Monday, November 30, 2009

Talk before Tea

I was just getting ready to leave for Aspen to join Mr. Toast at his First Annual Christmas Tea, when this arrived from Jessie...


...and so I just had to stop and drop 7 little unknown tidbits before I board the plane, and then send you on to 7 amazing people...isn't she just wonderful...

1. I pierced my own ear in college by pushing a stud through, which made a wonderful popping noise, only to be rivaled by crack when the dentist broke my tooth in half. These are both sounds I will never forget. I have secretly wanted to get another piercing for the last 6 years...

2. I was once chased down the street naked by an ambulance in full siren and flashing light mode. I am not necessarily proud of this, but I am sure I brightened some drivers night...if nothing else, then by the light of the full moon.

3. I worked stage crew/security for The Offspring! Great show, but not too impressed backstage.

4. I had to walk on crutches for two months after nearly breaking my ankle while jumping over a car trying to make a shot in a game of HORSE...I missed. I never said I was always wise, as evidenced by yesterdays post.

5. I own a Klingon bat'leth, which hangs in the basement and learned to speak a few basic Klingon phrases for a seminar I was facilitating once. My wife has never asked me to whisper sweet phrases in Klingon though, to my disappointment.

6. I still believe in Santa...or at least the magic of the season. I just can't stand doing the decorating...

7. I fear I will run out of stories to tell...

Now go visit some friends, who don't have to worry about accepting, just enjoy them...

They will not have me
Ramblings of a Disgruntled Secretary

Stacys Respite
Hey Cabo
Within shades of grey exists a place...
Return to Zero
1 door away from heaven

Aspen is marvelous this time of year, the perfect place to take Christmas tea and sit by the fire, watching the flames flicker in the eyes of the one you love. If you happen to stop by and are looking for me, that's where you will find me...


...dressed down just for the occasion.

Sunday, November 29, 2009

Grenades

Sweetness sits on curving precipice of her little old lady smile, up to the point the grenade goes off, and then she just laughs.

It is the twinkle in her easy eyes, framed by brush stroke creases of wisdom, that draws me in...

Her voice is like maple syrup as she describes her wares, nimble fingers slathering their goodness for my repast...

Temptress, she offers, than pulls back...we do have sissy sauce, if you'd rather...

My boys are with me, she knows this...

Forms slip in front of me...may cause blindness, sterility...waive all rights...

It may be hot...she mocks, dabbing the pretzel with a pin prick of brown liquid...

my tongue dissolves into dust spilling across my lips with each breath...

my ears are being cleaned with crochet needles...

my sinuses purge down my shirt, around my ankles...

I roll into fetal position, crying for my momma...

and she just laughs...

...kinda like the feeling you get when you open the credit card statements after Christmas.

Apparently 4,000,000 Scoville units is pretty hot, when it comes to hot sauce. It hurt worse than the time T and I got shot with pepper spray at K-mart...err...thats a story for another time. Anyone know the number for the lawyer that sued McDonald's when that guy spilled coffee on himself?

There is no way I am responsible for my own decisions...

...yeah, that doesn't work on the credit card companies either.

Careful out there this shopping season, gramma is packing grenades...but no where near as devastating as being unwise with the plastic.

Friday, November 27, 2009

Subject 243

Consciousness floats out of the ether, my moment of awakening to the world around me, framed in misty clouds, pulling me back toward.... I can't really remember. Men in white coats. Cold shiny metal, slick beneath my fingers. Numb pressure above my eyes where I can not see. I try to speak, only my mouth flops open, wet drool leaking down my cheek.

Subject 243 seems to be coming around, increase the...

Through a glass wall, I watch as they watch, taking notes on tacky cornered pages of their notebooks. My fingers probe the seam that now runs around my head, stopping at the protrusion in the back, round and hard with a long finger extending from inside. This was not here before. Who am I? What are they doing to me?

Thwack! Pain, in my arm...

Shaved. Every hair is now gone, down to those that resided on my toes. I am truly naked before them now as they take notes. Their questions are simple, yet I can not force the words from my lips beyond garbled grunts. I see the words like a picture show across my brain, though my lens is cracked. Excitement registers on their faces as little red lights blink across machines that lead back to the thick cable now attached to my head. If only my fingers could reach the clasp on the leather straps before they...

shock me...

