Feathers

Standard

bird photopin

 

I wish I could be as a bird with clipped wings or bound by the bars of a cage

To fit in that proverbial box, where life and love all neatly arrange,

Held atop a pedestal and never fall

But my wings are wild and wide

My need to fly as great as an ocean’s tide

My spirit cannot survive if banded with gold

My heart cannot justify the love it withholds

And I am at a loss without reason to explain

Why I seek freedom the way others seek refrain

 

photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/48600090482@N01/298680933″>Wings</a&gt; via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/”>(license)</a&gt;

The Adventurous Ones

Image

blog photo 1 heart

Conjure your best scowl, wear it on the ferry

Dream of listless days when souls should be less weary

An undaunted passenger on a ride to who knows where

Destiny likes to tease, she’ll take you up on every dare

What you think you know becomes a simple mirage

And the entrance to your heart a Styrofoam façade

Little does the mind trust that beating fool

Before it follows suit and lets you break every rule

 

(photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/11248435@N04/9729898682″>Lead Me On, She Whispered</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/”>(license)</a&gt;)

The Roadtrip

Standard

I tasted dirt blowing in from the open window,

No rain in weeks and we were all thirsty now

Was a drought they said on the radio

The wheels were turning, turning like

Some old song I’d heard playing hours ago,

Before Sadie lost her lunch,

Before we’d made that last stop.

Wish we’d just stayed in the car but it’s too late now

We can’t undo what’s been done;

Brian is a big man and his legs are scrunched in

The backseat and we’re all thirsty

 

There’s no sign to show us what’s ahead,

But we all know where this road leads

They say the Devil’s in the details, but I

Say the Devil’s in the deeds

Again, some song reminded me of a childhood memory

I wish I were a kid again, that we’d just

Stayed in the car but it’s too late now

I’m not sure how far we’ve come but

But they’re telling me to throw out the gun

I tasted dirt blowing in from the open window

And thought of Brian telling us this was going to be fun

 

Words, like presumption, hung heavy in the air

I swallowed hard to push the guilt down into my belly

That man barely bled but he was still just as dead

Brian’s long legs stepped the fastest back to the car

He told us all to shut up and we did

Now I keep tasting dirt and we’re all thirsty

I think this drought will never leave us

Weeding the Bed

Standard

She stood in her flower garden and assessed the extensive job before her. Sweat rolled down her back and between her breasts. Her hair stuck to her head beneath her ballcap. Weeding, forever it seemed, and still she had a day’s work ahead of her. She’d let this job go for too long. Her hands hurt and even the gloves she wore didn’t stop soft blisters from forming.

“Celia, bring your mother some lemonade.”

“Celia, I need my medicine.”

Her mother’s constant requests and reminders echoed thru her mind. Three years she’d been at it, playing off-and-on assistant at first and as decline set in she served as part-time caretaker, along with a hired nurse until the money ran out. After that, she became the full-time, around-the-clock caretaker.

She stopped her work every few minutes to listen…Was that her mother calling or some trailing cry on the wind? She held her breath, one of only a hundred times she would in a day or a night, making sure she wasn’t being summoned. She waited…nothing…and she could breathe again.

A hospital bed was brought in and set up in the living room a month ago. ‘Any day now,” the people told her the first week. ‘Sometimes they linger when they still have things to say,’ in the second week. ‘She’s tougher than we thought,’ in the third week. ‘Call should something change,’ last Friday. And like that, the good death watchers left her alone, again.

She pulled at stubborn weeds, crowding out and growing taller than her turf lilies and columbines. She wondered if she should till the whole bed up and start over. It wouldn’t have gotten so bad if it weren’t for…As quickly as the thought came to her mind she pushed it away. Of course taking care of her mother was more important than flowerbeds or a man or a job or…she stopped and looked up.

The hoe leaning beside the front steps called to her to take a whack at a few of the more persistent grasses around the chrysanthemums.

Again, she paused, ever on guard…she heard only the call of some wild bird though, free to come and go at will. Somewhere in the distance was a dual between two roosters, crowing, it seemed, to disturb the silence.

