Survive And Persist

Charles B. Snoad

I’m human. I make mistakes. It’s impossible to be human and not make mistakes.

I make a mistake. I immediately feel ashamed. I recognize that some unresolved issues from my past have resurfaced. I tell myself: “The shame I feel now is related to past traumas.”

Still, I feel ashamed. My friend, recognizing that some unresolved issues from my past have resurfaced, says I’m a good person doing the best I can every day. I accept that I’m a good person doing the best I can every day.

Part of me, however, still feels ashamed. I accept that part of me still feels ashamed. My friend and I survive. My friend and I persist.

Unable To Dream

Charles B. Snoad

This morning, when I asked ChatGPT—an artificial intelligence chatbot—for an inspirational quote to start my day, here’s what I received:

“At the hegemonic stage of technology, of world power, human beings have lost their freedom, but they have also lost their imagination. They have been made unemployed in a way that goes far beyond work: it is a mental and existential unemployment, replaced by dominant machines. These technical layoffs suggest the opposite of what the term usually means: the machines are not defective; they are so efficient that there is nothing left to do with one’s life, whose very reproduction has become automatic. The obsolescence of humans has reached its terminal phase. Their fate is definitively beyond their reach. In the end, human beings will only have been an infantile illness of an integral technological reality that has become such a given that we are no longer aware of it, except in its transcendental dimensions of space and time.”

—Jean Baudrillard, The Agony of Power, pp. 79-80; emphasis added.

I smiled, put my head down, and took the rest of the day off. ChatGPT wrote this post. I am fast asleep, unable to dream.

Small Wounds

Charles B. Snoad

My life is a meadow
Is a meadow a meadow

My life is a meadow
God strolls through

I tickle the sky
And cradle the sun

I long for time
To heal small wounds

My light is a shadow
Is a shadow a shadow

My light is a shadow
God shines through

I hug the horizon
And swaddle the moon

I long for time
To heal small wounds

Inherit The Mirth

Charles B. Snoad

Paint a piano
Play it by ear

The sad shall
Inherit the mirth

Draw a breath
Trace an echo

The sad shall
Inherit the mirth

Little by little
Brick by brick

The sad shall
Inherit the mirth

Time after time
Mind over matter

The sad shall
Inherit the mirth

The Ballad Of Ricky T. Bridge (Ricky’s Version)

Charles B. Snoad

I heard about a man
So terrified of bridges
He refused to leave his house.

He had developed a fear of bridges
Many years before he decided
Never again to leave his house,
Which wasn’t a bridge, contained no bridges,
And stood on solid ground
Far away from any bridge whatsoever.

When it came to facing his fear of bridges,
He wouldn’t cross that bridge
When he came to it, because he’d never
Set foot anywhere near another bridge
For the rest of his life, so long
As he limited his existence
To the confines of his house,
Which wasn’t a bridge, contained no bridges,
And stood on solid ground
Far away from any bridge whatsoever.

This man afraid of bridges
Went from fearing bridges
To fearing his fear of bridges.

This man: call me
Ricky T. Bridge.

The Ballad Of Ricky T. Bridge

Charles B. Snoad

I heard about a man so terrified of bridges, he refused to leave his house. He had developed a fear of bridges many years before he decided never again to leave his house, which wasn’t a bridge, contained no bridges, and stood on solid ground far away from any bridge whatsoever.

When it came to facing his fear of bridges, he wouldn’t cross that bridge when he came to it, because he’d never set foot anywhere near another bridge for the rest of his life, so long as he limited his existence to the confines of his house, which wasn’t a bridge, contained no bridges, and stood on solid ground far away from any bridge whatsoever.

This man afraid of bridges went from fearing bridges to fearing his fear of bridges. This man: let’s call him Ricky T. Bridge.

New Book: Hot Moms In Yoga Pants

Charles B. Snoad

A new (short) book of poems? And it’s called Hot Moms in Yoga Pants? Are you kidding me? It’s all true; book number seven is available on Amazon. I’m not offering a Kindle version. You’ll have to settle for this book in your hands, as God and Johannes Gutenberg intended.

Click here to buy Hot Moms in Yoga Pants.

