My MacBook, Archimedes, ate all my categories. And now it is self-selecting for this post. {gnashing of teeth} Trying to fix, hope it works.



Trapping the Past

Old Neighborhood

Glam up! Lose yourself by conforming.
Shine on! Strive for beauty, cover yourself.
The message to fit in directs the self,
torn down dreams. Wrong if not
owned by society. Lost if not
directed by community. There is no
soul in the self. Smile. Say Yes!
reduce inner judgment.
They do not want “you.” (silly girl)
“You” are a platform.
A continuation, a replica.
The “I” cannot breathe if not authentic.

MadamePhilosopher, aka Angela Shaffer, 16 Feb 2016

This poem was thrown together for an online prompt. I decided to drop a word about it because it could be a fun, useful task to emerge from writer’s doom. Often referred to as “writer’s block,” the inability to create is a #realLifeissue, but I came across a blog that suggested that writer’s block, itself, was fictional. To that, philosophy argues Reality is fiction…so, fine. We create our realities, let’s create something better. As with life, there is no guidebook. Let us create one.

This poem can be a page, a glimpse of the past or the “Old Neighborhood” one created inside of reality. Maybe we should call it for what it is…delusion; but that is a post that deserves it’s own time. Dear reader, make your own page – utilize Raja’s prompt to describe where your mind “used to live” – let it be real for you, what you have left behind. The poem itself need not be grand or perfect (Reason knows, mine is not) the point is to trap those old vibes, lock them on the page. I told LuLu once that “if we trap our ghosts on paper they haunt us no longer.”

To fellow Dionysian:  I know that it can hurt, but only in knowing true pain do we recognize ultimate joy<>.

To those who are joining me on the #PursuitofOptimism : This piece can be ugly if you feel your past rocked that way, totally kosher to trap those negative vibes. I just did, and I gotta tell you – I feel free-er for it!

Link to Raja’s Insights page and the MicroPoetry Phrase Challenge:



The Nothing

the Nothing claimed me.

lost is delusional bliss,

lost to myself.

alone i wander.

i travel in this empty husk,

recognizable but foreign of myself.

passion lost, purpose gone.

ambition:  deserted.

the Nothing too bleak.

pickled by knowledge, the brain

thinks faster. deeper. Raw

to the burn of fevered theory.

science demolished my illusions.

the Nothing faded my wings,

gobbled the imagination,

took belief as bitch, leaving

me here to act out time.

reality is a drag to the expansive mind.


{thanks to: for the image}

If the trees of Cooper’s Rockℵ could talk…

they would speak of war. Nature as ultimate opponent. Enter the wood. Gaze upon fallen giants, veterans against evolution. Ancient listening watchers, humanity as right wing command, left flank time. Surrounded by rock, hard and seemingly eternal boulders, warriors against erosion cling – survival – reaching from mountain sides. Sticky saplings sprout. The trees consider surrender not an option.

Strawberry Moon

I remembered the gleam in your eyes,

shining brilliance. Fascination,

hot on my lips, ached for your

stimulation – craving your firey touch.

Seer my skin with Passion’s blaze.

Sweet seduction! I lost control,

putty in your skilled hands. Quivers

of sensual release, flooded torrents,

sparks endulating instinctual chemistry;

primal lust turned into making love,

intensity escaped evaluation.

Happiness would’ve been, laying

skin on skin, surrendering to mutual

wander, till the moon shown again.



Picture c/o


Concerning Easter

One full year since the conversion.
Holy week utterly draining –
nausea, an unwelcome
weekend guest.  Self inflicted
questioning an endless torment.
Symbolism the irritant, tickle
at the back of the throat.  I felt
cannibalistic.  Vivid implications
yielding blood and suffering.

The Sword and Chalice
sweet memories locked in a deep
crevice.  I must return to
peace, the initial allure.

Icicle Clutches Melt

Cold utter gloom settled

in winter’s grasp. Grey,

soiled, and tainted. A bird

chirped in morning’s glow,

the sun shone deep nutrients.

Despair turned to hope,

respite before return of icy

siege. Reality as a

snow globe. Please cease

the shaking. Let the golden

rays of better days return.

Glints of promise leads to warm

splendor. Rinsing away winter’s

cloak of sadness. Renewal.

√ mind

3/4xz – 1 – 4/3 + 9z is foreign

babble. (x -17g+374) is pure

madness. -68 + 837b(q-6p)

simply ridiculous.

If only numbers were

as true as words. If numbers

could dance with eloquence

the way words roll from

pen to paper. A trillion words

a soft blanket. A million phrases

a holiday. A billion rhymes


Fluid, smooth




The mind: an intricate machine.

When opened too widely shows

holes of brightened perspective.

Choose your poison wisely.


Natives eat wild peyote to harness spirituality.

Leary created LSD to transform man into supremity.

Both are controlled to prevent mass enlightenment

or destruction, leaving a small percentage of hungry

souls searching for sensual experience.


When the peak ends in five hours,

mushrooms fade gracefully. Leaving behind

mild regret, solemnly creeping. LSD runs

through like a Mack truck, splintering bones

and scaring tissues. The body all used up,

an abandoned rag sopping with misgivings.


Orange juice is a natural balm to restore the

body, but spinal fluid will never be replaced.


He ate mushrooms and found joy the next day.

I took a trip in 1999 and vowed to not indulge

in hallucinates again. I saw too much. On rare

occasion, I still feel the fingers pulling me,

spinning me, turning me into unreality.


I read a warning in high school – May Trip for Life

a poster contest against drug abuse. I stole the poster

thinking what an ideal, but that was before I

became a painting, before the alien sighting,

before my partner tried to drive me insane.