poeming

Sweet, Sweet, Sweet

2011-04-10T19:02:00.000-07:00

She stands, bending her knees slightly,
Bouncing lightly,
to the music
I downloaded for her benefit.

Songs that move me more than she'll ever know.
Songs of joy and love,
tunes that talk about simply joys--home, sunlight,
sleeping in the quiet of the night

I love her solemn, voluptuous earnestness,
Guiding her as she crawls and lurches
From one new experience to the next.

She plays, she learns, then she sleeps.
And I miss her until she wakes again.

What Barely Was

2010-11-05T15:32:00.000-07:00

Empty and sad.
Mourning a loss of something
that barely was.

i will miss (and not miss)

2009-02-17T18:30:00.001-08:00

i will miss:

the sky and the water connecting in one fluid line as i drive over the Bob Sykes bridge.
knowing that i can't speed on base or on campus at uwf.
feeling a blast of hot, wet, sticky air when i lower my window at any time from may through late september.
feeling as though i'm a part of a community of people who can claim they're from here, and somehow have some moral superiority over every other person who's NOT a native.... because we are a rarity.
cocktails and tapas at global grill.
sushi at dharma's, atlas, and horizen's.
the trestle on 17th avenue.
bayou texar.
white sands that whistle and squeak when i walk across the dunes (that people can't drive on).
memories of buildings wiped out by hurricanes--trader john's, surf and sand cottages, just to name a few.
sunday brunch at madison's, flounder's, and end of the line.
pizza and beer at ozone's.
antique shopping at alyssa's in pace.
la hacienda after church.
driving and walking and eating and partying dowtown....Palafox, the Saenger....
my best friends.

i will not miss...... missing my baby.
sleeping alone.
wondering if my future was ever going to start.

hoping and waiting

2009-02-17T18:21:00.000-08:00

i've been silent
lately
because i can't rest-
between the pauses
and the fits
and starts

that make up this
period of waiting

that will start
my new life--
the one i've always known i should lead

and hope will
actually happen

because i love him
and he loves me.

tomorrow

2008-12-15T16:42:00.000-08:00

you'll be here tomorrow. again.

i just saw you at thanksgiving, and you surprised me, then.
i thought i might surprise you, now.
but nature had a different plan.
it's better this way, and i'm relieved...
but also a little disappointed.

i'm ready to start things, and keep starting things

2008-03-14T18:58:00.000-07:00

the noise in my room is of negative space:
a quiet that comes from a lack.
the lack is due
to the silence that comes
from your absence,
and my missing you.

i miss you already

2008-03-14T18:54:00.001-07:00

your hand-on the small of my back-
leaves an imprint.
i am chained to that touch,
and cannot move past it.

you are my forever,
and i only partially know who i am

when you are not near.

another letter

2007-12-30T16:36:00.000-08:00

dear ----,
i appreciate the words of encouragement concerning my last "letter". it's important for me to have an audience without actually having an audience. you figure things out through your lyrics; i figure things out in e-mails that never get sent. in other words, i feel comfortable telling things to a stranger (because that's really what you are) rather than people i see on a daily basis. they tend to catalog statements and remind you of them later. and you become culpable for any instruction that might have been administered. "see! i told you that would happen...." you somehow feel obligated not to disappoint them, to somehow diminish yourself in their eyes. that's unpleasant. no one likes to be vulnerable or feel manipulated out of the choice-making process. so, i can express myself freely to you, without regret. you have no vested interest, and will therefore offer none of the platitudes and admonishments offered by moms and man-hating best friends everywhere.
it must be evident from my previous posts that the nature of things has changed for the better. my love has come partway back. i say partway, because even though he acknowledges our compatibility, and even though he told me that i make him happy, there are no guarantees that things will work out the way i want them to. let me refresh your memory on that point: i want to spend the rest of forever cooking him dinner, arguing about religion and politics, and holding hands. i've done all those things and more. and i feel content.
see, i know what i want from a relationship. this is mainly because i was so unhappy in my previous ones (particularly my marriage--you may have caught the story about it elsewhere). i don't think my ex- is evil. he's just not right for me. but my baby....oh, he's perfect.....perfect for me. i don't have to convince myself; i just know it.
so he came to see me the week before christmas. we spent a great deal of time getting the backdrops ready for the school's christmas play. he helped me, took me out to dinner, took me shopping, fulfilled my needs. HE CAME TO SEE ME. my heart ached loudly enough that he heard and responded. i don't beg, but i'm honest. i don't hold back; pain can be cathartic in the end.

i wish i had a definitive way to describe my future with this man. he knows what i want, and i think he wants it too. but he's struggling to get past some of the impediments. all i know is that when i look into his eyes, all the cheesy romance novels and love songs and chocolate-fondue poetry become real and valid for me. i see us twenty years down the road-me with my hair dyed an unnatural color and him with an extra fifteen pounds around his waist-and none of that would be true if the feelings weren't reciprocated. it's when he's there and i'm here, and his dad is chewing away on his ear about the detriments of marrying an OLDER woman with THREE children, that he loses sight of the truth.
but i don't.

Sated

2007-12-30T10:19:00.000-08:00

I took the day off, and we went shopping in Mobile.
We had grits and eggs at the Coffee Cup first,
then headed west on the interstate.
The ride was comfortable: we talked, we laughed,
you held my hand while your other one rested on the steering wheel.

When we got to the mall, you told me to pick out whatever I wanted.
I didn't tell you that you walking with you arm around me was all I wanted,
and that i didn't need anything else.
That would have sounded trite.
Besides, the Christmas present you were getting me
was already extravagant.
So I said nothing, and just smiled.
You put your arm around me as we strolled through the crowds.
We wandered around, looking for the Apple store.
Turns out the closest one's Birmingham.

We got some coffee at Starbuck's, and wondered where to go next.
I didn't care. I was with you.
We bought some gifts for the kids at Best Buy, then got back on the road.
You got on-line and ordered my gift when we got home,
then you made me feel good all over again.
That perfect fit.

We ate out later-a tapas place downtown-and it was delicious.
It was our favorite place to go when you still lived here,
besides the Italian restaurant we went to the night you got in.
Feeling you near-your hand holding mine, your arm around my waist:
I always want to feel that security, that sensation of fullness,
that feeling of being sated.
I wasn't worried about losing you again;
doubts will creep in over time, I'm sure.
But that day, my cup was as full as it could be, without running over.

Italian Restaurant

2007-12-18T04:54:00.000-08:00

Table for two by a crackling fire-
the hostess could see something in our eyes.
Our waiter kept filling our glasses with a smile.
Your Pasta Diavolo was spicy-
"Just like me," I said with a grin.
"Yeah. But you're sweet, too."
Your knee touched mine.
Your finger brushed the silky fabric on my shirt,
and lingered there. I felt my skin through your touch, your eyes.
I couldn't help staring into them; so green and clear.

You talked about physics, and I was interested...
because it was you talking.
I couldn't help touching your hand--you'd warmed mine
in the car, on the way from the airport.
Then, my fingers had hesitated before finally curling around the fingers
lacing through them.
At the restaurant though,
I took your hand and started gently kissing and biting your knuckles.
You lost track of what you were saying,
and had to shift in your chair.
I smiled, and glanced away before returning your gaze.

We made it home quickly, you following me in your rental car.
Back in my room-it seemed like you'd never left--
I found myself being lifted and carried to the bed,
as your lips kissed mine.
They were gentle at first, then more insistent.
I was ready.
I was ready when I first saw you pull up in your car.
I was ready before you ever got here.
You fill me up in a way that's right.
We laughed and played and lay there on the bed.
I felt sexy and silly and complete.
I think people hope for that; I know I do.
I was in your arms, and the warmth was unimaginably right and true.

With words, I try to frame the picture,
to wrap the present and all its meanings;
to capture something that may not last.
But last night, when you lingered and murmered,
"We still have some time, right?" it was perfect.
We were perfect.

"best friends"

2007-12-15T18:26:00.000-08:00

you'll be here monday.

I'll See You Soon, II

2007-12-14T03:50:00.000-08:00

It's 5:00 am and I'm improbably awake.
The cat litter needs changing.
There are papers to grade.
The house is a mess,
and I feel like life has gotten away
from me.

i guess these things take time....

2007-12-03T16:12:00.000-08:00

i am overwhelmed with the scent and breathlessness of desire-the desire to hold that gasp that comes when you touch my skin with your eyes, your fingertips, your teeth.

my body doesn't realize what my mind has been told: that you no longer have the will to dominate my senses, to possess me, to overpower my need to be uniquely me; it embraced the will to become something more-uniquely us. it hasn't realized that it will no longer be part of you. and it suffers...the held breath, the longing, the hope....they all make it hard to remember to breathe.

how is it that only my body, and not yours, feels this? when will it forget you? when will it forget contact of your male strength-hair, hard muscle, power-and my female strength-soft skin, reception?

i feel your body's pressure on mine: your chest pressed against my back, your hands grasping the curve of my waist, your breath on my neck, in my ear; i arch, but there is no fulfillment. voluptuous impotence-it's an emptier place than most.

how can you give up what we had? i haven't been able to, yet.

********************************************************

i leaned over the edge and across my bed to reach something; the pose reminded me of you. i have the strongest urge, feeling something i've been denied for months. i want to bare my shoulders, my back, my hips, and feel your hands cover the terrain as i arch and press against, and wait for you. a ghost finger races its way across the expanse of the skin on my back. it feels like a candle's flicker, as it .....

what an exercise of verbal futility. how do words encompass the loss i feel? a pointless loss. it wasn't a love that weakened, that got battered by lack of interest or miscommunication or betrayal or boredom. how do i tell you what i'm feeling? what would you say? do i put you in an awkward position or suffer in silence? i miss you 'til forever. i miss you , and all the tears i'll ever cry aren't enough to drown and purge my need for you. how does real love, THE love, turn into unrequited love? this is such a mistake.