Toys. Maybe once I played with these. Now in the recess of night, I ponder how to manipulate them into a viable means of escape. The trick is not to leave any of them obviously damaged when the shade rises in the morning and the note taking begins. My skin feel like waves of ants marching across, sampling my flesh with their mandibles. They smear lotion with their blue gloved hands each day, watching red continents develop across the map of my body. Ah, an axle from a toy car pries loose, tucking it firmly in my cheek as the day begins. Strange, the vents seem to be leaking some sort of smoke...

I am sorry sir, but due to lack of cognitive results we will be terminating all subjects assigned to this project. Burn all the carcasses, we will be confiscating all files to be put on record at the secure facility in Arizona. Have all your staff prepare to be thoroughly examined prior to closure of the laboratory. They will be re-signing non-disclosure agreements and any communication considered hostile to continued profitability of the company will be aggressively pursued with force.

This is the last voice I hear as they roll me across the sterile expanse of their workspace, if only I could speak...would they consider me such an animal...



So, this one is fiction, maybe. I don't often go there, but had a little fun just free writing over the holiday. I blame it on the meds and the Stephen King book I am reading. Hope you enjoy.

Have a great weekend everyone!

Thursday, November 26, 2009

55 - sale price homicide

jello
thrown
against the wall,
the wet sound of a crumpling body,
lost to the thunder,
cattle stampeding
through aisles,
chaotically
intent
on
victory,
whatever the cost.
A cool smirk paints her
assailant's face
as she steals
the last
toy
at
sunrise,
black friday morning.
how else will she
purchase
her kids
love
on
Christmas?

Tell a story in 55 words. Want to play along or just read more, go see g-man.

Thankful...

5:30 AM...T rolls out of bed, sending the earth into violent, rolling upheaval. Waterbeds are not something I am thankful for, while experiencing sea sickness so early in the morning. Sounds of thanksgiving dinner prep slip through the crack in the door on the soft light from the kitchen. I am thankful for T, food, good smells....and warm spots on the bed.

6:15 AM...Two heads pear over the edge of the bed, whispering malicious thoughts about stealing snuggles. Cole professes that we should snuggle with him, because he is hottest. Brief moments of hilarity ensue. I am thankful for my boys, snuggles, the innocence of children...and that hotness is obviously hereditary.

6:24 AM...I walk into the kitchen in my Justice League pajama pants and get my morning kiss. I am thankful for doctors, scientist, nurses, laborers, farmers and anyone who played a part in the creation of the medication that eliminates my poison oak. I am thankful for kisses as well...and toothpaste.

6:27 AM...Pappaw arrives back at the house with Hardee's biscuits and gravy. I almost cry, its as beautiful as the sunrise. My finger traces all the lines on the container seeking out every bit of goodness. I am thankful for the ladies at Hardee's and their hours of sweet labor...and Pappaw for having such great ideas. I am also thankful for sun rises and smiles.

6:39 AM...Handy Manny's hammer remembers he is a hammer and not a screwdriver. It is a beautiful moment of self actualization...until Logan interrupts with "Why does Macy get her own parade?" Macy is in his class at school. I am thankful for hammers, screwdrivers, beautiful moments, cartoons, parades...and sometimes intelligence.

7:05 AM...I am in the shower and it is hot. Can't take hot showers with poison oak, it will make it spread. I sigh. I am thankful for clean hot water, locks on the door, Old Spice soap, toilet paper...and mirrors, sometimes.

7:38 AM...The Gateway hums to life, acquires the wireless signal and for a few moments I check out my friends in the blogosphere, before the day really gets out of control when the rest of the family gets here. I am thankful for computers, Internet, blogger, family, holidays...and you.

Obviously, its going to be a thank-full day, so I won't chronicle every moment. Thank you to all my friends who touch my life each day with your words and comments. I hope you have an amazing Thanksgiving!

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

(re)miss

spirit me away
to
that magical place,
where
even the rain
feels
like rose petals
caressing
your cheek,
enticing
with pungent perfume,
leaving
me breathless
under
full moon's gaze,
rather
than feeling
like
a hungry beggar
sitting
at a banquet table,
without
hands to partake.

the hardest part of the whole poison oak ordeal...
having it on my lips...
i miss your kiss...