Amazon description:

“In his newest book of poems, Hot Moms in Yoga Pants, Charles B. Snoad is up to no good, and he misbehaves well. Sex and death: these poems embrace both extremes, which, in the end, remain two sides of the same coin. This is Charles B. Snoad—God forbid—at his most hopeful place in decades. He’s not sure what to make of his new reality; he’s just happy to be here, given how improbable it is for anyone to be anywhere at all.”

Ophelia Gets Her Wings

Charles B. Snoad

I once knew a person
Named Ophelia

She worked for United Airlines
She was a stewardess
Or a flight attendant

She was many different
People at the same time

Ophelia refused
To become the pilot
She was born to be

She was too tired
To follow her dreams

All she wanted was
To sleep in the womb
Of the deepest sleep

She’s an angel now
I have her wings

Flowers In Despair

Charles B. Snoad

Welcome to the Motel California.
The Eagles have landed.

Joan Jett is leaving John Denver
On a Jefferson Airplane.

Rainy days and Mondays
Always get Karen Carpenter down.

Why do the Byrds suddenly appear
Every time Don Henley is near?

Welcome to the Motel California.
The Eagles have landed.

If you’re going to San Francisco
Be sure to wear flowers in despair.

Endless Breadsticks

Charles B. Snoad

Snapping turtles
All the way
Down

Time to drain the mainframe
Time to shave the whales
Time to make the donut holes

Infinite repression
Edge of chaos
Circular guilt

Endless breadsticks
Free Wi-Fi
Surf and turf toe

It’s the summer of sixty-nine
It’s four-twenty somewhere
The rent is too damn high

I’m a bipolar bear
Eating fish
Out of water

My name is
Wet Willy or is it
Lazy Susan?

Wet Willy And Lazy Susan

Charles B. Snoad

While I blow wads of cash
On free Wi-Fi at Motel 6

Wet Willy dry humps Lazy Susan
In front of a dumbwaiter.

While I blow wads of cash
On endless breadsticks at Olive Garden

Wet Willy dry humps Lazy Susan
In front of a dumb waiter.

My name is Sir Real
Or is it Miss Fortune?

Welcome to Motel 6
Or is this Olive Garden?

Mister Ed Sullivan

Charles B. Snoad

Whirlpools in a rushing river
No man’s land
This lamb is your lamb

Charlie McCarthy rides
Mister Ed Sullivan
Harder than Woody Woodpecker

Carnegie Hall wasn’t built
In a day it took practice
Practice practice

Let’s all go to Hobby Lobby
And grab ourselves
Some Chick-fil-A

Cigars! Cigarettes!
Cigars! Cigarettes!
This is not a pipe dream

A rooster
Eating crow
Pets a cockatoo

Mister Ed Sullivan
Leaves a jolly rancher
For a factory farmer

Tomorrow looks
Cloudy with a chance
Of mothballs

I’m itching
Like a beagle
In a fuzzy peach tree

Mister Ed Sullivan
Has left
The building

Soy Milk Duds

Charles B. Snoad

Too many cooks
In the kitchen sink

Too many forks
Too many knives

Too many forks
Spooning knives

Too many spoons
Forking knives

Too many bowls
Of rice cakes

Too many cups
Of sugar cubes

Too many soy
Milk Duds

Too many frosted
Wheat Thins

Too many green onions
Or are they chives?

Too many
Legs of lamb

Not enough hands
To pass the thyme

Vegan cheese?
No fucking whey!

Green onions
Give me hives

Sir Real And Miss Fortune

Charles B. Snoad

Sir Real says
There’s no place
Like home
Confinement

Miss Fortune says
I make a better trapdoor
Than a windowsill

I’m depressed
I’m an atheist
I think I’m God
I don’t believe in myself

Sir Real hits me
Where the landlord
Split me

Miss Fortune rubs me
The wrong way

I spill my guts
I spill my seed
I cry over sour
Grapes of wrath

When Sir Real slams
A trapdoor
Miss Fortune shatters
A windowsill

All I want is relief
From the burden
Of being me

All I want is relief
From the burden
Of seeking relief
From the burden
Of being me