2007-11-22T20:24:00.000-08:00

i need to become the light.
not the bright, glaring light of mid-day.
not the colored hues that come just before light fades...
i need to become the hue that's richest, fullest-
full of reds and golds and emphemeral
shots of the fullness of being.

there is a time when love is ripe-
i just need to be by the tree,
ready when it's right to pick.
if it's fallen by my feet,
then it's past the time when i
would think of biting into the flesh.

but when it's just right,
i can feel the firm flesh give way to
something
sweeter, jucier, redder, golder, greener
than anything in my basket before.
flecks of juice dot the corners of my mouth
as i eat the radiance that time and light and air have brought.

it is then that i feel the seeds of forever settle into my being.

Another Day

2007-10-29T08:54:00.000-07:00

I woke up cold. I slept with the window open-the one right next to my bed.

The night before, I talked to you. Sitting in a park, on a bench, in the cold. Barefoot. Sobbing, shaking....."Please tell me you miss me, that you talk about me to someone!" (of course i do. i miss you. do you think this has been easy for me?) "But we're perfect for each other. You know it's true." (yes, we are. but i had to make this decision) "I'm not sorry for saying these things, for falling apart; you've had longer to deal with this." (i know. you need to say them. i don't mind. i'm listening.) It was late, and I was exhausted.

Later, after the sun rose, I felt hollow, transparent in the slanted morning light. Still exhausted, instead of calling you--you'd said we'd talk later in the day--I called someone else. (hey! you feeling better? you didn't sound too good when you left that voicemail in the middle of the night) "I'm ok. Will you to take me to breakfast?" (damn, i can't. i have to help someone move today.) "That's ok, maybe it's better that way." (what? why?) "Just...uh.....I don't know." He laughed. (you're crazy, woman). I laughed. "Is that a bad thing? I'll talk to you later. Have fun moving."

I texted him a few minutes later. **I said it's probably better bcuz I was going 2 ask u 2 come get in bed w/me & hold me first. & maybe u don't wanna be a substitute bed warmer**

*(yes i do)*

I woke up cold, and I wanted him to warm me up. Imagining you doing it hurt too much. I wanted to fit my smaller body into the curve of his bigger body and feel his arms around me. I love you, but I needed his warmth. I wanted to feel his hands hold mine, to stroke my hair, to feel his breath on my neck and tell me I'm going to survive this. He doesn't expect me to be whole, and I don't expect him to be you... it seemed like a good enough fit.

Time Wounds All Heels

2007-10-26T16:47:00.000-07:00

The problem with being heartbroken is that we rarely get to go somewhere to lick our wounds. It's hard to heal because we have to string ourselves along through the day-to-day, pretending that we're fine. I day-dream about boarding a plane for Italy, where I'd live the life of an itinerant poet/photographer/paramour. In this fantasy, lithe, sleek men with names like Marcello and Marco woo me with flowers, expensive leather shoes, and carafes of sparkling Italian wine. That would heal my pain. But I digress....

Which is better for piecing yourself back together: loud, rangy, big paroxyms of angry grief, or the quiet, well-behaved compact existence that doesn't require more than an extended tissue to dry your tears or a pat on the shoulder?
"Time heals all wounds."
Poorly timed outbursts of uncontolled emotion scare people. Brave faces and stiff upper lips scare me. How do I reconcile my need to explode upon today's page with a hestitation to misbehave?
"Time wounds all heels."

I'll have to leave that conundrum dangling in mid-air; my kids are hungry, and it's time to fix supper.

Love Bird

2007-10-01T04:47:00.000-07:00

Your brilliant hummingbird wings
Whispered their breath on my petals,
Before you dipped your proboscis
Into the sweet nectar of survival.
My corolla quivered at their fluttering vibration,
Blushing a deeper red at the orange and green salute.
The mystery of give and take was revealed to me in stages
As you hovered, then retreated.
Each time your forked tongue
Greedily took in more nectar.
My scent, my color attracted you,
And you drank until my sweetness was gone.
I heard your whispery retreat.

Now I am left with quivering petals
And a deep red blush, straining
To hear the humming again.

{Repost...I'm recycling old material these days}

Lavar

2007-10-01T04:45:00.000-07:00

Rain falls lightly, steadily.
A tub of velvety, heated water with fragrant bubbles
sits in the middle of a grove.
Brilliant green fronds glisten with the moisture
Heaven has bestowed on a grateful jungle.
I float amidst the wet on wet on wet:
sky, earth, body.
Steamy water envelops me.
Cool drops launch a pleasant assault on my exposed skin-
that which does not sink beneath the cover.
The earth wears a lush fragrance of renewal;
it is verdant, fertile.

I am a companion in this ritual of cleansing,
floating in a womb.
Fears, aches melt away in the heat.
Droplets descend on me from the treetops-a covering roof-
making music as they couple with surfaces exposed.
Color, fragrance, sound: my senses are full, stretched but not broken.
I am clean, covered-invulnerable for the moment.

A Lifetime of Sundays

2007-02-10T21:29:00.000-08:00

My heart is the universal hand, pulling you back to me.
You're gone from my daily life.
I smell your pillow, hoping to catch your scent
My fingers are frustrated when they grasp only air
instead of hair over skin, skin over muscle.
But-I'd rather feel this chasm in my life
than try to fill it with someone less...you.

You've given me the improbable things I dreamed of:
laughter, desire, passion, learning, compassion, possibility.
You grabbed me tightly and I didn't struggle to get away.

Imagine a lifetime of Sunday mornings in which we can practice being
strong, vulnerable, satisfied but not complacent, more and less ourselves.
Imagine practicing patience and kindness in morning love, in afternoon calm.
I miss those hours in bed; there were no holes filled with unrequited yearning.
There were glances, kisses, embraces that grew hot and sweaty.
You filled me with you and I gladly accepted what you had to give.
This time we have apart will serve as a reminder of things to look forward to-
things like a lifetime of Sundays.

I'll See You Soon

2007-01-29T20:33:00.000-08:00

I cried tonight because
I thought I had wrecked the printer.
You weren't here to fix it
(although I could do it myself);
you weren't here to hold me.
They (my girls) covered my grief
(and their apprehension)
with tissues and bottled water.
"Mommy? Do you want a drink?
I brought you some toilet paper to
blow your nose."
My heart broke again.
I managed a leaking smile and a wobbly "thank you,"
then covered my head and cried some more.
Later, the phone rang-
it was you.
"I love you, baby. I'll see you soon."
Friday, I'll see your face and feel your touch.
I can hold on until then.

Hungry

2007-01-02T19:53:00.000-08:00

I'm hot
and restless
and wet.
Rather than being relaxed, having emerged from my bath,
I am hungry-
hungry for your touch.
I miss the warm whisper of your olive skin, your lips on my lips, our legs intertwined.
You complete me, and now that you're gone,
I'm incomplete.

Mi Corazon

2006-10-03T18:55:00.000-07:00

(Eyes and hair and skin)
Green and black and brown:
they're my new favorite colors.

Part of You

2006-09-29T22:29:00.000-07:00

I want to become part of you,
so I stare into your green eyes
and run my fingers through your hair.
I trace your lips.
Your arms around me tighten, and
I am ready to touch you some more.

Fibers

2006-09-23T16:22:00.000-07:00

My hands have been stronger
than my heart, I think.
My fingers would grasp and hold on to
something longer than the fibers of
my heart could.
My hope is for an intertwining which does
not unravel this time.

To Be

2006-09-13T17:34:00.000-07:00

Your eyes
cover me
like hands,
and I want to be
all I see within in them.

Your hands
cover me
like eyes,
and I want to be
all I feel underneath them.

Your body
covers me,
and I want nothing more
than to be.

Struggle

2006-09-10T22:44:00.000-07:00

I visited a blog where the idea is to post a poem everyday. I recently complained to someone that I've lost my "voice," so this may be a struggle. But I will try.

Hands.
Fingers clicking on keys.
I hit the Return button
and wait for a moment of passion
to surge.
Expression, not forthcoming, eludes
the capture by impatient ears,
straining to hear the Voice.
A choice becomes a burden,
and my fingers cease to move.

Converging

2006-08-20T07:18:00.000-07:00

Converging with perfection, briefly,
I grasp whatever's near and feel the rush.
This is when I feel most alive.

Ambivalent

2006-07-23T09:49:00.000-07:00

I veer between thinking I want someone to love me, and knowing that I start to suffocate if I feel tied down. Can you feel loved and not trapped? It's so easy to feel pressed down, sucked dry, more incomplete somehow because the person you're with requires every strained fiber of your being just to smile at them. Freedom is a marvelous thing.
But then I think about those times when I need a shoulder that's bigger and stronger than mine; when my body wants to be touched; when I need someone to get the door because my arms are loaded down with stuff; when I want to illuminate someone else's life because I think I've got something to share; when, in the future, I won't have anything to offer other than my love and the culmination of my experiences...Those are the times when I reach out for someone on the other side of the bed, and find the emptiness daunting.

Maybe I should focus on giving love instead of receiving it.

Palpar, by Octavio Paz

2006-07-22T11:27:00.000-07:00

Mis manos
Abren las cortinas de tu ser
Te visten con otra desnudez
Descubren los cuerpos de tu cuerpo
Mis manos
Inventan otro cuerpo a tu cuerpo

*This is my favorite poem by Paz.
For me, it embodies passion at both its simplest and most complex.
Espero esto.