Monday, November 23, 2009

Flood

I see my first naked woman the day the flood waters recede. Golden brown skin and round in all the right places, she reclines against one of the many tree branches littering mammaw's yard, among the jetsam memories washed from houses near and far. Her smile invites me in, but all I see is further devastation in her eyes.

Cool pizza and quickly warming chocolate milk, our dinner on the parquet floor of the middle school gym, an island in the streams flowing where roads once traipsed through the country side. Lights flicker and we are reminded of the severity of our situation and thankful for a dry patch of ground. Our ark arrives shortly, a family friend in his four wheel drive truck, now heading slowly for our home on the hill. Our faces press against the chilled glass of the window, staring back at the souls left to mercy.

Bathtubs fill to the brim, in case the power to the well house goes out. Ironic, as all the water we would ever need is falling from the sky, raindrops thundering miniature explosions in the murky puddles littering the saturated ground. Through the picture window we watch the river grow fangs and begin to gorge on the landscape.

Sweet and sour smells assail our sense, burning our eyes with pungent aroma, as we survey the damage to the peaceful hollow that nestles mammaw's house. An eerie calm settles across the land, water receding into the bowels of the earth once more, leaving behind wreckage of so many lives scattered here and there, clinging to trees, or whatever dam that would stop its free flow on the raging flood waters.

There she lays, bare before me, washed out of someone's night time fantasies. She whispers with longing, to take her with me. Carefully, I pry her from her resting place, then crumple the page between my fingers, tossing her in with the other refuse. Her promises are empty, and should I give her my heart, she will wreak more havoc than the flood on whence she came.

Flood.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Comedy of Errors

Playing Nerf guns with boys 1/3 your age: Fun

Playing Nerf guns in the woods with boys 1/3 your age: Even better

Building forts while playing Nerf guns in the woods with boys 1/3 your age: Like reliving your childhood

Losing your car keys in said woods and having to call your wife to come pick you up: Ill-advised

Waking up screaming in the middle of the night because your face is on fire, only to look in the mirror and see Quasimodo looking back at you, because you hid in a patch of poison oak during the Nerf battle : Really not a lot of fun at all


Walking around the the last several days like a leper, yelling unclean to anyone trying to give me a hug or shake my hand: Priceless

Yep, kinda glad this weekend is over.

At least the swelling has gone down in my eyes enough to see and my lips have deflated to supermodel size. A side effect of the steroids they gave me are hallucinations, so if you get any weird comments over the next couple days, it's just me.

Guess there goes my professional career...does blogger do random drug testing?

Recuperating tonight. I'll catch up with everyone tomorrow.

Friday, November 20, 2009

My boy

Bear in Lake

In the Artist own words: Beauty is the mist of the waterfall rising into a rainbow.

Logan took home second place in the Reflections contest at school this year. A little misdirection as that is the bear hiding behind the tree.


It seems second place is even more exciting than first place.
smiles.
Have a great weekend everyone!

Thursday, November 19, 2009

55 - some bar

through glass
darkly,
his eyes
gleem,
rekindling spirits,
older
than time,
as
he slogs
through
amber seas
one
more time
seeking...

numb solace
and
easy burn
of
liquid grace
washing
his pain
away,
falling for
lies
he told
himself
too many
times...

broken shards
leak
yellow-brown
tears
as he
takes
two steps
on
bended knees.

Tell a story in 55 words. Want to give it a try or just read more, go see g-man.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Theme Thursday: Late

pull my trigger
watch me spew
my righteous anger
against the wall
leaving only the void
where your body is
as it slowly slides
down the wall
to puddle on the floor.
...
your tongue twisting
in circles around my ear
filling my head
with copper jacket shells,
a loaded gun
cocked and aimed
you are in my sights
just waiting for you to
pull my trigger.

do you wonder
where i got my gun?
you gave it to me
with every drive by execution,
one sided conversation
when i did not
live up to the image
you built of me
in the selfish little
kingdom of your heart.
...
do you find this
image disturbing?
what do you do
with your anger?
does it actually
make things better?
does it just fortify
the siege of your love?
does it motivate you
to change something?

if you are just waiting
for someone to
pull your trigger,
don't you think
its time to do
something different?
before its too
late...

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Inferno

Disappointment, like rubbing hands together over ashes hoping for warmth, sits heavy in her eyes. Fingertips cool against my skin, as we make our way home to get the gift certificate, laying on the bedside table, keeping us from making our reservation. Dressed to the nines and then I happen...

