Altering My Ego

If I had known that
Regret would
talk to me every day,
all these years
I would have never spoken
back then
I would have kissed you
instead of speaking,
Ever
I would have pulled you
into my bed your bed any bed
instead of wasting time in
conversations not memorable
If I had known that
you would live your life without me
I would have grabbed onto
your shirt August 17, 1981 and
pressed your face
into my breasts
wordlessly
all heartbeat and patchouli,
instead of saying
Let’s go to Bern’s

They're pushing down the trees
in the old grove
that stands between our place
and the north road
a Faithful and forgotten
plot of land
invaded and bulldozed

madness

twisted branches
reaching for G*d
an ancient minyan
draped in mossy talleisim,
another mistreated mischpacha
praying
leave us alone

Strictly stopping by to sport my new user pic. I know everybody else uploaded their NaNoWriMo icon two weeks ago, but seriously? I have been busy, people. Writing like a FIEND!!! I have written words...many, many words, to the tune of 18,000 and some change. Which I think is a grand accomplishment and all it really is, is just RIGHT ON TRACK! And the little graph thingie they have on the website is only getting steeper. It is very intimidating.

I would not have lasted this long if it were not for the encouragement of a few great people. Some in RL, some online. Thank you. Mmmmwwah!

Trouble follows trouble 
twist by twist 
until you lay down 
wrung out and weak  
Your too-brief rest,  
life interrupts,
and you sigh with hopeless breath 
Once more you lift
your tired bones
and trudge out to 
the weary fields 
bleak and brown
dead and dying
you watch and worry that
they may call you to join them
That they might just say, 
you there,
die with us
lay down for good
It's cold but it's peaceful
this ground
this dead and dying
ground

3WW words: karma...obey...wither


She called her Karma. Her own mother had forbid it; told her to name her Stephanie. But the law had, by reason of her pregnancy, conferred on her the title of "emancipated minor"; an adult. She didn't have to obey her mother any more. She pressed exhausted, bloodless lips against a miniscule, vernix-coated ear and mouthed softly, "Your name is Karma."

The 14 year-old Madonna lay back in a stupor of violation; awash in relief and horror. She was now a  survivor, of an insane and otherworldly experience, a cataclysm called childbirth. And she was changed by it. She had felt the child that had been herself wither and die.
 
And all that remained was Karma, whose frog-like legs kicked the air and tiny pencil-thin arms waved in mindless fury. Karma, all wrinkled and wild; screaming, a helpless little pod of a person. A person who had plowed her way out of her teenaged mother's belly, desperate to breathe, desperate to shed her 40 week chrysalis, desperate to be emancipated.

This week's words:

incubate, nightmare, vanity

A hint of shrouded eyes reflected

through the mirror’s steamy veil

and in the anxious mind

behind them

thoughts of murder howl and wail

 

Little hatchlings incubate

the how

the when

(what day, what time)

what implements will then be needed

what parapets must minions climb

 

Sweet homicide

oh happy killing

sure to bring an end, release

from vile abuse

so oft repeated, This

hell and torment

then will cease

 

What reason, for her plan so wicked

what nightmare brought

her to this place

of hatred boiling, roiling, putrid;

why would she risk

such dire disgrace

 

She looked down

and saw the clutter

on the well-worn

vanity

That toothpaste tube,

once more expos'ed

finally spawned

insanity.

 

A helpless, blameless descent,

an inescapable

and familiar melancholy

 

Autumn leaves

do not fall alone

 

The earth tilts

transitioning,

forgetting,  

warmth and light, a hazy dream

 

Painted woods cackle in carefree breezes
throwing off their russet and sienna costumes with abandon
until naked and knobby

they croak out their complaints

over the stone-cold silence

Day after day of unrelenting ache
for flower-strewn field
and cloudless sky
torments the sun-starved mind

And yet, the ptarmigan
and hare anticipate
the long winter 
Inuit and Athabascan know
how to thrive in the frozen night

It can be done.





 

NaNoWriMo. In case you do not know what that stands for,  translated from the original Urdu, it is  "Oh Dear God In Heaven What Have I Gotten Myself Into"

I realized over the weekend that the thought of participating in this year's National Novel Writing Month is exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. It will be the biggest stretch I have ever inflicted upon myself. I anticipate that I will have a great sense of accomplishment when it's over. I will have 50,000 words down and will have forced myself to learn the skill of putting down words and editing later. I have never mastered this. I ruminate, and polish and belabor a fiction project as I write it. With all my little cuts and scalpel flicks, I whittle all the spontaneity and fun out of writing. And then wonder why I get bogged down and  bored. So I am determined to participate and follow the rules to better my writing skills. And just possibly have something I can edit in December that I will be proud of.

But the terrifying part is this: I might fail. Now,  I have failed miserably at many things in my life but the thought of failing at this has me in a mood that I cannot describe in three or four words. Most of my previous failures have come as a result of choosing not to try. Procrastinating until the opportunity passes. Talking myself out of it before I begin. And just plain old laziness. But this...this is an opportunity to prove I have the ability to stretch and be more than I have been in the past. That I am not a victim of my own bad habits. And it terrifies me to throw my hopes and aspirations into this thing and know that if I fail, it will not be because I didn't try, but because I don't have the talent, the skills, the "chops".

It feels like I have been told I need surgery and even though I know I could opt to not to go through with it, I also know that it will help me if I do. So, with great fear and trepidation, I am moving forward. Realizing that I have chosen for many years to not try rather than fail. And I'm not going to settle for that any more.

