Sunday, November 27, 2011

To Him

To me
your eyes
shine on
Pale waters
roll on
Beacons
flashing whispers
in the dark.
Their words
teased once
promise now.
Chasing demons
with a glance
Kindling life
when my fire dies.
To me
your arms
fight on.
Stronger than fear
sail on
soft as cry
of new life held.
Their sway
vanquished beasts
envy none
and trade their sword
to calm the fire
of me.
To me
your heart
holds on
Quiet song
beats on
pounding rhythm
felt beneath
my hand.
Its weight
carries me
over storms
faith alights
through raging sky
its life
raining down
over me.
To me
you are
the longest love
every love
every smile
every moment
every treasure.
My soul, in flame and shadow
who lifted me
and caught me
part of me
saving all of me.
Love defined
screamed and whispered
shared and stolen.
I write it all
for you.

________________________________________________________________________________

Sunday, November 20, 2011

Needlings

Somebody said some ridiculously nice shit about me and I just wanted to save it for posterity.  You know, during those times when I have to pick up my dignity out of the dirt and stuff it back in my pockets.

I don't know this chick who writes this blog, but she said some cool things about me.  And I like that.  It makes my middle finger feel twice as big and badass as it really is, which is kinda crooked and pathetic. 

So what did she say, exactly?  This.

"Okay. Let me just say this word of caution: if you are easily offended by language or dark humor, don't get mad at me when you visit this amazing blog and find yourself so entangled in her words. This woman is an AMAZING writer. I found her through a virtual writing society and haven't let go since. When my writing gets weak, or lacks a certain edge, I look to this chick to pull me out of my rut. Amazing in a horribly, demented, high IQ kinda way. Check her out."

Dude.  That shit's like confidence crack.   Pretty cool, yeah?  I thought so.   She writes as De Su Mama and you can read her here. 

I'm running a 5K next Sunday.  Never done it before.  Always wanted to.  So I am.  I know, it's a sad little 5K.  I run more than that every morning.  So then why don't I do the 10K?  I don't know.  Maybe I will.  My husband is running with me.  He pretty much thinks I'm a rock star.  It's so bizarre that after 17 years with him, I so easily forget that if I want something, all I have to do is ask.  He would move galaxies for me.  How could I forget that?

_______________________________________________________________________________

Friday, November 18, 2011

Fallen Peaches

Her knees got boo-boos
Skints and scabs and knots
Devil child with baby cheeks
Barrettes hung loose
The ones momma made
With ribbons
Tangled and wild
Tears and No More Tears
Only a girl would know
Running and rolling
Dirt in her lashes
Bruises and scars
for every race won
And every grip lost
Tire swing zen
But the rope was what she eyed
Shoeless feet find friction
Tiny fingers lose it
Crawdads in the creek
Wild blackberries
In the fold of her shirt
Fences for jumping
Basements for hiding
Musty and dank
Until the mouse came
The one momma killed
It cried and screamed
for so long.
Camel crickets
Rolly pollies
Granddaddy longlegs
She kept them all
Ate a couple.
When no one saw
Lightning bugs and frogs
At gramma’s lake
The peach tree
Pawpaw helped her reach
And his glass of water
That never was
But pawpaw died
His eyes were closed
On that day.
The blackberries
Soured and old.
Fading bruises unreplaced
Healing skints forgotten
Dead frog in a purple purse
Fallen peaches rotten
Vague times
Vagabond minutes
Begging for hate
that never comes
The many ones
Pocket deep
Steal just enough shine
From each rising sun
Memories lost
Worth forgets
Grace stumbles
Faith stolen
Dawn grays
Eyes close.

________________________________________________________________________________

Monday, November 14, 2011

Stigmata Of Recent Bleeding

A spot.
Rub a little.
Just with the side of your hand.
Fingernails behind the curtain.
Waiting for their turn.
Rub a little.
Little pills of skin flake.
Sweet burn of sated itch.
But the wiggle smolders
Wee at first
Don’t touch
Can you see it?
The wiggle
The itch
The way your eyes lie
The way they whisper behind your drums
It’s a dance, a little nerve dance
Wiggle and dance
The way the endings do.
Ha.
They don’t see it
But you do.
You welcome the scratch
When the nails peek out.
Scratch
Scratch
Salty burn of sated itch.
But the sizzle smolders.
A prickle at first.
Don’t touch
Can you see it?
The prickle
The itch
The way your eyes cry
The way they fester with a socket rattle
It’s a rattle, a little nerve rattle
Prickle and rattle
The way the endings do.
Yes.
They don’t see it.
But you do.
You welcome the dig
The nails grind and pull
Grind
Dig
Red, fat flash of sated itch.
Lick your fingers
The way the wee ones do.

________________________________________________________________________________

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Skool

This is the second week my kids have been taking a class at a public school. Out of all the reactions I expected to hear from them, their first one kind of took me by surprise. They are absolutely fascinated with the concept of “teachers.” You have to understand, this is all pretty much foreign to them. My oldest kid (16) said to me, “I just don’t get it, mom. So, the teacher stands in front of the class and, what, just tells the kids the same information they could teach themselves in half the time? What am I missing?" And then he proceeded to solve the state's entire budget issue by suggesting they just tell the kids what they are supposed to learn, give them a few months to learn it, give them a test to take, and be done with it. I'd vote for him. Sure as shit, I would.

Sigh. My babies. Little bro (14) is enjoying the social aspect of it. Not for himself, but just observing the dynamics of the classroom, the interaction between the kids and between the teacher and the kids. He thinks it's hysterical watching the teacher try to be relatable. The little gestures like casually sitting on the corner of the desk, using common slang, interspersing his lecture with jokes. Bro says, “does he really think the kids will pay more attention to him if they believe he’s just a 50-year-old teenager? It’s kinda creepy to me.”

Sigh. My chirrins. Daddy asked them a couple days ago if they now have any desire to go to “regular school.” I don’t think the darts coming out of my kids’ eyeballs could have been more deadly. Jake says, “do you have any idea how dumb we would be right now if we were at that school?”

Sigh. My little smartasses. I truly feel sympathy for the world they are set loose upon.

________________________________________________________________________________