2006-07-16T11:37:00.000-07:00

My head hurts

Ochre Still

2006-07-14T20:07:00.000-07:00

Maybe it was the sun.
Should I shade my eyes better next time?
Or is there sufficient shelter
from those particles
which burn us up
if we take in
more than
our
allotted share?

Ochre

2006-07-14T20:02:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, when I'm trying to sort through my emotions, colors appear in my mind. And that color seems to somehow encapsulate what I'm feeling. Right now, I'm feeling a chalky ochre color. It's shade is a rusty sense of faded, tainted things that were pretty to begin with, then somehow got discolored. It's a rusty bruise...I'm just wondering what other colors it will turn before it fades.

Brushed

2006-07-14T20:00:00.000-07:00

Your arm brushed mine
and it felt warm; it felt right,
for a moment.
Then you moved your arm,
and the air felt a little emptier.

Seeking Completion

2006-07-09T20:52:00.000-07:00

Why do we see people until they cease to offer us anything?
They become strangely invisible.
It must be that we seek something we've decided they can't give.

If, in my arrogance, I am seeking for someone to complete me,
I am searching for the wrong thing.
It is magnification I should hope for.
If I am not complete, then I must look inward and upward.
Only God can complete me.

Supposed to End?

2006-06-25T21:01:00.000-07:00

He's tall, and his eyes are of warmest brown.
A new face, the one I'm supposed to be looking for in every corner of my heart, is fading.
Receding.
When we dance, he holds me in just the right way-close enough to feel the muscles of his shoulders
under his shirt, but not so close that I can't breathe.
But yet, I'm pulling away.
And I wonder what flips the switch....the one that seems to activate the minute
I hear the talk of love.
How do they fall in love so quickly?
I don't feel it at all.
Do I suspend interest in all possibilities so there's no question of hurting someone?
.............

I'm not sure how this is supposed to end

Nourished

2006-05-28T11:17:00.000-07:00

I recently watched two of my favorite movies, 'Like Water For Chocolate' and 'Chocolate'. While I could joke about the fact that the word chocolate is in both titles, a realization struck me: each is about strong, feminine women who live outside the expectations of their society, and each features heroines who cook. And my preference for the two particular movies makes me contemplate their deeper meaning-there's something powerful about the ability to nourish. There's an inherent sense of renewal in preparing a meal; without food, our bodies wither and die. So much is wrapped up in the idea of eating-it's rhythms, flavors, consequences-that many thoughtful movies have featured it as their crux. 'Babbette's Feast' is another. In fact, it would be interesting to determine how many movies use food as the main vehicle for their characters and plot. Good cooks, top chefs, bad cooks, people who like to eat, people who don't like to eat.....
I used to be a good cook, and I used to enjoy eating. When I was married, I was driven to feed my family well-balanced meals. The process energized me. I would sing and dance around the kitchen, listening to the Gypsy Kings while I chopped onions and fried fish. My iron skillets were my favorite instruments to create edible joy. The sound of my wooden spoon tapping against the side of the mixing bowl was added texture to the theme songs of my kitchen. Now, although I still have children to feed, I utilize the microwave more than should be considered proper. I usually manage to cook one full meal a day, but very few dirty pots and pans find their way into the sink. I no longer sing and dance my way through meal preparations; instead I sigh a lot and tell the kids to get out of the kitchen. My theme song is the persistent beep of the microwave, telling me the frozen entree and canned peas are done.
Why did I lose my zest, my sense of strength? I don't know; I just know the culinary joy went out of me. Feeding and eating seem more a chore than anything. There is no beat to sway to. I've tried to regain some dimensionality, but everything just tastes flat. Cooking wears me out, and I despair when I open the cupboards and imagine standing in front of the stove for even a few minutes. I've even tried tricking myself by inviting friends over; it's no use.
The one exception seems to be when my oldest comes home to visit. He lives with his father, and left a few months before the divorce became final. He's been gone from our regular routine for five years now, visiting on Thanksgiving or Christmas and during the summer. I feel sometimes that he's an old acquaintance with whom we've kept touch, but have to learn again. I know him and love him, but we're not a regular part of each other's lives. But when he comes, I begin to plan menus and grocery shop for fresh vegetables, rather than processed food. I enjoy the sound of my fry pan sizzling with heated oil. It's a glimpse of what used to be.
You may assume that my joy waned because I no longer cooked for a husband. The irony is that even in those days when I had a husband, when I propped a toddler on my hip while stirring the sauce and admonishing the other two to "Stop that fussing and set the table!", my husband was only home once in a while. He's in the military, even now, and we were 'geographically separated'. It was more than that, really, but that's another story. The children and I only saw him on the average of once every three months. Our lives seemed full enough without him, and he was a visitor to be on our best behavior for when he did come home. When he left, the family returned to its natural rhythms. Those were the ones we understood and were comfortable with.
So what caused my ardor for properly nourishing my family to cool? I guess it was losing my child. The ingredients that simmered together to create the savor of my life lacked a vital spice; the heating coil became detached from the source of power....use whatever analogy you like. The long-distance relationship with my husband that had grown so distasteful to me that I severed it, foreshadowed the relationship I seemed predestined to have with my son.
He's here with me for the summer now. I've cooked three meals today. When the kids asked for seconds, I breathed in a little deeper. And the aromas which greeted my nose strengthened me. We were nourished and I felt good. Tomorrow, I'll dig out my iron skillet. Maybe I'll even sway to the sounds of them getting to know each other again, the sounds of solidarity, the rhythms of laughter and music coming from my kids enjoying each other's company.

These are a few.....

2006-05-26T17:06:00.000-07:00

A few of my favorite things: (not in order of importance)

1. A good, hot bath with scented oils.
2. Feeling red and gold all over
3. A massage done by someone with strong hands and a light touch
4. Being in Italy; the air, the light, the people, the food, the shoes....the texture of the place makes me feel more real.
5. My kids, because they're so genuinely real
6. Expressing myself (writing poetry, drawing, painting, taking photographs)
7. Helping someone (i.e. going to Taco bell and giving my Baja Chalupa to the one-legged guy on the side of the road)
8. Latin music-listening and/or dancing to it
9. Reading and discussing Bible stories
10. Expanding my horizons (but not my waistline!)

.....and because I'm not good at imposing limitations on myself,

11. Having a table and a waiter who knows me at one of my favorite restaurants. He brings me my drink w/o even having to ask what I want. Usually, I don't like the idea of being so predictable, but sometimes a settled feeling has its rewards.
12. Time with friends; time by myself

To Purvis and Back Again, Part 1

2006-05-21T00:15:00.001-07:00

Purvis, Mississippi is a very small town near Hattiesburg; it's also about 60-90 minutes north of New Orleans. To get there from here, we have to drive west through Mobile, then turn north on Highway 98. Once we leave the interstate system, it's a two or four lane highway of slightly hilly, mostly bucolic country. It's then we begin passing signs like "Hot Boiled Peanuts" and restaurants with names like "Bar-B-Q-in' With My Honey." My favorite is simply called "Bobo's Good Eats." You also pass churches with names like "Holiness Fire of God" and "The Living Waters Tabernacle."
Our purpose in traveling to Purvis was to visit with friends and watch one of our boys graduate from boarding school. The special occasion merited the one day round trip that lasted well into the small hours of the morning. We started late, and made it in time for the end of the baccalaureate speech and Senior Power Point presentation after a small mishap at a gas station which is not worth mentioning. We congratulated ourselves on getting there in good time, and found a seat in the back of the church sanctuary located on the campus of our Academy. We've all spent quite a bit of time there for various educational and church conference functions, and are very familiar with the campus lay-out. Or well, what's left of it. The school campus there in the Lumberton/Purvis area was devastated by Hurricane Katrina, and is in the haphazard state of repair one finds all over the Gulf Coast region. Our town is still recovering from Ivan almost two years later.
So that is how our day of graduation festivities began. After a mercifully short service (for us, at least), we stood under the awning, greeting and hugging graduates and various old friends. The best was yet to come, because all our people (there were several car-, van-, and SUV-loads of people from our town) met up at Grandmother P's house for mid-day dinner. Grandmother P is a well-known cook, and loves to feed her family's friends. There was squash casserole, candied sweet potato wedges, roast beef, turkey hash. Butter beans, macaroni and pimento cheese casserole, fresh shelled creamed peas from the garden, and so much more. I ate my fill and then some, then had to find room for desert. Our hostess's famous chocolate mousse and coconut cream pies left me gasping for air like a guppy because I was so full. We lolled around chatting, catching up on news, and making new acquaintances.
The graduate's daddy (we'll call him HP) offered me a ride on his motorcycle, and I accepted. Wearing the same skirt and heels I'd worn to church, I gingerly climbed on to the seat and grabbed hold of his waist. Using his feet to back us out of the driveway, which was packed with cars from Mississippi and Florida, HP got us to the road. We sped along straitaways, and I learned that you lean into curves if you don't want to be the 'Today's Special' at the Road Kill Cafe.
The problem with the helmet I was wearing was the visor: it didn't cover my face. As we hit 65 mph on one stretch of Highway 11, I found tears streaming down my cheeks, which were billowing slightly less than my skirt from the force of the wind. I grinned and resolved to pick any bugs out of my teeth, should the need arise. I'd already given up tucking my skirt under my legs and decided to just enjoy the ventilation!
At one point, we had to stop for a few minutes to let a train go by. I'd never been that close to all that power rushing by. The wooden tracks bent under the pressure of the great metal wheels, and I remembered Pirsig's 'Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance'. It made more sense now. As the sun shone down on our heads and shoulders, I found myself philosophizing about the rush of life and how much we miss. HP listened patiently.
On the way back, some kids playing in front of their trailer waved at us as we rode by. I shouted 'hey' and waved. We returned about 45 minutes after we'd left, having taken a tour of the local county roads. I was invigorated and suffering from a serious reverse case of helmet hair-my hair had become a wild mop of frizzed out curls, daring a brush to come near. It was almost time to pile in and caravan to the graduation site. I tried to fix what I could, then gave up. My shoes were cute enough to overcome the other flaws, I decided.
The graduation was full of recognitions, accolades, tears, and triumph. The speech was humorously and wonderfully done in under ten minutes. We did our part to show our pride when my former student walked across the stage (no cow bells, but lots of whistling and screaming did the trick). After the new graduates tossed their mortar boards in the air, we said our good-byes, which lasted longer than my friend was happy with. She wanted to get home. We made our way to Sonic, since we were dying of thirst (the gym was packed and not well-ventilated) and hungry. Several car loads full of people also coming from the graduation showed up there during the time we waited for our order to arrive. Every time we saw someone new, I'd drag my bare feet off the dashboard, put my shoes back on, and run over to say hello.
Finally, we got on the road. It was 11:15 p.m. by this point, and my friend was in a hurry. The ride home is the stuff of legend, and deserves its own post. Ok, well maybe not the stuff of legend, but it sure was memorable.
To be continued.....

