From as far as the eye can see, everything, and I mean everything, is covered. Everything has a wrapper, some sort of covering that either protects it, saves it, constructs it, but definitely in some way, small or large, distinguishes, defines and even disguises it. Very rarely is a product found, a package discovered, or person exposed in pure form. Even a newborn baby is enclosed within a womb that is enclosed within a human being that is enclosed within this visible world. What is not wrapped, covered or encased in something else?

The planet Earth is enclosed within the solar system; the ozone covers, hovers and essentially creates a protective layer for people and plants and all living things; identifiable buildings wrap themselves around people, but are they not also wrapped in brick and clay and cement that are wrapped in elements that are wrapped in other elements? Food is wrapped in shimmering, shiny paper and plastic packages and colorful foil, but isn't paper too wrapped in wood which is wrapped in trees that are wrapped in bark? Isn't the plastic packaged in chemicals?

Roads cover dirt. Brains are wrapped in skulls, and thoughts in minds, but what are minds wrapped in? Bodies are wrapped in skin that are covered with animal or synthetic skins. Feet are wrapped in shoes. Democracy is enveloped in principles and philosophies. Children are wrapped in security, wrapped in knowledge and wisdom. People are wrapped in ideas and beliefs and self-esteem and failings and pain and joy and good and bad and struggles and wealth and poverty and life and death and rise and fall and yesterday and today and tomorrow and forever as long as the Earth remains perfectly distanced from the sun, and nothing unexpected, such as a huge crater, covered in rock, or unusual or angry atom bomb, wrapped in science, from a disgruntled hero, who is wrapped in hate, which is wrapped in abuse or misunderstanding, want or power, decides to pull a trigger connected to a bomb that is covered in metal, covered in chemical explosives. What is truth wrapped in? What is peace wrapped in?

Are not truth and peace wrapped in knowledge, which is wrapped in education, which is wrapped in Science and the Arts, enabling the soul to reach beyond the wrappers and limitations, which is defined as learning, which is wrapped in schools but also in mothers, media, movies and images of aspiration that not only mold and shape, move and motivate, but also confuse and stumble because they are wrapped in gain which is wrapped in some sort of reason or purpose or plan that is wrapped in something that is either good or bad or happy or sad that covers the mind that covers the thoughts that direct the body to act.

Colleen Klaus

Today I will write about the gaping black hole.

The Gaping Hole

The hole was not noticeable. He never even knew that the gaping hole was part of him. He was a good man for the most part, and, of course, good depends on one's own definition, but for the most part he was a good man that desired good things for his life and his family. In other words, he wasn't completely selfish. At least to the best of his knowledge he did things for others. Whenever someone asked for his help, he usually performed the task willingly, and for the most part without grumbling or hesitation. His friends, however, were his life. He enjoyed the company of his friends and would talk and dream about the future and what he wanted out of life. His life would be different. He would make a lot of money; Money would fix everything. Money could repair all of the damages, and there were damages. He had created some of the damages to himself, but so had other people, but since life goes on and each new day brings a new beginning, there was plenty of time to make a good life and design it differently, do things differently, but what he didn't understand, what he could not possibly know, was that the very thing which had ruffled and displaced other designers, the unfamilar brush, would also attempt to paint his life.

The question he needed answered was one he could not formulate. In his striving, in his knowing and in his plan, he did not include the one part, the golden key, the missing link to his life's happiness. He had the vision, he saw the future with himself in it, different, but his compass lacked the one element that could guide his future and guarantee his happiness. Although he worked hard and had dreams, real concrete dreams, dreams that he could almost taste and touch and feel, they remained dreams. He still struggled to make them a reality. Money. Money. Money was all he needed, and he needed it five years ago, but being older now he needed it even more, but not just the money, it was the prestige that money bought. Money could make him the life of the party, the party giver or the party lender. He could be the guy everyone thronged to because people just naturally gravitate toward those with prestige and power, but what he had not realized, and maybe would never realize, was that money gradually and eventually, although always necessary and vital for a good life, the seeking of money for the sake of money, negligent of other related and important factors, was not the key to success or happiness and was eventually and gradually overwritten by the realities of existence.

When he went out to his favorite spot on Friday night, he did think about life, especially as he became familiar with one particular group who had been patronizing the place for the past few years. Unconsciously, maybe even hopefully, he watched this group interact over the past few years. This certain group met at the diner every week. They were in their late eighties and even some in their nineties. From their conversation, he had gathered that they had known each other for most of their adult lives. They dressed well, indicating money his in mind, in most minds, and they laughed and talked about kids and retirement and the possibility of declining pensions. What interested him most, being relatively youthful compared to them, was there sense of entitlement, which he so desired. Money was not a problem, or so it seemed, so what did they do; how did they live so long and so well, and how could he have it too, today, now. What he did not realize, and maybe never would, was they had worked hard and long and sacrificed and yes, been fortunate enough to have had promotions and employment for most of their lives, but they had endured. The obvious adornment didn't tell the story, and for the most part, it rarely does. The story is usually in the eyes or in the breadth of the shoulders or the gait or the understanding nod. It was the story of yesterday he could not listen to, nor did not want to listen, for the dollar signs were immediate. He had been told of the struggles one has to endure to succeed. He had been directed. He had been given the advice, but something deep within him rejected and always superseded the friendly advice. Was he impatient?


Colleen Klaus

Write 1

Since I opened this blog to discuss writing, and secondly, as a means of writing, and thirdly, since I have just a few followers, and since I will be primarily writing to myself, I will begin a summer journal on for the purpose of writing. My first entry is titled, today.

Today

Today it rains.
Inside, I listen
to the steady humming--
to the dispersion of water,
drenching subdivisions, sidewalks and streets
running from roof to gutter,
swishing into saturated sewers.
Inside, I listen
to the contemplative quiet,
of the Earth's drenching.
Outside, I cannot listen.
Running to the car or house or store,
I reject the inconvenient cold, wet moisture
that dampens my feet and floods my vision;
yet it offers drink to timbering trees,
sustains squirrels, birds and hiding chipmunks.
When was the last time I stood outside, in the rain?
To listen, to watch, to be nourished?
Indoors and Outdoors.
Internal and External rain.

Colleen Klaus