All I want is relief
From the burden
Of being free
To choose my own
Confinements

Wounded Healers

Charles B. Snoad

Wounded healers
Accept we can’t
Ease suffering

Without easing
The suffering
Within ourselves

I’m a wounded healer
Practicing the art
Of suffering well

I see people in pain
But I can’t help them
Ease their suffering

I’m afraid I’m not
Strong enough
To help people heal

I’m afraid I might
Further wound
Those looking to heal

Wounded healers
Accept we can’t
Ease suffering

Without easing
The suffering
Within ourselves

Wounded healers
Taught me first
To heal myself

I’m a human being
Practicing the art
Of healing myself

No Angel

Charles B. Snoad

Every midnight
At the crack of dawn
My rooster yelps

There’s a monkey
On my back and a donkey
On his ass

I suspend
My belief
In gravity

Still I rise
Bound to fall

I ride my high horse
To the kitchen
For a bag of crumbs
And a sip of thirst

He draws me a bubble bath
Tells me I’m no angel
I’m a bird of prey
In a house that rattles

All I want is relief
From the burden
Of being me

All I want is a ceiling
On the floor
To rest my wings

Opposite Day

Charles B. Snoad

Same shit
Opposite day

I mistake a deep breath
For a panic attack.

Same shit
Opposite day

A repetitive poem
Repeats itself.

Same shit
Opposite day

A repetitive poem
Repeats itself.

Same shit
Opposite day

A history of trauma
Repeats itself.

Same shit
Opposite day

I take my life
One panic attack at a time.

Ode To Michael Stipe

Charles B. Snoad

Stand in the place
Where you work

That’s me
In the corner office
Losing my reflection

It’s the end of this ode
As we know it
And I feel fine

Kurt Cobain said
Everybody shits

Michael Stipe said
Everybody squirts

It’s the end of this ode
As we know it
And I feel fine

It’s the end of this ode
As I wrote it
And I feel divine

Thinner Than A Sliver

Charles B. Snoad

Thinner than a sliver of hope
I asked a sensitive soul
Walking on sunshine:

Which came first
The chicken
Or the egg on my face?

Which came first
Chicken wings
Or eggshells?

Which came first
Chicken fingers
Or chicken tenders?

Which came first
Hot wings and cold cuts
Or hot sauce and cold turkey?

Which came first
Walking on sunshine
Or walking on eggshells?

The weight of the world
Rests squarely on the shoulders
Of a sensitive soul

Still I rise
Thinner than
A sliver of hope

Hot Moms In Yoga Pants

Charles B. Snoad

Every night in a house that rattles
I suspend my belief in gravity.

Every night in a house that rattles
I take two pills and call
A priest in mourning.

Every night in a house that rattles
I mistake a pinch of salt
For a grain of sand.

Every night in a house that rattles
I sell sex toys and Tupperware
To hot moms in yoga pants.

Every night in a house that rattles
Alex Trebek answers my prayers
In the form of a question

Fats Domino and Little Richard
Play chubby checkers

And I mistake a grain of sand
For an hourglass.

Every night in a house that rattles
Popeye eats Olive Oyl
And a pound of spinach

I clutch my pearls of wisdom
Take two spills and cut
A rug on the ceiling.

Still I Rise

Charles B. Snoad1 Comment

Empty mind
Of thoughts
Not mine

Empty reason
Empty rhyme

Every day
I take my life
One decade
At a time

Empty sky
Of sun
Not mine

Empty moon
Empty tide

Every day
I take my pills
One half-life
At a time

Empty ego
Empty pride

Empty mind
Of thoughts
Not mine

Every day
Uncertain
Still I rise
Full of life

Every day
Night falls
Still I rise

Nothing Light Is Heavy

Charles B. Snoad

Today I told my worries
Nothing light is heavy
If we take our time
And bear our burdens lightly

And I introduced each worry
To another worry
And I loved each worry
In a kind way lightly

And I told each worry
Nothing light is heavy
If we take our time
And bear our burdens lightly

Hope And Healing

Charles B. Snoad1 Comment

I’ve been writing the same thing over and over for the last 15 years, and I’m tired. Today I feel less motivated to write anything beyond grocery lists and notes to myself. This is fine.

Next month I’m going back to school to become a Certified Recovery Support Specialist. I’ll get to use my lived experience with mental illness to help other people in their journeys through hope and healing.

I won’t update this blog much going forward, but readers can still find my favorite poems from 2019-2022, along with links to buy my books on Amazon.

For now, I want to close with the testimonial I wrote for the mental health center that changed my life: “I feel less ashamed about what happened to me in the past, and I’m excited to embrace my future.”

Update: On September 13, 2022, I changed my mind and made the entire blog public again.