Monday, December 7, 2015

7 minutes rushwrite

So out of practice but feeling like I need to start this gig up again somehow. In the hours before you were born I had several lines running through my head and sometimes coming out of my mouth.

May angels guide you home.

Lead me, guide me.

O my o (no skazono po russki.)

Je peux le faire.


Andrew Clyde.

And the waves crested and fell. Euphemism for the pain which intensified and then fell as my body worked to bring you outside of me.

And now you are here. Have been here. Three and a half weeks now. In the broad large huge eternal scope of things that is barely a blip of a blip.  But your presence has been like a constant. Like you've always been mine.

You snore as a write these words--a congested, adorable little snore. And I would hold you all day long if there weren't other things and others to attend to.  I would.

Angels did guide you home. I believe in angels. Seen and unseen.

Saturday, September 8, 2012

we all fall down

As long as smoke rushed out the chimney,
I would hold my breath.
No gumdrops lined the windows.
No candy canes stood guard as fencing.
A witch’s house, yes,
But no Hansel nor Gretel
To make the tale full of fairies.

I don’t know how to tell you
My heart feels confused.
I don’t know if there’s a secret lock somewhere
Because my hands are empty
Without any key.

You stretch great sheets of paper
Up to the top of the two story building
And proclaim it won’t be enough.
Disaster rolls in with the rain,
Making the paper cry with wetness.
Falling apart.

I fall apart with your arms nowhere to be found.
No big deal,
But I'm doing it alone.

Far and gone.
Gone and far.
You cannot come out
Come out wherever you are.
Where have you gone so far?

Sunday, April 22, 2012

I imagine mountains alive

good luck charm.

when you have the mountains,
never show them your back.
keep facing them,
even when you find yourself
back in bed
on sleep's verge.
they relish your visage
as much as you admire their majestic height.

they want to know you haven't abandoned them.

others they're fine without.
those who take no pause as they descend.
those who leave the debris you'll pick up, next time.

so face the mountains
because you help heal their wounds.

My writing is so rusty, but I'm trying to work on it some more. Don't know how much of it I'll post on here, but here's a lil' bit for now.

Saturday, March 12, 2011

missing CĂ©line

One thought,
Of the oh so many after finding out:
And what of the milk?

I wake some mornings
Waiting for my baby to rouse
And release the ache
Of the milk ready to come.

But my pin-drop of pain
Is nothing contrasted with
Morning stretching into
Full for too long.

In addition to the heartache,
To the arms missing the warm load,
A cuddly bundle of baby,
To the seeing her clothes piled up softly,
To the holding her sister,
To the crying,
The sighs,
The kneeling in prayer.

The milk
That will no longer sustain.

Sunday, March 6, 2011

previously she had powers to do anything and everything.

now she's not so sure.

the troublesome part,
the bit that confuses her head and her heart,
is the invisibility and intangibility of the moment--
the WHEN.

when-did-this-all-of-a-sudden happen to me?
when-did-the-former-me cease to be?

previously she was.
then she became.
now she is.


it should all add up.
without a hitch.
sans any sort of hiccup.

but the trouble remains.
disturbing the peace.

moment by moment, though, she gains.
she wins tranquility and normalcy.

she basks in the whole holy present.
she breathes without a glance back.
she closes her eyes without any forethought.

and rests.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

keep asking

Will you? Will you be? Will you be there? Will you be there tomorrow? Will you be ready there tomorrow? Will you be there tomorrow ready to catch me? Will you be there tomorrow ready to catch me when I fall? Will you be there tomorrow ready to catch me when I fall hard and fast? I will be there. I'll be coming from the cliff on high and I ask you these questions now because there will be no spitting them out as I rush through the air into, hopefully, your arms.

a start?

The hem had come undone and she fingered the frayed threads. She'd sat down ten minutes earlier, waiting for the bus. Once a week she took the twenty minute bus ride south. The volunteer opportunity had piqued her interest when she heard about if from one of her teachers. Now she searched inside her bag for the safety pin she'd been carrying around for months. Her hand scrabbled around in her bag before coming to a resting stop as she remembered the safety pin was gone; she'd given it to the little boy with the runny nose.

They'd drawn a blue dinosaur together. Blue with orange spots. And they'd named him Ralph. Well, they was a generous term because, really, she'd suggested at least a dozen names while he stared blankly at her. It took awhile before she hit upon Ralph. His silent smile after her utterance spoke of his approval. He handed her the blue crayon, and she slowly wrote each letter above his own self-scrawled name.

She had opened the safety pin, pushed it through his overalls' strap, stuck it through the paper Ralph, and closed it. The boy had rubbed his eyes and looked up at her with another smile, this time opening his mouth slightly as if he was actually going to let words escape. He didn't, though. She, in turn, had patted his head and told him goodbye as his mother grabbed his hand and whisked him away.