MY VERY IMPERFECT BROADCHURCH THEORY...

It's actually a DoctorWho/Marvel Mashup Series in Disguise!

The Doctor plagued by guilt and suffering in a very depressed state is hiding from his feelings in a Chameleon Arch. He has taken on the persona of DI Alec Hardy. Ellie Miller is his faithful companion who always follows his lead, albeit reluctantly and never to his demanding standards. (Joe Miller- before "DI Hardy" arrived- felt ignored and lonely because Ellie was a bit distracted what with her time traveling and all. Because of Ellie's treating Joe the way that Clara Oswald treats Danny Pink, Joe got all messed up with the whole Danny Latimer thing... but that was last season.) Gwen Cooper is undercover as Claire Ripley Ashworth trying to solve one of Jack Harkness's mysterious disappearances and thinks Lee Ashworth may be involved. The Sandbrook case is a cover for the actual events surrounding Jack's disappearance. Unbeknownst to all, Lee is The Master regenerated. That is why he seems to know so much more than everyone else. But he doesn't know that Claire is Torchwood agent, Gwen Cooper. He is controlling all the events that are occurring around Alec (amnesiac Doctor), Ellie and Gwen--- well, except for the crazy that is the residents of Broadchurch. They are just Hella Messed UP!!!--- The Master did steal a piece of jewelry, but it wasn't a necklace (again, that's all a cover). He stole Jack Harkness's Vortex Manipulator. With it, he travelled to the 1940's, took on the alias of Edwin Jarvis and worked his way into a position of trust with Howard Stark. Who do you think was really behind all that Leviathan stuff? The Sandbrook events are related to the Stark items that The Master brought back with him to the current time.

So basically, The Doctor is once again caught in one of The Master's elaborate games. 

#Broadchurch #DoctorWho #Torchwood #MarvelsAgentCarter #BBCAmerica

miscarried (they've taken something away)

I am holding my own empty hands
To remember how yours felt
It must have never happened
There were no tweets no blogs no proof
I must have felt it mattered
Only a small amount of matter
That drifted off in an early morning beam of light
I watch the memories of things that never happened 
Burn golden then
Disappear 

 

Jesus and the giant loom

Only good things should dance in children's heads
In the dark

Jesus took his great big loom
And set it up inside my room
He weaved some dreams and tucked me in
I don't know how to end or where to begin

Tiptoed stair treads sofa sat still
Mother's love, Father's love 
Window sill
But the screen is black
And night is too
Ready to climb back upstairs with you

The weaver story was so very upsetting
You know the one about
Jesus and the giant bolt
Of lightning?

tandem jump

Ten minutes
Please wait

Ten minutes more
That's all

I really need to leave
Now

But ten minutes more
I dare not breath

Only ten minutes
No time at all

If we count the weighted years
Ten minutes is no time at all

How far is a ten minute fall?
The gravity of our equation? 
I fall far faster still
Measured in this rapid heart beat
The time it took me to leave

My feet

Above
...
... 

Why is it called "falling in love"?

When it feels so much

...Like flying?

wednesday morning repo

Parking violation
Possession and repossession
Never owned
Belonging is a matter of opinion
Cloud grey is everyone’s birthright
The sun is our collective blessing
Our ultimate curse
Holes burned through our birthright

The will never included you
But your will was stronger than mine
Even as my eyes fixed on the future
I woke to the present
You beside me
Peaceful and smiling in the morning

Hearts were broken last night
By those with bad habits
I vowed I’d not be a taker
But things get lost
In the maelstrom of circumstance
And you do what you have to
To survive

Promises whispered
Mingle with dreams
In the dark
Solidly here
Nobodyelse will come to claim me
I sip my tea in peace

Keep the door locked
Against thieves
But fire snatches faster
With fingers far more cruel

The opposite of love
Is not hate
But who cares
I have been burned
The scars are why you do not
Come for me

mo haiku? super!

someone asked for a haiku about acting.

supermo cannot resist the call to haiku.

authenticity
truthful fictions never lie
character is key

please, note the double meaning in the word 'character' and tell me I'm clever

(does admitting i'm an insecure poet/actress make me sensitive and adorkable?)