*This story is now very poignant for me because HP suffered a heart attack Monday, and has not regained consciousness. Barring a miracle (which we're all praying for), he's not expected to recover. I keep thinking back to that day and how happy it was.

"Pomp and Circumstance"

2006-05-21T00:15:00.000-07:00

I watched another one of my former students graduate from high school tonight. My friends and I drove to Mississippi this morning, spent the day with friends, attended various graduation-related functions, then waited patiently until it came his turn to walk across the stage. We hooted and hollered (because that's what you do in Mississippi) and stomped our feet. And he knew that his momentous occasion was momentous for more than just him-it meant something to us as well. After a full day, and an evening made longer by the stifling hot gym and hard wooden bleachers, we drove back home. That drive deserves its own story. But I digress....
Because I teach three grades, I often get the priviledge of becoming an integral part of my students' lives. Not everyone I teach makes that connection with me. For whatever reason (usually parent-related), we just don't make that bond. But the others: these are the kids that come back to see me year after year. These are the kids that are now over 18 or over 21, and relate to me on a quasi-adult level. These are the kids who are mine. Forever.
If that sounds a little creepy, it shouldn't. I know their parents; in the case of several of my kids of the years, I've been close friends with their parents. I've been to their homes, eaten with them, watched tv with them, even traveled with them. They become a part of my heart, and I am blessed to be able to say that. My heart is larger because of them. I'm a better person because of what they've taught me. It all sounds so trite, but it's true. So when I watch another one graduate with honors, another one who's on the cusp of something gloriously real like the rest of his life, I feel a tug. His accomplishments are my accomplishments. And I know there are more to come. And I will get to see enough of them that I will continue to feel the twinge of pride and responsibilitity and hope.
I guess I'll even embrace the sadness that will come when life teaches him some of the lessons that just don't come from books. Those are the lessons that aren't generally accompanied by cheering friends and fancily scripted papers touting great achievements. They are the ones where we hope the damage won't last too long. Those are the times when we don't want anyone to see. But I guess how we respond is a measure of our success. I know my former student will respond with insight and grace. And I will be proud of him still.
There will be others to watch march down to Elgar's "Pomp and Circumstance." Time seems to march very well to that song.

Green Grass

2006-05-15T20:59:00.000-07:00

We had a bicycle rodeo at school today. After lunch, kids lined up on bikes of various sizes, pink and blue and black and green plastic helmets gleaming in the sun, and paraded around the back parking lot. The sun was shining, but it was a kinder, gentler brand of sunshine than the kind we're used to in July, August, and September. This was a sun happy to see people absorbing its radiation; it has not yet lost interest after looking down on bathers and gardeners and grass too green not to invite a beating down. A breeze made it a gracious moment.
This is the last week of school, and the faculty decided to have a Spirit Week; we need the encouragement. We've almost reached the finish line, but have discovered we're just about out of gas. (It's not just an expensive commodity at the pump!)
My students and I sat on the sloping hill next to the black asphalt and watched the younger ones peddle furiously as they began the first race. One boy, American flag lashed to a stick which was duck taped to the back bar, honked his horn as wheels spun. The red, white, and blue flapped jauntily in the breeze he was creating. We cheered him on, calling out his name and others'. It wasn't so stifling that we didn't have the energy to encourage others. Another boy careened by the patriotic wheeler, almost knocking into him. We shouted, "Watch out!" They both came out of the turn, and went on, never heeding the possibility of a crash. Bicycle crasher went on to outstrip everyone and won the race. We cheered for him but clapped and hooted wildly for the last child who hadn't been able to keep up, or even get her bike going for that matter, as she crossed the finish line. "WOOHOO!!"
After the initial excitement for those of us watching-none of my students had brought their bikes, being too old and "cool"-we most of us flopped back on the grass. It was so green and warm and springy. We ignored the little black and orange striped bugs that would land on our legs or arms, then hop onto a nearby blade of grass. I leaned my head back, sniffing the fresh green scent and looking at the poodly-type clouds that hung just overhead. Someone sprinkled blades of grass which had been pulled up by their roots in my hair. Another student discovered a large brown spider and suggested that it might be "a Brown Recluse, maybe!" We all watched it with revulsed fascination. I was glad they didn't decide to place the spider in my hair as well.
Too soon, it was time to go in. All the bike contest participants smiled sweaty, (mostly) gap-toothed grins as they wheeled their transportation inside the building. It was a sweet mom and flaky crust apple pie kind of moment....the kind that gets lost in news reports of earthquakes and fuel barrel prices and body counts. Sitting with my students under the blue sky in the silky breeze and warm sunshine was something spectacularly real, uncontrived, and therefore, glorious. But I think my favorite part of the whole experience was the green grass. Its color and texture and scent were what kept me anchored to my spot. It was a time that was planted and will maintain roots deep in my memory.

Cycle of the Sun

2006-05-15T13:09:00.000-07:00

In the Spring, the sun is like a young person, who is excited about all the possibilities that the world has to offer. Just look at the green grasses and vibrant hues of flowers that respond to it's attentions. It's a young mother of a firstborn child, sensitive to all the cares of her infant, totally attuned to that which will cause the baby to flourish.

In the Summer, the sun is like a parent of a teen-ager: it's strong, firm, responding to the demands of those intent on utilizing every last ounce it can give. It glares at those children who want to lie on the beach, wearing too little.

In the Fall, the sun is that middle-aged person, on the verge of retirement. It has moments that point to a time of weakness, of vulnerability. But that time has not yet come, and the wiser moments prevail and shine, and cover others with its offerings-a cornucopia of harvested effort. Thoughts and feelings come to fruition.

In the Winter, the sun has finally decided to shuffle off to the South, where it's warmth can be bundled in moments of joy captured from the times before. It's glory is now reflected in snow and ice; crisp light is frozen clear as crystal. It's a brittle salute at time, before it sinks into oblivion.

Nurturing, preserving, punishing, withering: the sun joins in life's cycle, and is one of us.

Momentous

2006-05-14T20:04:00.000-07:00

There's something that needs to take form: words, ideas which will help me understand.
Ideas unformed have started creeping about furtively in the recesses-
all the experiences which, collectively, decide who I am, how I'll choose.
I pick at my nail and wait for cohesion.
Taking a sip of my drink, I remember a party for which I need to RSVP.
The phone rings, but I ignore it. The person then tries my cell phone.
I ignore that too. Someone knocks on my door,
and the musing that had started to ascend the stairs
from the basement of my consciousness loses its momentum.
The expression of unsaid things slips back into the shadows of dust, and the moment passes.

I Call Her 'Baby B'

2006-04-28T17:38:00.000-07:00

It's the end of a week, and I am tired. There have been too many responsibilities this week, with more to follow. I'd like to drink myself into a warmth that's eluded me the past several days, and then fall into bed and get lost in soft sheets that precipitate a falling away. Instead, I am faced with, "Mommy! I don't want chilli with cheese....I want ramen noodles!"
My nerves go into overload/red death mode: "You asked me to make chilli dogs and tater tots! Since I took you to the pool and cooked what you asked for, you do NOT get to whine in my presence!"
"Fine! I'll just make the ramen noodles myself!"
My eyeball fixes its laser beam on the offending child, and she starts to skulk off to her room instead of making good on the high-pitched words. They may as well have been stomped onto my dermis with feet communicating in morse code-with stiletto heels. My nerves are raw and shredded and screaming to eradicate all whining life forms within a ten mile radius. Luckily, my typically loving progeny is fairly intelligent and senses that there may an unhappy end in sight if she does not disappear quickly. I hear her snivelling as she skinks towards her room.
When blood has stopped pounding in my ears, I walk by her open door and see her hunched on her bed, talking quietly to her latest lovie. There are many of these creatures, in all stages of glory: some are new and are still soft and lovely to hold; others are missing patches of fur and have long lost the luster in their plastic black and brown eyes. But they exist in a pantheon of babies who will always matter. Her frantic, "Mommy, where's Pookie?!? I can't let her sleep in the dark by herself!" shows her dependence on all the little stuffed creatures given to her over the years. I never developed such sentimental, childish, typical attachements, and neither did my other children. Such a dependence on stuffing and buttons and sparkles is a revelation to me.
I listen at the door, ears attuned to her baby babble. A 45 lb eight year old sits wrapped in her pink and yellow blanket. She's so small, so immature, but I've nurtured her role as youngest-I still call her 'Baby'. "It's ok, you can have all the wamen noodles you want. Mommy will make it for you." She refers to gerself as she murmers these words of comfort; she holds her precious lovie tightly, and only when I clear my throat does she look up.
Large red-rimmed eyes ask the question before I hear her say, "Mommy, are you mad at me?" Plaintive, waifish-these words just don't do justice to the pathos which she squeezes from every breath as she asks me to reaffirm my love. It's a tradition we seem to need to go through, she and I.
"No, Baby. I just want you to understand that it's unreasonable to expect me to keep making extra food when I've made what you asked. You can't demand things on a whim, then be unreasonable when you don't get them."
"Mommy, what's a 'whim'?"
I search for the best way to answer this and keep her mind focused on the topic at hand. It's a stretch.
"A whim means that you wanted one thing, and then for no good reason, you changed your mind just because you can. It usually involves creating extra work for other people."
"Like you?"
"Yes, precious, like me."
"Mommy, are you mad at me?" This kid's good......
"Well, I was. But now I just want you to learn that it's selfish to always expect everything to go the way you want it to." Hmmm.....
"So can I have ramen noodles?"
"No, ma'am you can't." My anger has long since lost hold, and I answer her with forebearance.
"Ok, Mommy. I love you." She smiles and blinks at me from under bangs that have grown too long.
"I love you too, Baby B!" For a second more, I watch as she returns to her make believe. Then, turning, I slip into my bedroom, quietly close the door, and shake my head while I smile to myself. I am warmer and strangely content.