Little brown girl
do you feel my tears in your hair
goodnight you said
into my chest, the back of your head  
pressed into 
that hollowed out place under my chin
my heart hushed
listening to your breath
my shoulders wore 
those glorious lanky sienna arms 
silk draping careless
Beauty made me cry
The power of Beauty made me cry
do you remember that first day
the day you were
Given 
a miracle 
look at me now - raised from the dead
Your power called me out of my grave
the stone that covered my heart
was rolled away that day
and I walk the earth
reborn
God's not jealous that I credit you for this
He understands love

There is a realm past what we know
a dimension 
ungoverned by time 
existing outside of all
points and lines and planes 

There is a place just over there
the mystics and dreamers
have glimpsed its heights 
and made feeble stabs 
with feeble pens
to tell of it

There is a land of endless day
and love where rain only falls
on bountiful fields
to make them laugh
and storms rage dramatically
on the sky's broad stage
just for poets
to watch and applaud

There is a rest
oh weary one
Lay on my lap  
I'll stroke your hair
and sing you songs
of such a world
we have not known 

There is a way
a land
a kingdom fair 
I'm holding you now 
close to my breast
In that land

Is there a test
a list
a way to know
if love
is right or real

is love the same
in every place
in every brain
that  inner mind
some call the heart
is love 
identical
in everyone

withered man
crouching under the overpass
do you love
as poets
and adolescents do
Hollow-eyed woman
lost in your cell phone do you love
like an Italian man
would

not every language has a word
for love
I've been told
makes you think
there are nations
tribes
people without love
can it be

What I think and feel of you 
could be some misguided notion, I guess
constructed of wishes
and errant brain chemicals
shaded by history's tree
seen in a different light
than reason

must love answer to logic
and fit amidst theorems
to be real
Who do I ask

3WW words for this week are: ambitious - incredible - ugly



In the middle of the creepy, long-dead grove
sits a ramshackle shed
plopped down
like a stout, old woman sprawled on a bus stop bench
too ugly to pity and too exhausted to care
A shredded shawl of faded blue paint
hangs limp and useless
encircling her incredible girth
Her tin roof hat
sags and slips here and there
comically askew
It would take quite the ambitious fellow
to  heave her up and
make her presentable
No need to bother
Her mossy companions pay her no mind
while they discuss their deep-rooted opinions
pointing every which way

I talked to God about you.

Well, in His general direction, anyway,                                          
which is “just over there somewhere.”           
I get the sense that it’s not that far. 
Really, that’s what I sense; 
like it or lump it.       
These things can only be sensed, after all,            
since He’s invisible and Everything
- an interesting concept,  invisible and Everything. –            
Anyway, I talked 
and told Him you needed help,             
not that He didn’t know already, but I reminded Him, I guess you could say.

 

I think He nodded, which is usually a good thing.

I wish time
would change its mind 
and sit out by the lake
in the green adirondack chair
for awhile
instead of stomping through
leaving muddy bootprints



 

President Obama accepted Wilson's apology, saying, "I’m a big believer that we all make mistakes. He apologized quickly and without equivocation and I’m appreciative of that."

'Cause he's cool like that.

Yesterday, I took my daughter to middle school. She was excited and just a little scared. She had all the requisite school supplies and her Hello Kitty lunchbox was filled with too much food. What can I say? Her daddy and I both packed it. Smother, much?

The day went well. She was chipper when I picked her up.  Chatty even. She has a math teacher whom she described as hilarious. She found all of her classes. She ate lunch with a friend from elementary school. Win, win, win. I was very glad that she had so many positive experiences her first day. So imagine how confused I was this morning when she said she didn't want to go back. She misses her other friends from fifth grade. The day is too long. Why can't she just learn all that stuff in one class? I had motherly counterpoints to each complaint. I thought I covered it all quite nicely. She had been getting dressed all through our conversation and was now sitting quietly on my bed. Seemingly out of nowhere, an emotional clap of thunder startled the breath right out of me. She burst into anguished tears and blurted out, "I can't do this by myself."

Ack. Heartbreak. 

I cried with her for a minute and then reassured her that she is not ever by herself. That God has been with me through the hard times of my life and He will be with her. After I dropped her off, I reminded Him that there is an overwhelmed little girl who is depending on Him today. And my daughter is too.

Out of nowhere, it seemed
a benevolent breeze roused itself
just for you 
and with a mighty shoop, it filled your sails

You turned into it 
effortlessly
a reflex, really
Transfixed, I 
watched the water at your bow
part
I heard that barely audible,
pleasant sound
of ship slicing water
You looked over your shoulder
as your boat slipped away from mine,
silently tipped your happy hat,

and sailed away

A daddy's still a daddy
even when he's gone
that pressure you feel
on your arms
every once in awhile
it's your body remembering
wishing
imagining
whatever
If he ever held you
or wished he could
you'll feel it 
Really.

The man in him may have messed up
or be messed up
but
There's a different part of him
really
Listen to me
It's something holy
this daddy part, OK
don't believe me
but it's true
ask a daddy
go on, any daddy
He'll tell you.


 

It's still dark Early
Sippie Wallace sings to me
from the grave

I said
It's still dark Early
Sippie Wallace sings to me
from her grave

I'm gonna End the night and
Start the day
with the blues

Beyond the well and down the lane
a house of stacked up stones
a Woman lives there; old and plain
a hank of hair and bones
 

She nibbles at a bite or two
might have a spot of tea
does anything she thinks to do
no thought of you or me
 

She hardly ever cleans or cooks
she may or may not talk
she skips around in all her books
she wanders for a walk
 

Her garden is o’er grown; awry
Her dusting, left undone
Her nails would make gravediggers cry
Her hair has left its bun
 

She cares not when the village taunts
And children sing her name
She, unashamed, lives how she wants
Wish I could do the same.