Category Archives: Karen Stephen Author

Courtesy of the heart

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To the reader: This poem was created from an incredible page published in a 12-step daily meditation book, which in turn was based on a quote by Goethe:

Goethe It gives me a goal to aspire to when my thoughts and actions are quite determined to go in a destructive direction.

courteous

POEMS FOR RECOVERY by Dr. Karen Stephen AKA DocFlamingo

courtesy of the heart
akin to love
out of which arises
pure courtesy in outward behavior

courtesy of the heart
seems detached
lacks the fervor of the vengeful heart
the disappointment of the longing heart
the envy of the seeking heart
the pain of the broken heart

courtesy of the heart
interferes not with the
life decisions of others
neither plays games
nor passes judgment
declines to give advice
has no need to seek approval
does not accept guilt
nor lays blame on others
appreciates
rather than criticizes

courtesy of the heart is
never snobbish
nor superior
finds no difference between
a president or a busboy
learns from everyone
welcomes new ideas
embraces strangers

courtesy of the heart
feels joy
instead of fear
sees with fresh eyes
even through tears

Fill the Space

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And if we look carefully we will discover that this empty space is a perfect God-shaped space waiting to be filled by our Higher Power with things far beyond our meager imaginations.

John White's avatarDoubleU = W

there is a space that exists

it stands hollow and empty

it is somewhere in your room

in a conversation

a lacking in your life

.

you rush to fill it

but not all spaces

must be occupied

.

allow for an emptiness

accept on occasion

a matter of nothingness

use the space as a respite

sometimes where there is nothing

there is the freedom

to catch your breath

to take a break

to bide your time

to contemplate

gather yourself

gain strength

place nothing where there is nothing

some spaces are meant to stand empty

—————————————————

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Mama’s boy

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breath held to fend off the
whiskey vomit stench
his small fingers inch the bottle from her
limp grasp
like a deadly game of pick-up sticks

empty jim beam bottlepours the dark liquid down the drain
buries Jim Beam in a
garbage grave

then dashes out leaving
screen door ajar

garage peeling paintporch steps breached
sneaks along the lee side of the
garage
dressed in peeling paint
tears through
old man Smith’s petunia patch
lungs on fire

blackberryreaches his secret place
on the far side of the
blackberry hedge
hits the ground hard
squeezing back tears

her voice
too distant to be heard
still clack clack clacks
in his ears
mean drunk helicopter words
slicing through his brain

the same small fingers
pluck dark berries from their
prickly cocoons
liquid stains his
fingertips
blood or juice
it doesn’t matter

The notebook

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IMG_0764vintage palms
suggest a
British empire hazed morning
a prim ruched bodice
gossamer covered arms
pen held delicately
scribbling a memoir of the
raj

five ninety-five price tag
on the back
speaks bargain store

if I remember correctly
(five years dim my memories)
a valentine’s gift
when I had a valentine
who celebrated my
writing

I meant to write on the
palm-shaded pages

IMG_0765but the end came before
a single letter was formed
before even the germ of a
literary thought
found its way from
my brain to the
virgin folio

which still lies unspoiled by
regret or rue
the void an
homage to
dreams unmet

Reunion

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old lovesa tight spot in my chest
aches from the inside out
I want to
rock my heart
sing it a lullaby

revelations slip out
roused from dark places
deep hurt
flash frozen at eighteen
unthawed after fifty years in
cold storage
singed by freezer burn

past bliss
squints in the bright light of today
losing definition
more chimera than
substance

a whiff of his cologne
provokes an intimate connection
did we breathe the same air
share the same bed
touch skin to skin
or was it all
illusion

bodies
changed with age and wear
connect
snap together with the strength of
opposite polarities
he startled by new feelings
me saddened by the irretrievable

serendipity joins two bare wires which
spark as eyes meet in
air charged with expectation

selves are turned inside out
frayed inner seams exposed
mine more than his
healing and disappointment are
stitched together in a
bitter-sweet quilt

my higher power watches
seeing if I can find my way
force myself into real choices
not hypotheticals

every desire is coated with the
plain truth of distance
age
health
lives rooted in different soils

old obsessions are defused
left lifeless on the floor
swept away by the stiff broom of
common sense

new understandings of the past are
shared
separate lives
filled with choices
some good
some lousy
thankful we didn’t visit those choices
on each other
we never divorced each other
a gift in and of itself
never fought over money or children
never nagged
never closed our ears

can we accept it was all meant to be
exactly as it occurred
paths ordained to diverge
amid pain and misunderstanding
predestined now to intertwine
just long enough to
uncover buried secrets

we part with a body memory that
no one else will share or
understand

our futures turn
practical
more in keeping with our
current lives
but this reunion
this unexpected reconciliation
lingers to sweetly
flavor reality

an accident of birth

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An inspiration for this Saturday morning as I revel in my disappointments, and offer a note of grace for yours.