On the Wings of Words

2006-04-28T03:57:00.000-07:00

Words: The ones I craft contain my essence, layers of me.
My introspective journeys-outpouring of expressions- define
my purpose. Inside they'’d become stale, rank, bitter

Glimpses are myopic at best.
Flocks of words fly from my mouth, my pen
fluttering, lifted by each new current, held aloft
in the cracked, flawed clouds.
They forget to land, or get blown off course
or they linger too long

Birds? Or wolves in sheep'’s clothing?
Bloody, vicious, dripping with misguided fury:
unreasoning emotions, creeping honesty in the face of crouching fear.

The sheep get devoured by the words,
while the shepherd strums his harp.
Feathered, winged creatures fly on, looking for a safer place to land.

Sometimes though, the words are captured and housed
in somrarefieded aviary. They clutter the large, ornate structure
that houses them. This cage with the humors of tropical flowers,
bright, beautiful, on the verge of decay in the humus-filled
humidity, is where they drop their feathers. The floor is littered with them.

And we return to the sanguine sheep, bleating softly.....
or are they bleeding softly? And the shepherd lays down
his harp, his life while beating the vicious rippers, the bloody fangs,
the ravening yellow eyes.
He bares his fangs, the wolves retreat, and the sheep graze peacefully.

A new group of birds find the prevailing wind.
They flap away, carrying the words under their wings.

{2002}

Our Beach

2006-04-27T20:34:00.000-07:00

You looked at me and told me I smelled good.
I had just opened my eyes to find you
Staring at me, fingers pressed to your nose.
I looked at the seagulls, hovering, hoping
To be fed by some tourists with bags of breadcrumbs.
I flowed into the absorbing blues of sky and water
As the waves rolled inward, then back out.
White, frothy foam: the stuff of insignificance-
And I wondered why beginnings and endings
Are never clear at their happening.
You kissed my mouth
And the warmth of your lips liberated my concern.

{August '04}

Why Do We Expect So Much?

2006-04-27T20:30:00.000-07:00

I’m not a seamstress, threading the eye of a needle, which
seems harder than herding a camel through that very eye.
Yet, I want to weave tapestries of words, thoughts, feelings-
all nebulous concepts without format.
Living outside the literal, they’re the Emporer’s New Clothes.

If I could convince just one person, the right person, that
My words fit, can clothe the ruler in sumptuous fabrics, colors, textures
Will everyone else see the poetic garment?
The one I wear every day without common recognition of its value.
Maybe I should become a purveyor of ready to wear
rather than haute couture. What is poetry, really?
“One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”
I suppose, but I’d hazard a guess that the treasure-seeker
is a proprietor of a rather impressive line of his own
haute-couture, just waiting to be recognized.

Divorce

2006-04-26T19:21:00.000-07:00

Divorce is a death, but not acknowledged as such.
There’s no funeral with beautiful, mournful music.
No notes designed to grip and resonate in our hearts,
giving rise to that onslaught of emotions
buried deep within. There are no flowers tossed
in the open pit or laid on the polished casket.
There’s no graveside marking a passing, a finite end, a definite
transition into a new emotional space.
There are no casseroles, brought by friends and church ladies
who join the succession of saddened well-wishers.
Instead, the grieving period is one of fits and starts,
a halting hatred and incompetent grief.
Not the romantic, tragic figure of literature and song,
you're simply a statistic-
an ordinary, expected statistic.
Emotional myopia grips with a mighty grasp
and a void deepens that must be filled somehow.
Responsibility doesn’t thoughtfully disappear.
It festers and gnaws at whatever emotive resources you have left
until you wonder, "Why can't I be like one of the dark creatures of the
night, who scurry furtively until darkness emboldens them to run?"

But I guess that's what I did.

{2001}

Slightly Unhinged

2006-04-21T19:23:00.001-07:00

We met for a late lunch. This was unusual because we usually only meet on the weekends, Sundays usually, for a movie or dinner. We used to meet in the middle of the week, but now he's too busy with sod and I'm too busy with soccer and kids and everything else that always gets in the way. I had wanted to go somewhere overlooking the water, and we sat outside under the umbrellas. We're friends, he and I. Occasionally, our friendship slips past the normal boundaries......................................................................................

I am lying on my bed, checking my email. My laptop is in front of me, and the girls are in the other room. One of them has the shower running, and they're playing some game. The oldest is the younger one's servant (will wonders never cease?), and they seem to be playing house........................................................................

There's a story inside me, scratching to get out. The words-their meanings, their intent-can't seem to cleave to a single purpose. It's a baby who refuses to be born even though the labor pains assure you there's life and hope. This frustrates me, because it means that I have words left unspoken, emotions left unexpressed. They're a chorus singing in disparate keys. And the atonal quality of my stutterings-stories started, then stopped-is giving me a headache.
I am going through a slump.The self-assuredness I usually carry as a badge is coming unpinned. I won't let it fall completely to the floor, but like my attempts at writing, I seem to be stumbling. Missing the mark. My galumphing through certain instances has left me chagrined at times. It is because of this that the baby is breach, that the song cannot be sung.
With all this being said, I can't even finish this current thought. The baby refuses to be born; the song's chords have found no resolution. I have a welling need inside that refuses to be met head on. It's avoiding me like my colleague when she's done something she knows I want to confront her about (another set of stories entirely!). Unborn babies and off-key songs...even my metaphors are jumbled! I feel slightly unhinged.

A Moment on the Water

2006-04-19T21:09:00.000-07:00

Last night, I wanted to go on a pontoon boat ride around Lake Martin. I tried to convince all the other staff members that it would be a glorious night for gliding on the water, listening to the motor hum as it carried us, barge-like through the murky, lapping waves. To me, being on a boat at night is sheer poetry. The stars are cast in their usual spots, and the occasional spotlight on someone's dock spreads out over the water until it can't reach any farther, and the water resumes its dark, absorbing color. Apparently they weren't in the mood for poetry.
I walked down to the water front, knowing someone was there because all the dock lights were blazing. There sat the camp ranger, waiting. I had asked him earlier that, if I could get up a group, could he take us for a ride after the kids' evening activities were done? Obliging guy; he said, "sure, if you can get a group together." I saw no one else but kept walking down the hill, my shoes sliding slightly on the gravel. My flashlight was waving sporadically as I strode down with determination.
I approached the dock, then boarded the boat. We sat for a minute in silence, as I looked expectantly at the path leading to the water front.
"I guess no one else is coming."
"We can't go for much of a ride," the ranger told me. "The motor surges after it hits a certain number of rpm's."
"Oh." I wondered if this meant he wasn't going to take me for a spin around the watery block. My fears were relieved when I head the engine burp a couple of times as he turned the key in the ignition, then felt it come to life. Backing up from the slip, we headed past the swimming area and the island that seems to inspire each new director to build something on it, but remains inhabited only by fireants and scrubby pines each year.
The sky was much darker than I had anticipated and we both commented that the stars were not very visible. A storm was expected sometime within the next 24 hours, and we wondered if cloud cover would keep us from seeing anything. We motored along at a rather sedate speed and chatted. I learned that Jason, the ranger, had been a missionary in Russia, near the Mongolian border for a year. He told me it was the most rewarding year of his life, but that it had been a difficult adjustment. I told him about my recent missionary experience in Mexico, then we fell silent.
I sat with my arms folded over the back of the seat and looked over the side. What I could see in the dark was moving water-water displaced by an object being propelled through it, then resuming its original fluid form. "That we were here already doesn't matter," I thought. Glancing up towards the sky, I discovered that the stars had come out from behind the clouds' skirts, peeking shyly at me. One even winked at me, or so it seemed till I figured out that the light was blinking regularly and was therefore a plane. That was okay-it had been a nice figment to possess for a moment, even if it was a little cliche'. The breeze lifted my curls and my hair, which had been wet from a shower, was now only damp.
Why does it matter to anyone but me? It doesn't. But for me, it was another ride on a lake I've visited since childhood. It was a moment on the water, and will be added to the sum total of my experience with deep depths. Experiences become fragmented and splintered; they unravel so that what I think are the important parts to remember become nothing but lint on my sleeve. But the splinters and fragments somehow form an aggregate memory, a composite memory that embodies an essence I failed to catch at first. That becomes the point. It was such a slight thing, the ride that the ranger gave me. He won't remember it, and it was certainly not the longest ride or best conversation or even prettiest night. But it was mine, for a brief time, and I will remember it.