Silently the sun drifts toward the horizon, contrasting the the space in between us in the silence. How many times had you reminded me? Let me count the ways, in the passing trees out the window. Maybe someone will miss their reservation and we can still get in...

Cresting the hill, our house springs from the woods, casting a spark among the dead wood of the moment, the deck glowing with flickering flame, illuminating a table for two. Waitresses usher us, with so gentle a touch, to our oasis in the half light of the evening...

Fine china dances across the table, your favorite foods laid before you in turn, soft violin pulling our heart strings from the minstrel in the shadows. Regal flowers bow before your beauty from every corner, candle light twinkling in your eyes...

In this moment, I don't mind being a disappointment.

Romance, like a fire, burns out if no tended and I have only begun to stoke the growing inferno, under the light of a silvery moon...

Sunday, November 15, 2009

10, 2 and 4

Two nappy yellow tennis balls rest on the great green expanse of the court, somewhere between white lines bisecting territories and piles of crisp brown leaves gathering in the corners of the surrounding chain link fence. Lines and fences, containing, restraining, enabling the game.

Ten little fingers stretch, giving chase to the ball rolling away from your laughter, in the cool morning air, until you go tumbling after with my heart in tow. We lay, staring into fall clouds, erasing lines and fences, to include day dreams of puppy dogs, dragons and race car chases, among their billowy masses, in the wide open spaces.

Ten and two, they say is where you hold to maintain control, to keep between the lines, but life seems so much better sometimes, when I just let go the wheel.

Four arms splay, like snow angel makers, barely touching at the tips. We smile deep into each others eyes, you seeing someday, me where I have been. One day daddy, I'll be big like you. One day you will, but take your time son. Take your time.

Ten, two and four, on the side of a Dr. Pepper bottle, signifying times there is a natural drop in energy, when a soda or food might help you make it through the day.

Time with you might be, just what the Doctor ordered...

10, 2 and 4.

Saturday, November 14, 2009

Saturdays Gone

Knobby tires hiss against the asphalt, spraying rooster trails of leftover rain in the wake of our bikes. Tucking, we squeeze every bit of momentum out of the hills until gravity captures us and the burn returns as our legs pump like pistons to crest the next.

Its Saturday, and we are off to see a body.

Sliding to a halt atop the bridge that spans the river, we peer into the swollen brown murk that churns below. Damp ocher leaves slip through our fingers, pinwheeling into the current, becoming battle ships in an invading armada.

Thwip. Thwip. Thwip.

Rocks and pebbles crack the surface around the ships making their way down the watercourse. Yipping with each hit, high fives and smiles make their way around the group. Frankie leans over the concrete rail, hanging precariously as he gathers spit for the perfect release. It seems to hang in the air forever, before slipping quietly into the flow.

A little piece of him, making its way to the ocean.

We stand and watch the little white bubbles until they are out of sight, then one at a time we find our bikes to continue the quest, into the bright blue sky.

Forever was a whole lot easier to understand back then, before life became so temporary. Frankie disappeared not too many years later, after he released a little too much of himself, becoming a daddy. Jimmy went off to war, now throwing more than rocks, we pray for him each night. John's no longer married, now living with his parents.

We never find our body, only bleached white deer bones, cast off in the ditch by the side of the road. Pedaling faster as we roll by darkened houses, cars in the drive, no life in sight, wondering what happened to all the people.

Its Saturday, and we have the rest of our lives in front of us.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

55 - tapestry [PG-13]

she cuts
creating tapestries
to her pain
on alabaster
canvas
inside
her arm...

she bleeds,
releasing steam,
like pricks
atop the
pie crust
to let
it breathe...

she dreams,
pulling one scar,
like thread,
watching
her life
unravel,
on the floor...

she cries
go away
while really
screaming
notice me
so
she cuts.

to understand.

Tell a story in 55 words. Want to give it a try, or just read more, go see g-man.

Sorry if this one was a bit intense. This is another of those things that break my heart and is more prevalent than many realise, particularly among teens. We were never meant to walk alone. If you or someone you know is cutting, please talk to someone.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Theme Thursday: Phone

Hello...

~click~


Hello...

I am sorry, I have the wrong number...

~click~


Hello...

Hey there...