J M Lysun's avatarJ M Lysun

different-lives

I get it!
It isn’t always easy being who we are.
We didn’t choose to be born,
or to find ourselves labelled at birth.
Why are we male, not female?
Black or white?
Why are we not as clever?
As healthy? As wealthy?
Where is the justice in being
tethered to a name that bears
little recognition, whilst others bask
in glories assigned to them by the past?
Are we wrong to expect more than our lot?
Wrong to curse our luck?
Or to feel envious as we look
across an ocean of divide
to see our dreams take
shape in other’s hands?

We kid ourselves
that all are equally blessed,
such things as wealth
are within the grasp of
each and everyone.
That those who stumble
do so through their own fault
or misapplication.
Blinded by privilege,
convenience often hides the truth
and paints dreams
to silence the voice

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I’m going on a field trip!

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concours PB

CLICK on POSTER to see all the fabulous POSTER ART created for the Concours over the years

The Blackhawk Automotive Museum is sponsoring a trip to the Pebble Beach Concours d’Elegance. The perfect “field trip” for this classic car enthusiast. We’ll meet at the Museum in Danville at the crack of dawn on Sunday, August 16th, and return late that night, riding in a VIP coach with all the amenities. They’ve added a travel fee on top of the regular Concours ticket price of $300, but seeing it just once in my lifetime in person is well worth the tariff. There will even be a Museum docent led tour from someone in the know.

My original plan was to attend the Rolex Motorsports Reunion at Laguna Seca that weekend, but I’ve done that several times. So I’ve chosen quiet elegance over the roar of engines to satisfy my classic car fetish for this year.

For anyone who is jealous and lives in the SF Bay area, there are still some seats left on the bus (there will be pickups in San Jose as well). Just contact the Blackhawk Museum.

IMG_0411

The house

IMG_0701

The morning view of downtown Oakland and SF Bay beyond from my little patio on the ground floor (behind the lower railing on the house pic

P.S. For those of you who have mentioned my recent lack of posts, I’ve been deep in the throes of a move from Contra Costa County to the Oakland hills, moving in with my daughter and her family so that my bilingual granddaughters can go to kindergarten and preschool at two different French schools in the Oakland/Berkeley area. The little one will attend Ecole Bilingue and the older one the new Francophone Charter School, where her mother will be the curriculum director.  A guided tour to the Concours will be a welcome change from all the weeks of packing and unpacking.

 

Love No One

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A poetic take on unrequited love that bears a truth that begs to be rewritten by a more hopeful heart

John White's avatarDoubleU = W

I don’t blame you

there are no hard feelings

the truth may be a different matter

though I am capable of love

I am not able to love anyone

the way that I love you

I had reserved everything

held it all back for you

it’s not possible to give

that or anything to you now

leaving me with only one choice:

.

because no one else is you

I will love no one

—————————————————-

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finding a comfort zone

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At a time when my life is in flux big time, these poetic words are a comfort.

J M Lysun's avatarJ M Lysun

A dust storm envelops houses in Stratford, Texas, 1935. These massive storms, called ‘black blizzards’ or ‘black rollers,’ could reduce visibly to just a few feet.

like dust in the wind-
with time, doubts eventually
set on familiar ground

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sad memories

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A few days ago as I packed and sorted through boxes that I have carried, unopened from house to house, town to town, I discovered my mother’s turquoise jewelry box. Inside a jumble of Fifties and Sixties pearls and pendants, I found a locket. I wondered if I would find my photo inside. I found only a photo of my older brother when he was three, the age when I would have been born, and a cold empty, gold space on the other side. These lines from poet JM Lysun say it all.

J M Lysun's avatarJ M Lysun

tears-from-dreams

hidden deep in dreams
abandoned tears once more
seep into my life

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