How?

2006-04-11T18:16:00.000-07:00

Pursued but not caught,
caught but not trapped,
trapped but not caged-
How can I be all these things,
and you still be happy?

Lavar

2006-04-05T05:16:00.000-07:00

Shifting

2006-03-26T17:09:00.000-08:00

I'm on the edge of a precipice. No, that's not true.
It's more like a small fissure, at least until I try to cross the gap.
Then things start spreading in opposite directions.
I'm not sure if I should turn back and cling to the rapidly disappearing ground that resembles my current grounds for truth,
or leap for the opposite side. It appears to be nearing,
but looks so foreign to me that I'm not sure where to put my feet.
The ground may shift in ways I'm not accustomed to.
The otro lado, the other side, looks vaguely promising;
it looks more promising that the suelo I'm used to standing on.
So maybe I'll just stand in the middle and do the splits-I'm flexible.
Then I won't have to make any decisions.

Shining Promise

2006-03-26T17:01:00.000-08:00

Cold and unsure about where I needed to be,
I left the building.
Seeking the beautifully shining sun,
I found myself trying to absorb some of the rays' heat as I sat on a step.
It seemed to promise something I couldn't name-something I was waiting for.
Cold seeped up, transferring from the cement through the thin fabric of my skirt.
My thinner resolve was inadequate against the assault of uncertainty,
and I needed a layer of comfort. There were none available.
Not that I'd willingly embrace.
(the veil of caution averts unnecessary truths)
No eye could read mine and justify my restless need.

Waiting on the step seemed pointless; the promise was unfulfilled.
I rose and stepped back in through the doors.

"I" Tune

2006-03-19T18:39:00.000-08:00

Movement, rhythm well up from the drum beat
that has replaced my pulse.
Blood rushes-a blue, tinny tune-and a cacophony of
emotion snares the tapping, snapping motion
of my hands and feet.
My hips move of their own accord, swimming in the
current of sharps and flats.
Fingers wipe the notes that dampen my
hair and bead my forehead.
I, then licking the salty juice from my fingers,
become the tune.

Waiting

2006-03-16T11:53:00.000-08:00

I read these words and remember what it was like,
this brief period of unrequited love.

My heart folds in on itself
And feels like it’s collapsing
Under the weight of waiting
Maybe I can take your heart in my hands
Gently massaging the life
Of love back into it.

I am thankful for the experience, because
it proved to me that I am capable of loving a man.
He just has to show his face.
I can wait with more patience now.

Exasperation

2006-03-13T20:10:00.000-08:00

"Why you not call me? I was calling, calling every night. I miss you."
So here we are, playing games again.
He says, "I love you, mi amor. Do you love me?"
I say, "No, I don't. But I do miss you."
"Por que? Why you don't love me?"
I say it again: "How can I love you? I don't really know you."
He says, "Te quiero. I love you, I think about you every night."
I ask, "Why do you love me?"
"I don't know, pero I need you. Do you love me?"
"No. I don't trust you."
He laughs. "Thank you, baby! Thank you."
"It's true!"
"Maybe I not call you any more."
"I've got to go."
"Besos. Talk to you later."
We hang up and I shake my head. He'll call again.

Sense of Self

2006-03-11T15:41:00.000-08:00

Every once in a while,
we each get the opportunity to step
past ourselves and meet the
real humanity that exists outside our
self-centered purview.

My time came last week, at an orphanage
in Mexico.
Giving for the sole purpose of the gift-
the gift of time, energy, caring-
made me whole in a way I've missed for a while.

The true test of its impact
will be when reality returns full force-will it return,
running towards me, self-absorption in tow?
Or will I see past the minutiae that bogs down my
sense of others?

Introspection is Over-rated

2006-02-20T07:33:00.000-08:00

Cruel and beautiful are the shadows of what might be,
dancing, and preying on our hopes.
I give all of myself away at first, the begin taking back little bits;
it's an indiscernible process, so that when I'm gone in the end, what has really been lost?
It reduces us both in some indefinable way that seems almost negligible.
Then the aggregate sum of reductions begins to take its toll.
Can you see the past in my eyes? Do you see glimpses of the pieces
I've bestowed, then retracted? Do you even feel the loss?
Maybe I do because I'm the one who's diminished.

Exercises in efficient contouring: getting rid of the dross is good
and introspection is highly over-rated.

I Wonder

2006-02-19T21:18:00.000-08:00

I read your email and smile,
wondering if this is the start of something
worth getting breathless about.
There have been so many fits and starts,
misplaced hopes, disappointed dreams.
Will we make it past the place where I
start to feel caged, and begin looking for
excuses and ways to extricate myself.

How much of myself do I want to share,
knowing that I may come to regret whispered
disclosures and confidences.
How near will you get before I start getting
nervous and inaccessible?
Is it possible to let someone get close enough
to hold my heart without us both getting bruised?

Epiphany

2006-02-18T05:14:00.000-08:00

El amor no es amor hasta que viene de DIOS.

Love is not love til it comes from God.

Sweetest Breath

2006-02-15T19:36:00.000-08:00

The sweetest breath that I ever drew
came at that finite moment when passion
considered me its embodiment-a moment with you,
a suspension of self in a sweet burning fashion.

A place somewhere between holding and
releasing, wanting to forever stay
at the precipice in this every-man’s land.
The hard wear of love, a game I try to play.

I experienced that most sought after of sensations
that prolongs its arrival, then bursts within.
An arch, the shudder of love’s machinations,
that dance in the night: my occasional sin.

And then I dreamed of finite existence
and woke once again, at your insistence.

Heat

2006-02-12T08:01:00.000-08:00

Fluid, like liquid,
warm and silky:
Immersed,
I become the heat.

A Journey of the Mind

2006-02-09T08:17:00.000-08:00

I open the cover and my finger brushes the page-a dry caress.
The paper bends slightly as I turn it and continue the trip into a new existence.
It will last as long as I keep turning the page, and even beyond that.
Flights of fancy, booked with anticipation
of a new discovery, a new thrill, a new love.
Words direct the journey down the road
they've not taken, but know just the same.
I seek each combination of letters and sounds-
meanings possessing more dimension than I'll ever fathom.
Words drive me, carry me over the threshold of the here and now.
Can the myriad combinations of sound and shape create vehicles for
understanding, for soothing, for exciting, for change?
I ride the words as one might ride a staid horse or a bucking bronco or a prancing pony, or even a stubborn mule.
Around the ring with grace and finesse, around the track at breakneck speed, through the furrows, pulling and prodding: which gait will come next, as my fingers turn the page?
Rein me in, drive me on-direct my next move as I wait for the word.

Stuck in the Moment

2006-02-08T10:31:00.000-08:00

Silver washes over my eyes,
as I try to see through
the same spun gold lies.
Red flows molten,
then hardens to black.
I refuse to look forward,
and can't look back.

I'm stuck in that moment.
How do I get out?

Looking

2006-02-08T09:53:00.000-08:00

Honesty, intelligence, confidence, loyalty, acceptance:
these are all characteristics I find attractive in a man.
I'm looking for someone with whom I can have a love
filled with laughter, faith, passion, desire, learning,
compassion, trust, and hope.
If you can make my heart dance and my body sing,
I'm all yours.

Not Big Enough

2006-02-08T09:47:00.000-08:00

Pictures are worth a thousand words--
what are words worth?
They don't wrap completely around the truth,
and each perception is subjective.
What one word can mean the same thing
to each person?
Love?
No-that's an especially nebulous term for
all manner of evils we perpetrate on each other.
It's not big enough to hold all the worlds in our hands...
The worlds that come into this one, each with their own orbit
and measurable span of life.
All we can do is hope that their intent is salve enough to
cover our mistakes and magnify our good intentions.

If, Then

2006-02-04T13:21:00.000-08:00

If you want to sleep in my bed, you have to sit on my porch first.
If you want to kiss my lips, you have to first hold my hand.
If you want to call me your novia, first call me your amiga.

Then ask what you want, and I will give it to you.

Didn't Do Much

2006-01-27T05:23:00.000-08:00

I was taken by surprise,
having expected you to behave like
a mature, grown man.
You ignored my repeated assertions
and proceeded as you had apparently
already planned.

I was operating under the assumption
that you would honor my requests,
my obvious attempts at distance
in the face of your insistence.

You failed to recognize my worth,
and felt free to take my dignity
with you when you left.

Apparently you've had your fill,
and have satisfied whatever need
you thought you had.
I'm not sure how such an encounter
satisfied you-I know it didn't do much for me.

What You Did

2006-01-25T14:33:00.000-08:00

I've gotten over my intense anger,
but am still bewildered.
Why did you behave like you did?
What did I do to deserve such treatment?
Please tell me that it was due to intense guilt
and not because you're a deceitful, hateful person.
Guilt makes people act stupid-I know this.

If you're a loathesome monster,
wouldn't that sociopathic element be evident elsewhere?
There must be some semi-logical explanation for....
what you did. Help me rationalize it.
You have removed the last vestiges of faith I had in men.
The truth hurts. But at least I've remembered
to bring those walls back up. Thanks for reminding me.

Italia, Parts One and Two

2006-01-13T19:05:00.000-08:00

One

Land of light and grace
Color intensified, and awash with texture.
Oiled canvasses, olives
Light shifts
Particles float through golden air.
A patina, the residue of time,
filters through my lungs, my mind.
Marble holds the form that one history took;
Wood too often decays, leaving nothing but questions.
Canvas shows the color of fate, as told by the artist.
Texture is the thing I love about this place.