~click~

Each passing day, the silence grows pregnant with possible outcomes, bearing its full weight on the phone. Assumptions solidify into reality, hearts cooling until a thin layer of frost crystallizes into ice. Justification over throws reason as your finger hovers over the final digit, like Sisyphus your rock rolls back down the hill at the solid clap of the closing phone.

Is the price of your pride worth more than the relationship?

Make the call. Let them decide if they are ready to accept it.


Hello...

Hey there...

It's been a long time...

Too long...

I am so glad you called...

Me too...


For other takes on the theme, visit Theme Thursday.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Honest Scrap

One of my biggest failures when it comes to blogging is accepting awards. I intend to accept them, but there is a big difference between intention and execution. That being said, if you have ever given me an award and I did not acknowledge it, I am sorry.

Last week, Jessie gave me the Honest Scrap award. Jessie is a newer friend that I found through the Friday 55 crew. She does amazing things in just 55 words. Thanks for the award Jessie. Drop her a visit and check her out!

I threw the rules out.

My Ten:

1. I am the oldest of three children, though I was the second born.

2. Traditionally during the holidays, we eat brains at least once. Nothing from a can, they are much better fresh from the butcher. I like to think this helps me relate to some stories I read out here in the blogosphere.

3. I was pretty quiet through the teen years, more of the brooding goth style, before goth was ever popular. Black was my friend because it helped me blend into the shadows and I did some pretty freaky things to keep people at a distance. My greatest aspiration was to be a vampire, my name was Romulus.

4. I have worked at least one day in 27 different states.

5. Speaking of work, if you have not been keeping tally of the jobs I held through my stories, I have been a dock worker, care giver, lawn mower, tire manufacturer, statistician, intern deputy sheriff, counselor, teacher, salesman, manager, area training director, training manager, youth pastor, administrative/operations director (for churches) and a therapist. Nothing like variety.

6. I taught myself to speed read, not skim, mind you. On a good day I can read 150-180 pages an hour.

7. There was a rather large gap of time where I would barely acknowledge my sister. That is behind us now and I think of her often.

8. I danced in the Nutcracker, with the beautiful woman that eventually became my wife. One of the pieces was a ballroom dance, so I was in a suit. The other was the Arabian and I wore billowy pants and a really tiny vest. Sorry, all the pictures have been burned.

9. The moment I saw my wife, I turned to my friend and told him she was the one I was going to marry. Nine months later we were engaged and after another two and a half years we were married. She is amazing and I love her greatly.

10. I was in a heavy metal garage band at one point, we actually recorded a tape. That should tell you how long ago it was. Our signature song was Slimy Oatmeal, typical teen angst saturated in sexual innuendo. We also wrote a ballad once about a homeless man falling in love with a lady of the night. We were called Romulus, go figure.

Here are ten friends you should visit, because I don't want them to feel the pressure of accepting an award...

Baino's Banter
Wizard of Otin
Crystal Jigsaw
Dances with God
Enchanted Oak
Idiots Stew
Life through Reflections
Recovery from a Life not Lived
The Fifty Factor
Vodka Mom

If I left you out, I still love you and when I get around to accepting another award six months from now I'll give you a shout out!

Monday, November 9, 2009

10DOM: Moon

Ten feet separates me from the moon as it moves across the opening of the cave, staring in like an eye at the peephole, to see who is intruding. It might as well be an eternity, because I am going nowhere, my arm pinned beneath, the mountain shifting to sit firmly on my back. I focus on breathing...

Bleach white fish dart through the beam of our flashlights in the cold underground stream, their little red eyes open and glazed. Do they even see the light or were they blind from the darkness? Disappearing under the rocks they swim ever deeper.

Dying slowly starts at the tips of my fingers spreading up my hand as circulation leaves it wanting. Sweat pools at the base of my neck, creating waterfalls around my collar. Stale air rasps from my lungs, unable to expand to fill any space. Slow and shallow, think small, be small...

Climbing the chimney from one cave to the next requires a dancers precision, knowing where to put hand and foot, and when to move them, catching the erratic rhythm of the outcroppings. Ascending dark into dark, still miles below. What is it that calls us back into the womb of the earth?

Pulling with fingers, pushing with toes, we inch into the crevice at the base of a boulder, guided only by the cool breeze and the light of the moon, reborn from the bowels. Moving too quick, my arm slips beneath me, leaving me helpless beneath Atlas' burden...don't panic, it only makes it worse...