The hoe offered better success and she was actually happy with her progress when she heard the cry, like pain caught in the throat unable to escape the body. Celia’s eyes widened as she saw the wriggling foot and the blood spurt. She dropped to her knees to see an open gash on the belly of a large toad that had been hiding beneath one of the weeds she’d been trying to uproot. Soft cries of agony escaped the suffering creature.

“Celia, Celia…I need my medicine.”

“Celia…where are you?”

Her mother needed her again. The toad struggled in the dirt. She had to help him.

“Celia?” She had to help her, too.

The weeds spread before her like a carpet being unrolled. Heat rose up her neck and face…she’d never finish this work.

Her body shuddered at the suffering before her. She knew she’d have to strike the toad to end his misery, one big blow to cut his head clean from his body.

“Celia?” Again, her mother cried out for her.

Coughing, rattling sounds, a gurgling noise. She gripped the hoe in her hands. Deep breath, no hesitation and there it was…silence, the agony over. It was easier than she thought, so she stepped off the porch and back to the spot where the little toad took labored breaths. With the hand of a newly-skilled expert, she made one simple swing of the blade and the toad, too, fell silent.

Dear Jane Letter…from writer to penner

Standard

I am currently taking a class called Yoga for Writers and the teacher, Deborah “Zenha” Adams has challenged us to write a Dear Jane/John letter to ourselves from the writer within about why we have abandoned our craft (for those of us who haven’t written much in a while)…and this is my attempt. We were to be honest and simply lay it all out there…

Dear Penner,

We have come to an impasse, you and I, as I no longer have faith in you to pen my words on the page. You have bargained and avoided. You have been complacent and angry. You have suffered long in matters that I have had no ability to assist you in, for you haven’t allowed me to help.

I have been there with you, in you, since you were a child, always the one you turned to in loneliness or confusion, always the one you allowed to revel in your joys and successes. I am your ultimate confidante and you have abandoned me for matters of livelihood and motherhood and relationships, apathy, and of all things, living.

You know I have knocked at the door of your soul when it has been battered, called to you in 2 a.m. whispers and you simply rolled over and went back to sleep. I am the one who feeds the hunger of the urgent beast to create…hell, I am the hunger and the beast.  I am the torture and the salvation. I am the voice that must be heard, whether anyone understands.

You feel the winding paths of prose coursing thru you…I know you still do. You still hear poetry in crowded conversations and city traffic.

I am your respite and I am still here. I am still within the confines of your mind, in the marrow of your bones. I sit with you at dinner and feel you quiver with every orgasm. I am still here, waiting for you.

I know you drift from time to time. I know you take other lovers in the form of activity and laziness and apathy. But I will not let you go, for we have more words to write, more stories to tell and for the love of God, all that fucking poetry to spill.

Sincerely,

 

Writer

Standard

15761596795_ff7ed7b22a_n

When it’s gray I still feel the sun,

Like a warmth that washes over me

Rays like golden fingers

Even when the day is done

Embraced in tender care

I’m reminded of the night

Piercing, almost, your rod of starburst light

Filtering thru windows shaded

Rolling thru a hazy vapor

Heating my flesh to heights

I never knew existed

Spent, like yesterday’s dollar,

Sweat pouring from my brow

The secrets of the Garden

Belong to me now

 

(photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/33143245@N02/15761596795″>Hawt Pink</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/”>(license)</a&gt;)

Roadside Attraction

Standard

medium_3145980733

He took her flesh, left her heart on the side of the road

She braced for the concussion, the reverb of her soul

Distance crawled out of every crevice, left her open

The stars aligned but the moon found the sun was stolen

Lovers turned and tossed in passionate waves

Detours abandoned to follow what each one craves

Thunderous applause called from a gray sky,

Her abandoned heart picked up by a passerby

 

(photo credit: <a href=”https://www.flickr.com/photos/stuckincustoms/3145980733/”>Stuck in Customs</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/”>cc</a&gt;)