Two

Slabs of marble, without imperfections.
I see a boy in my mind-
white, hard, blemish free.
David stands in youthful glory,
full of the hubris of conquerors.
His form shows God's brilliance,
expressed with a human passion-
earthly flesh, carved out of marble.
Thousands pay homage to his fabled courage,
these subjects conquered without the sling and stones.

Exhalation Comes

2006-01-02T13:26:00.000-08:00

Fingers, the seekers
that sear their vision
into my skin, prowl against
the shadows of flickering flame.
My curves savor the
onslaught of tongue and flesh
as you devour
whatever reason I posses.
Who needs a road map?
Not you, who remembers
all directions in the dark.
Breath travels slowly
as your tongue follows eyes
and I grab you with my senses.
I am done and undone by my want for you.
Heat swells with a yet unsated need.

The wine of certain satisfaction
courses through veins which course
through my body, your body
as they join in the exchange
of heat and light.
I glisten and gasp
as I search for my composure
among shadow-ravaged sheets,
then drop all pretenses
and throw my head back
in abandonment of all the things
that weigh me down.
Pleasure comes from
a glance, a touch, in a
breath inhaled and held.
Then exhalation comes.

Resonate

2005-12-30T18:19:00.000-08:00

Does fate have a tin ear?
Can it not hear the dissonance in my heart?
Discordant notes of distrust and hope play
a strange song, eked out when I try to learn a new tune.

New songs are too often flashy, with little to recommend
their shallow message to my ear. Or they're not complex enough
to encourage repeat performances.
Isn't there some resonance-that soaring sound of imperfection
learning transcendence through love, the deep lullaby
designed to soothe my fears and lift my spirits-
waiting to be discovered and cultivated?

I am waiting for the melody, the harmony, the parts that blend
to create a rich fabric of notes composed expressly for
the performance of a lifetime. I stand waiting on a darkened stage,
hoping that the lights will come on, so I can see the conductor
who waits to direct while he's carried along on a chord
so clear it's resonates for several lifetimes.

Contain

2005-12-30T18:04:00.000-08:00

That feeling has returned: the one where I feel as though I'm running relay races inside my skin.
It's a breathless sort of reckless sense of being abandoned, a vague panic.
The words I write aren't resonating because there's no one to hear them.
Do I need someone else to exist? No.
But an echo is formed because a sound bounces off a surface, then returns to the one who made it.
I need the deep cleansing breaths of someone who wants to care for me,
who will ruthlessly cut through any danger or threat.
Meaning takes on an added dimension, a wonderful texture when there's
someone to lean against, to be that defense to hide behind, that barrier to break down.
Trite phrases and petty cliches can't wrap themselves around the expansive feelings of loss I am trying to contain.
I'll clamp down hard, making sure they don't escape unless I'm alone.
Even then, I'll try to dismiss them.

Tangible

2005-12-26T14:20:00.000-08:00

You read my words, delicate hopes lying between sheets of pent-up passion,
and gave them something tangible to belong to.
You touched my skin with a gossamer force and listened while I
tried to explain the unexplainable.
I existed in the heat, in the buoyant wetness, knowing that it would end.
Now all I have are fragmented images to remember: convergence with perfection, briefly;
and a spicy sweet scent, complex and layered.

Vine

2005-12-24T15:11:00.000-08:00

There aren't the words to tell you how I feel.
At least, they're not in my possession.
A sense of space that divides my life from yours
Echoes against the walls you try to tear down.
Vines that were verdant and leafy now choke the sun out.
Why do the vines always grow too quickly?
Prune them with care and their fruit will be more plentiful and sweeter

Dignity

2005-11-29T14:58:00.000-08:00

Her white hair was softly curled.
She was about 5 feet tall, and bordering on frail.
As I watched her pass me, I wondered what her story was-I had several more hours before my plane boarded.
To amuse myself, I imagined vignettes portraying her as having the sweet and salty wisdom of little old ladies who make cookies and play bingo.
She got some snacks, then found a seat some distance from the gate.

Much later, I saw her making progress towards the area where I sat.
In front of me was the boarding gate; beyond that was the ladies' restroom.
Watching her slow gait and bent shoulders, I wondered who was left in the world to love her.
And if those gnarled, veiny hands hurt with the ache of gripping experience.
In the next few moments, I began to smell an acrid, biting ammonia smell.
It made me wince and reminded me of all the diapers I'd changed.
I glanced about, and discovered its origin.

Her blue striped pants had a dark stain trailing down the inside of her leg.
My eyes started watering, but I sensed it was more a result of my empathetic horror for her dignity.
With obvious but silent distress, she worked her way to the bathroom with as much haste as she could muster.
She disappeared into the bathroom and didn't re-emerge for some time.
The smell lingered. So did the swelling in my throat.
As I imagined the mortification she must be experiencing, the bathroom door swung slowly, and the stained pants emerged.
I wondered if she had something else to put on, and if there was someone to bring it to her.
Apparently there wasn't, and I struggled with a decision: should I offer to help, and thus bring attention to her predicament, or should I remain where I sat?
As I deliberated, I saw her face. Vulnerability had been replaced with a dignified serenity.
Marvelling at her composure, I knew in that instant that I was going to leave her be. I was not going to destroy her beauty. She again disappeared into the bathroom, this time clutching an black overnight bag.

In due time, the lady emerged with a clean pair of pants and a peaceful look.
Two thoughts went instantly through my mind: I hope that I never lose control in public like that, and when the indignities of age do beset me, I hope I face them with equal courage.

Little Armor

2005-11-27T01:12:00.000-08:00

You discovered my bare skin
as you rummaged between the covers.
Fingers plucked at and unhooked
what little armor I wore.
Unassailable walls are more
easily scaled in the dark.
Sliding off the straps, the strings,
those defenses ended up on the bare floor.
You lifted me gently from my reclining position;
gifted fingertips did all the work.
You mined for treasure and my walls collapsed.
It was the sweetest defeat imaginable.

Dreams

2005-11-27T01:05:00.000-08:00

I dreamt that you woke me from within my dream
And unwrapped me from the cocoon in which I was sheathed.
You delicately removed the years of forlorn impatience with your touch, your steady gaze, your tongue gently telling, showing what memories should be made of.
Your lips rasping on my collarbone made me rise from my slumber.
The gasp from my parted lips made you rise.
Your fingers raked my flesh, following various torturous paths until I begged for relief.
My fingers scratched out their own course, gently pressuring you to find release within my heat.

Tears of craving came from our pores as you joined your salty sweat with mine. Pent-up and unspoken desires were left on the twisted sheet beneath us.
Any imperfections I have were erased as my curves grasped you, hand and tongue, refusing to let them go.
I rode the tide of movement and resistance.
A strident, garbled moan rose from somewhere deep inside of me
And traveled through my flaming nerve endings. It was a lovely burn.
My urgency for your thrust, for your skin on my skin,
Matched the tingling need nursing mothers know when
Their full breasts ache to be suckled by their greedy, hungry child.
I drained you of all the hurt, the sorrow, the lonely anger;
You drained me of all my unanswered dreams.
We became the birthplace of a greater truth.
It filled the womb of possibility my heart had become. Our bodies were slick with the sticky joy of entering and being entered.
You looked into my eyes again and we spent ourselves in each other. Then we dreamed.

Angles and Curves

2005-11-27T00:58:00.000-08:00

I Want a Man-
Who has an urgent need to feel my skin, to breathe in my scent
To understand our words, our looks, our hesitating touch
Who can trace the outline of my lips with his finger, to make me shudder and sigh at the promises written there
To listen while I talk and talk while I love
Who will grasp my hair and trace a path along my bare neck with a finger, with his lips
To graze his lips across my ear as he tells me who he thinks I am, as he tells me how he wants to find out
Who exists, who looks at me from afar, feels me from above, and gets under my skin
To press close, hovering over suggestive possibilities, leaving me to think of nothing else
Who will make my skin both blaze and cool with his touch
The curve, it blends with angles to create a scape which this man will want to possess-I want a man

How Soon?

2005-11-27T00:42:00.000-08:00

Your hands imagine themselves traveling the curves of my hips,
as my hands find themselves dreaming of tracing your face.
My eyes see the tangled sheets, hapless covers thrown
aside in the breathless beating of my heart.
Can words ever mean all they are meant to?
If a picture is worth a thousand words, how much are the words
that frame my heart worth?

My legs intertwine with your legs; they hasten two becoming one.
Your fingers amuse themselves with learning a new language-
the one verbalized by skin on skin.
Which one of my senses will you overwhelm first?
How soon will it take for me to capture the essence of you?

2005-11-26T19:20:00.000-08:00

I close my eyes and wait for your call.

We

2005-11-24T06:37:00.000-08:00

We talked.
We laughed.
We kissed.
We touched.
He left.

I miss him.

Imagine This

2005-11-15T18:31:00.000-08:00

You enter the bathroom to find me in the tub. The water is hot enough for steam to rise occasionally. I’ve sunk down below the surface, so that bubbles clothe me. Slight movements send the cover scattering, fraying it a bit at the edges. Fragments of the frothy blanket float away. I close my eyes.
Candles flicker in several locations, creating an ambient glow. Shadows dance on the wall and on my glistening face. Any skin that rises above the surface becomes immediately cooled. Rainbows glint in hundreds of tiny bubbles.
You smile, study my face, then kneel beside the tub and swirl your finger through the water, our eyes following its progress. I anticipate its trail, not realizing I’m holding my breath. I shift again and skin is revealed. Your eyes find mine and hold them, while your fingers meander just below the surface, creating lazy little eddies wherever they go.
I’m still looking at you when they graze my submerged thigh. My eyes widen, then partially close. The vague lethargy the heat has created in me gains hold over you and you are in no hurry to reach any expected conclusions too quickly.