lost

beacon shines brightly

night lasts only for its time
hope reflects the truth

hope

rivers underground

immoveable rock hollowed

no tear falls in vain

sleeping less; more alone: a winter night's haiku couple

1.
delicate snowfall
ten million icy kisses
beneath, love smothered

2.
tiny snowflake dance
cherry blossoms on the wind
quiet birds press close

sunday chorus

we're climbing the ladder of modern praise
rattling the gates heavy bass from on stage
everyone rises to join the joyful sing along
no hymnals needed because no song is wrong
the notes aren't ever hard to find
just reach out and grab and start to climb
swing right into a steady groove
and when the spirit speaks
it's okay to move
dance clap wave it's all cool
expresssion is the only rule

there aren't many bars
on the stairs past the stars
but it won't last long
our attention span's short
we'll sing a few songs
and get back to our sports

with the third chorus sung
we're on the last rung
now heaven is gained
with little to no pain
and we've peace of sound mind
that we're friendly and kind
and heaven won't desert us
after we've had enough of service
because church is still good
while there's plenty of food

same name different game

Uno is a game.
Uno is also a chain restaurant with a bar "where the people meet".
 
I was always pretty good at Uno
But this is not the same
It's always better when you know
The house rules for the game

dinner party

the host is bitter though his wine is sweet.
his wife can barely stand on her feet.
she talks too loud while we nod our heads
afraid to contradict the lies she's said.
saving the unborn to fight her future wars
her kingdom comes behind trap doors.
her perfumed lovers line up in the halls
as she refuses to accept her husbands' calls.
only whispers of facts slip through her walls.

and the kingdom she wrestles so hard to birth
is so very much like this turbulent earth
but moral and righteous are the laws of the land;
so we forget how many times the money's changed hands.
because we are hungry and she promised us bread,
we praise the taste of the lies we are fed.
as she nurses her wounds with the host's own blood,
we walk away filled and reassured we are good.

genesis lost

Oh the "Let there be”’s I would let be
If it were all so very simple you see.
Speak the world and it is done,
But that can't be the HOW of creation.
Good Orderly Direction
Gets me where I ought to go,
But it's more fun to wander
Off the straight and narrow.
Painted Boiled Peanuts lead me off track,
And it's always so hard to find my way back.
Against sense, defying logic, ain’t so bad after all  
Seuss and Carroll's truths were quite radical.
Fed on rhymes
And meandering threads, 
But
To grow old
We are told,
"Forget what they said.
Wrong and right; black and white.
Balances shifting; night to light.
The proper way the world tilts and turns.
Appropriate lessons and laws to learn."

Our fingers loosened their sleepy grip,
And our purpling dreams were allowed to slip
Deep into the grey matter of mind.
And we learnt dreams don't matter,
But we didn't mind.
We learned the most important matter
Is time.
And we rush with clocks
Tight in our fisted palms
Our dreams squeezed tight in our hats.
Our "Let there be this" and 
"Let there be that"
Has matured to "This is only this"
And "That is only that".

apacolyptic pleasures

The world ended in a grotesque burlesque
Where masks were held more tightly than clothes
And broken toys led the dance
I dared make eye contact with the King of Dreams
Before He slipped out the door
And released me to my purpose
Retrieving my dropped emblem of fealty
From the narcissistic skeleton
I woke to find 
The world remains
Painted black and 
Ringing
With carols of good cheer

overturning tables in the temple (wish I could)

I have been absent from this blog for awhile. I cannot keep these thoughts silent though.

-----
 
I have read some responses to the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting that have really, really made me angry!

I have actually read people writing foolish things like: "if someone walked into a school and killed 20 children with a knife, people would call for a ban on knives" I have even read a comment along the lines of "if someone really wants to kill people, they can make bombs... it's been done before"

These things I have seen are written!!! WRITING! This means the people who type in these words have time to look at what they are communicating. They are able to see and read their own thoughts. The thoughts may be flowing out of a spontaneous place, but they have the ability to edit themselves, to catch themselves in error; but they don't. They don't recognize the callousness of their words. They do not see the folly in their logic. As if they are a spray of bullets bursting into a public space, their words go out unchecked, unconsidered from the muzzle, without a care of where, what, whom and how they impact.

I offer this rebuttal to those who think knives and guns do the same amount of harm in the hands of a killer, a man with a gun can do more killing of strangers in 30seconds from across a room than a man with a knife can do from the same distance in 30minutes.