My head rests on the soft pillow of stone, the fragrant musk of soil taints every breath.

Someone will find me, someday...I want to give up...to sleep...

One final stretch, my arm burst forth, spilling me from the birth canal into the open air. Glittering stars coo as their brother lay gasping, still covered in afterbirth of mud and exasperation. Father Moon smiles, his waiting complete, he kisses the Earth...

and I just breathe deep.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

things we carry

looking glass marbles,
lassos of twine,
half cracked acorns
with new root entwine,
cold grey gravel
veined with stark white,
a feather, dreams and
butterfly wings
these are the things
they carry.

bent bottle tops,
little wooden peg,
flakes of shell
from a blue robin's egg,
crusty dry pods
filled with milkweed floaters,
buttons and baubles,
old rusty springs
these are the things
they carry.

Isn't it amazing all the things that end up in children's pockets? By the end of the day, they are stuffed with all the little things that captured their hearts, that brought them joy...that they wanted to cling to and save for later. I wonder if the same could be said of the things we insist on carrying?

Perhaps we need to clean out our pockets and put a few things in there to remind us to marvel and wonder again, like we did when we were young, and those were the things we carried.

Saturday, November 7, 2009

Moving On

This is the second part of a two part story, go check out Otin for his amazing set up, then come back.

Snowflakes drift on the breeze, winking out of existence as they kiss the dark brown surface of the coffee. Staring into it long enough, he sees their reflection, feels the warmth of their skin leaking into his fingers, until all heat is gone and it becomes as bitter cold as his heart. Crushing the cup, its contents join the slick coat of grime earned from nights in the street. Stringy hair slides with gravity as he hangs his head. Tonight, he would find some way to get another bottle, just to get rid of the eyes. And tomorrow, he will find another cup of coffee, waiting on him when he wakes beside the dumpster.

I don’t need your charity, eyes still pinched closed, his limbs wrapped tight around his body for warmth.

Don’t thank me it is my mom. She sends me over with the cup every day.

Her voice pierces the thin veil of insanity he has draped over himself to keep people at arms length. So young, like his Chelsea. Sunlight burns causing his vision to swim, shadows taking form, first the eyes…

Chelsea, air croaks from his throat.

No, I am Margaret, she smiles, enjoy the coffee. Mom says come into the shop if you’d like something to eat.

No one is more surprised than Dan, a week later, when he walks into the shop, perfumed by tangy alcohol laced perspiration, cheeks pink from scrubbing them with snow. That first day Anne sat silent as he eats ravenously whatever they put in front of him. Thanking her and disappeared out the door, but only after promising to return. Over the next week, Dan begins to talk as Anne just listens, tears dripping softly to her blouse as he recounts the last year of his life.

Why do you even care? contempt rides his words.

You know, I was there that day in church a few weeks ago. It was like you were giving voice to my heart.

I don’t understand.

Margaret, my daughter, is dying of leukemia.

I…I am so sorry, his lungs go flat as all air leaves them.

Don’t be. At first, we had many of the same questions when we first found out. God became an easy target for our pain. The reality is, the disease saved our family. It brought us closer together than we ever were.

Why does God allow this to happen?

We may never know that answer. Faith does not take away the trials or the pain, or even the questions.

For several weeks they talk over coffee, or share lunch together. The bottle that once medicated his ragged soul is replaced with some sense of meaning. As Christmas approaches, Dan finds himself consoling Anne as she sobs, overwhelmed with Margaret’s fading health and the thought that this would be their last together. They would argue and laugh all afternoon if the traffic of the shop would let them. Their eyes still haunt him, but he does not carry it alone.

Dan, I don’t know if I could have made it through these weeks without you to talk with.

I understand. I don’t have much, but these last couple weeks have given back a little of everything I lost. Thank you, Anne.

See you tomorrow Dan, a smile plays at her lips as she watches him retreat into the night, turning the lights out.

Frigid wind cuts through his coat, forcing Dan to shove his hands deep in the pockets seeking some fragment of warmth. His fingers curl around the crisp edges of a piece of paper, questioning its purpose. Pausing under a street lamp, he reads:

Its not your fault. I used to think that about my disease, that it was something to punish me or my family. It pushed me further and further away from them, it made me hate them, and myself. You have so much life left to live, don’t let that go. Thanks for being there for mom. ~Margaret

Warm wet trails burn his cheeks, the words breaking the clot of anger in his heart. Pulling out his photo album, he stares into their eyes, imagining the words coming from Chelsea…this time I’ll steer the right direction…he answers…God don’t let me lose another

Not quite faith, but maybe a start.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

55 - spectres

Spectres of
yesteryear
surround us,
screaming thoughts
from the silence
of their dust,
waiting
to be noticed.