Pretty Girl

2005-11-14T19:47:00.000-08:00

"Nena linda"-I liked the idea of being your pretty girl.
I felt you standing behind me, whispering your palabras in my ear.
I tried to nestle in your warm words as they wrapped their tendrils
around my shoulders.
But I can't wrestle with your hurts, your doubts.
The ghosts of those who've wronged you have caused those tendrils
to wrap themselves too tightly around my neck.
They've choked the life out of what might have been.

A Brush With Color

2005-09-19T14:23:00.000-07:00

The paint brush flicked my cheek, as in her excitement, she flung her arm around me. The warm little body, still clad in a school uniform, seemed coiled and ready to jump for joy. Pony-tail slightly askew, wispy hairs framed her cheeks. They sometimes strayed into her eyes-those little windows trained expectantly on the patch of sky before us.
She, elevated on a chair, and I, standing on the grass in my bare feet, watched fireworks over the treetops in our back yard.
The colors looked like brief brush strokes of an artist, decorating the dark in furiously joyful jabs of blazing reds, yellows, greens, and blues.
Each splotch thrown at the great dark canvas of sky brought a gasp."Oooohhhh! Mommy, did you see that?"
I wondered why the fireworks were being displayed at such close proximity-they're usually reserved for the hallowed grounds of the bay on the 4th of July. The thought was cut short as I felt the stinging bite of an ant and realized I was standing near a small bed. She squealed at a new color explosion, but I missed it as I frantically brushed ants from my ankles and feet.
The warm October night air held us-though not as closely as it might in August or September-as we watched and listened. Like lightening and thunder, sight and sound dominated.
A final burst lit up the sky in extended moments of heat and light. I murmured that this was the end and squeezed her tightly. Smoke-pale, disappointing echoes of the blazing fireworks-hung sadly in the air for a few moments, then dissipated. Fearing a vociferous vocalization of disappointment, I was shocked to hear the contented statement, "That was cool! Let's go paint some more pictures, Mommy."

wrap

2005-08-28T13:37:00.000-07:00

pull the string.
unwrap the paper.
remember to save it-
you may need to rewrap me,
later.

Sifting Through Time

2005-08-13T17:28:00.000-07:00

You wander the continents, searching for a relic of something lost-
a love not given, or one that was taken away too quickly.
You sift through sand, rock, and bone to locate artifacts
of a memory your dreams created for you.
He loved you, in his own fashion.
but you had to search and rifle through the words
that often fell on your tender heart like rubble.
Among these blows of time, you pieced out left over tenderness.
Your countenance crumbles each time you wonder why you
could not please him.
This wounded facade sets harder each time you
dig to remember a hug, a smile.
You carefully brush and scrub each sherd for evidence, and are always left
with an incomplete vessel.
This will always haunt you because you do not understand where the missing pieces are hidden-
And neither do I.

Baby

2005-07-28T18:32:00.000-07:00

In a fit of rage, I slam my door.
Why can't she just leave my things alone?!
I begin to furiously clean the mess she's created-
there are photographs everywhere.
"I just wanted to look at the pictures, Mommy."
I wonder again: do I have the stamina to do this thing alone?
Sifting through the images, I see the guilty party smiling up at me
from the stack.
Six years old, standing in front of a white spray painted Christmas tree in the gym at school-
she's wearing her little red dress, matching santa hat with the white trim,
and mismatched ankle socks.
She is minus two teeth, her bangs are crooked, and I wonder:
How can I help but be in love with her?
I stand slowly, go to the door, and open it.
And she's there, with a long face and red eyes,
waiting to be let back in.
My arms encircle her, squeezing out the gigantic space I created in my anger.
She's my baby, and the pictures are for her.

Conundrum

2005-07-28T18:24:00.000-07:00

I’m paralyzed, moving just enough to convince everyone I’ve got
complete mobility. What an act. But bit by bit, I let drop both the things
that matter and those that don’t. Functioning ceases to have an attraction
when I find myself so utterly absorbed in the activity of wondering
that prescient thought becomes a mystery beyond my grasp.
How I can give myself over completely and then not at all, remains a
puzzle, a conundrum. The solving of it is pleasant at times, onerous at others. The contraction of my pumping muscle-that heart which seems to betray, allay-provides constant proof of confusion of illusion that my mind seems to craft.

Chaos

2005-07-28T18:06:00.000-07:00

My need to create far exceeds my need to sit still.
Have I reached that point when I can relax?
There are many empty spots waiting to be crammed full of memories,
like the hall closet, whose sole purpose is to collect
games of chaos, strings of lost chances, and coats of anguish.
It’s a repository of disorder: something small to control.
Chaos of one’s own making is so much more
liberating than the nascent depths of hysterical
despair lurking in someone else’s closet

Black and Blue

2005-07-28T17:47:00.000-07:00

Black and blue: colors can combine to meet
the grip of love unbound by lonely fears.
The pattering sounds of blind hearts and feet,
guided by a deluge of sea-salt tears.

Eyelids close against the false hopes of my
designs on your time-bruised, semi-clenched heart.
Onward I plunge, dragging away from shy
smiles, and towards the salt sea that must not part.

Divide by divide, the waters slosh out
of ducts used to abusing exercise.
Eyelash grips cheek, lips dribble into pout,
I careen from blind hope to knowing cries

You must be mine, with your eyes upon me.
Squeeze out the salt, float away on love’s sea.

Cage

2005-07-19T22:29:00.000-07:00

My heart is a cage inside my chest, with a wild animal lunging at its bars,
trying to dislodge whatever impediments block the nourishment it seeks.
Desperate hungers leave furrows there, deep clefts dug in the scratching,
clawing attempt to find the end to my search.
It’s not a quiet kind of pain; it’s a ferocious, raging, feral animal that has to get out now.
Occasionally, a tamer comes near, but either loses interest or falls in the fight.
Is the animal a devourer? Where is the trainer who will smooth
tangled dreams and ragged breaths of wishing?

Explosion

2005-07-19T22:28:00.000-07:00

I feel so pressed down inside
I need to explore
A hot, metal magma
Burning everything it touches
With its red intensity

I want to flow
Then harden
Then burst some more

Leaving time and experience
In my wake
Leaving visible traces
That others may walk on
Walk through-
Those hard places
Left behind

As I swirl
Onward
Toward my next--

Divorce Blues

2005-07-19T22:23:00.000-07:00

Angry despair and desperate hope
strangle each other in the violent dance
my heart does when let out of its cage
for any amount of time to do its damage
to my thinly-wrought facade of design and function.

Confluence

2005-07-19T22:22:00.000-07:00

Confluence of colors-
Greens, blues swirling, flowing, then ebbing.
Reds, golds, oranges washing intensive energy.
Sweet amber, lightening with swiftness, ascends.
Emotions once numb are now alive with screaming purity
Where should my fingers go?

Free Fall

2005-07-19T22:20:00.000-07:00

My nerves are screaming-
screaming in fits and starts.
If I can’t crawl out of my skin
soon.....
What happens when you fall over the edge?
It’s still a finite existence.
Isn’t there a set of walls
to careen into?
Bruises are preferrable to
that suspenseful gasp
which comes with the start
of a free fall.

Mother Nature

2005-07-17T20:57:00.000-07:00

They begin so innocently, all yellow fluff and sweet peeping.
Beaks and claws are not so apparent in the
incubator, the shelter of baby chicks.
A new batch arrives; it contains a deformed baby-I call him
"Brokeneck" because of his awkward, angled neck. I think he’s cute.
The other chicks don’t seem to mind.
They live their happy little existence, his
differences unmarked, all of them clamoring for food and water.
I don’t understand nature very well.

Time to introduce the latest batch to the coop comes quickly.
Feathers fly amidst the straw: bits of offerings too often
cling to the bottom of my shoes, waiting to take vengeance for
collected eggs and backyard barbecues-someone’s got to be the main attraction.
I wonder how my special chick will fare in his new environs.

Soon enough, I discover the true nature of things.
One day, when the dog is sniffing around, hoping
to catch himself a fat one,
I see the difference has been discovered.
Pecking order-beady eyes, cocked and loaded,
ready to eradicate differences-is a reality, a nature thing.
I’m angry to discover that my poor little broke neck has been pecked to death,
and left to rot in ignominious fashion as ants and other insects do their job.
His little eyes bulge and the feathers on his neck are bedragled-
a sorry indictment of the cruelty of nature.
The head biddy trains her beady eyes on me, but I’m not afraid of her.
I spread out some feed, then launch her into the air as the toe of my
muddy hiking boot connects with her feathers and fluff.
She squawks indignantly, flutters about in a furied flurry of feathers,
then returns to her perch, ready to re-establish her dominance.
I am disgusted with the cruelty of survival-conformity, sameness required.
I hate chickens.

2005-07-08T18:23:00.000-07:00

Untamable Progression (or Stupid, Cheesy Sonnet)

2005-07-03T06:29:00.000-07:00

I look out my square of unbroken light
To a strand of the Charles flowing below.
I also see buildings further upstream
Filled with myriad people I don't know.

To meet them all would be impossible,
it would take more lives than I have to live.
It's like the ideas I try to master,
streaming through my mind, seemingly a seive.

A careful straining of all of life's lumps
produces a richer understanding.
Of what I'm not sure; it seems to elude
me-series of thoughts on so many strings.

They're pulled through my mind, evading but linger-
ing long enough to make an impression.
The great understanding I seek is this:
learning's an untamable progression.

Lovebird

2005-06-30T17:09:00.000-07:00