For the ones who say, "They can use bombs. McVeigh used fertilizer", I respond, a man making a bomb thinks about what and why he is doing what he is doing. He plans. He takes more time creating his weapon than a man who can express such an opinion takes to consider his thoughts. Guns can be used spontaneously. As soon as a violent thought is conceived, it can be acted upon. Cleaned, assembled, loaded, at the end of a man's arm- Death.

During the election, we had some politicians saying things like, "access to voting should be more difficult so people will appreciate it." I say, access to options for killing should be more difficult, especially those options that make killing multiple people as easy as squeezing an index finger.

dropped anchor

Shot gun blast
Shattered glass
How many moments pass
Until I wake from the fog at last
 
Glistening splinters
One thousand selves
Staring blank as sky
Crackling into place
I do not sink
I'm standing
I am alive

Then blossoming
Swelling
Beautiful
Beads richer than I've ever seen
Liquid deep
Berries of blood
And I realize I'm leaking

You have called me beautiful 
Inside and out
Was this what you mean?

the gift

The velvet ribboned box
Hiding hollow heart
Greeted me in a most demure way
Distracted I thought you a book
A book of which I already possess 5

But leapfrogging timelapsed conversations
Half a day away
Has me relishing my certain quietude
I knew it would come
The weightless feeling again
I can exist in this bubble
Suspended
It has all the air I require
I leave no footprints and I only occasionally
Snap photos
Some say be bold
When I am bold
I am prone to folly
So instead I hide
Hollow inside a festooned box
Three names imprinted upon me
Typewriters are objects for the nostalgic
I like the clickety clack
Clickety clack

But I am of a mind to purchase a fountain pen and a leather bound journal
I wonder would those inspire me more than the beribboned box inviting me to be filled?

I am a skilled rationer
Rationalizing is an art as well
But I am speaking of chocolates in buckets’ small supply
The only discipline I possess
I can make it last

But there are times I squander
I engorge to sad result
Though my slim-hipped form is still boyish in many ways

And like a stubborn boy
I will not give up my dream of you
The belief that you will never leave
Though you left long ago and sent me away
More times than I can remember
Like a child I lie badly
I remember every time
There were just more than I like to admit

In this you are more the boy
You forget what is least convenient to remember
I go out of my way to record
And perhaps this is precisely why I require a leather bound journal
A pen and a bottomless heart-shaped fountain 
Full of blackest blue
 

starlet

I reveal too much to be a mystery
There are scarce few rewards for humility
So I am packing my words in musty old trunks
And sparingly offering them in bite sized chunks
Let them eat petit four and have it too
I am learning what it is that I must do
You can't get to the top in comfortable shoes
Because sometimes I win but most times I lose
It has too much to do with knowing the who’s whose
So I dropped a name and I added a face
But the higher I climb I'm farther from grace
She waits at the lowest rung of the ladder
For my repentant return
Even though I have told her there is still so much
So much more I have to learn

beachcomber

Silent
I walk the shores of my waking
And spend quiet hours
Gathering bits and pieces of once beautiful things
That broke against my barriers in the moonlight

The rock that shattered
And the salt that polished
Have left only fragments
Glittering remains of great worlds and deeds
Ages old

I scoop them up
And spread them on the mantel
Where I hope they will remain
Until I return to them

On my next vacation

Some are lost but a few wait gathering dust
I blow them off and sneeze and sigh
Over my inability to understand what once they were

I carry them to a more scenic setting
With the hope of stirring memories of these
Now meaningless emotions
Their intensity fades under the brilliant scrutiny of the sun
And I know only that though their moment has passed
Still they remain

I pluck a silver strand from my temple
And string them together
The necklace with which I adorn myself
Is heavy

a sort of reconciling

You prepare your confession online
The only green patch left
There is life here
Stuffed into these vertices
With a razor-edge knife
You can scrape it out
From under the baseboards
Hide it in your cheek pouch
Before anyone notices
And slip quietly out of the box
And into the square
The host is meant to share

You marvel that the squirrels remain so fat
In all this snow!!!
You tried to feed them
But their palate is... selective
And fennel in snow is more suspicious
Than heiresses sunning themselves on the upper deck
But these aren't Riviera squirrels
They need heartier stuff to satisfy
The hunger that leads them to scrape electrical wire
Snow plow-like

And I need more than words
To satisfy