Declarations,
love letters
to future
generations,
playful prose
from a
forgotten muse
ready for
ears that
have not
fallen
deaf in
the clamor
of today.

Daddy,
will you
read me
another story?

Yes.

How else
will we
remember?

Tell a story in 55 words. Want to give it a try or just read more, go see g-man.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Theme Thursday: Castle

Anguished sobs leak from the phone, like a needle pushed deep into my ear...Where are you?

I am at jail...

Moonlight paints the world grey beneath the coal black blanket of the night sky, a wave and a kiss chase her red tail lights down the asphalt. Tires fall into their well worn groove cut by many a trip to her parents, humming a traveling tune as the miles slip away.

A tire must have slipped off the road, sucking into the mud, throwing the car end over end...blue lights cast an eerie palor across his profile, glinting off his badge.

Yellow lines mark the way, sometimes dotting and dashing in morse code, calling her home. Rains had lashed the days before, replenishing the earth with a much needed drink, but now it is clear and the stars blink their eyes as they watch her slip through the mountain pass.

Ma'am, if you have any drugs in the car, I will take them...greasy hair tucks under green RED MAN hat, as he peers into eyes peeking out from the wreckage.

Everything slows as the earth spins out of control, hood over trunk the car tumbles like a domino down the length of the median. Wrenching screams pierce the frame, bending glass, whipping her body into a frenzied dance...then everything stops except the crickets.

cricket...cricket...cricket...

Fingers of carpet grind like glass into bended knees, a king trapped in his castle, so far from his queen, slowly realising he is not in control...letting his crown roll to the feet of the one that is.

Castle.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

l'arte d'arte

Care and grace,
her body leaks
from the lead
of my pencil,
spilling curves
striking arches,
a whirling dervish
dancing en pointe
across the cold
white expanse
of my tablet.

Calloused fingers
poke and push
grey shadows
giving form,
adding texture,
breathing life
onto her flesh,
leaving hints
embedded in the
grooves of
my prints.

Empty void,
her face
left blank, less
pink shavings
of erasure,
failure to capture
beauty's blush
along her cheeks
nor tender heart
tasted as our
moist lips meet.

Scratch and claw,
her abiding eyes
elude my pursuit,
the seat of
her soul, leaving
creation incomplete
crumpling into
another ball
around the base
of the wire
woven trashcan.

Blind and fumbling,
passions beseech
kiss me again
help to see
beyond shadows
hiding the memory
in plain sight
of the first day
I cried,
oh how she
loves me.

For a season I was an artist, sketches and watercolor mainly, many a landscape or odd little things along the way. Even dabbled in silk scarves. Did the art tour of New York. Capturing the essence of people left me exhausted in angst. To translate all that you see in their eyes onto paper was elusive at best. Perhaps I will try again, one day.

Monday, November 2, 2009

No

Leaves illuminate, sparkling in the sun, marigold and crimson flashes of brilliance before they turn brown and crumble as they are blown in the breeze. Dampness, the flavor of the fall air, hangs heavy from last nights rain. Gravel crunches under each footfall, drawing me closer to the car and the waiting bags of groceries.

Slipping handles of the bags over my fingers, like rings, until they tremble under the weight of the load, I begin the journey back to the house...crunch, crunch, crunch.

One handle pops loose, starting a chain reaction, dexterity failing before the awesome might of gravity. Cans pirouette and roll into the grass, boxes whumph as they flop on the sidewalk. My fingers clench into fists of frustration pulling at the hands of time, trying to turn back the clock on my decisions, while I stand among the mess I have created.

Why do I try to carry so much at once?

My calendar lays open before me and I wish this story was just about groceries. Why are we always adding more...like more is better? But we are obligated. No one else will do it, at least not right. They expect me to. It makes me feel important.

Until we are standing there with groceries scattered across the ground around our ankles.

There will always be someone to tell us what we should be doing. We get to decide what is most important, to us.

No doesn't just mean no, it means yes to something better.

No.