Waiting

We are waiting...

...waiting for these final days to end.
...waiting for the sun to return, the light to lengthen.
...the warmth to return.
...the clean, sweet scent of the earth shifting towards Spring and Life.

...we are waiting for the freshness of a new year.
...waiting for a home.
...waiting for a birth.
...waiting for a surgery, a garden, a birthday.

We are waiting.

Shifting Sand

What dreams come from such foolish tastes,
Only the mind can whisper to Vanity.
Who is Vanity ?
An endless face of strung fish tales and lies.
The crippled sister to Drama
delighting in the company,
alas sharing a cup of tea with Greed and Stars.
Planets wheel from within the Top
A mere child's toy left for the false Yule
when you let St. Peter sing that Holy Night.
A crippled god birthed in Dream,
A field of sand...remember build not on shifting sands.

Where I'm From, I Am.

I am part of the Great I Am.

I am the dances of Celts
to the Natives of Desert.
I am horses
barebackriding under hot days.
I am Summer Pools
and Winter Dreams from under a prickly cactus.

I am blue corn and hot peaches.

I am white paint on the bark
no sun burns for me.
I am Hunter
I am Choir
I am Writer
I am sad child - my disease unknown and undiagnosed.
I am confused, something's missing,
        it's now gone, gone forever...

I am.
I was.
Something.
Someone.
Somebody.

The Twins: Nausea and Queasy

Nausea is a cross-dresser that never works out; but how they stay anorexic thin amazes me. They eat the slime from the bottom of the garbage disposal and drink three-day-old coffee.
When Nausea's a woman, she carries a neon-green purse the size, and shape, of Kentucky.
When Nausea's a man, he downs his best five-piece suit, each piece a different tie-dye pattern, but every piece has pink in it...somewhere!
Nausea as a woman rides a pink bicycle built for two. Her little bug-eyed pug running behind in tow.
Nausea as a man drives a rusted '76 yellow Ford diesel truck with a 36" lift kit; exhaust pipe farting clouds of smoke.
He's the asshole that lets his dog crap in your yard...an when he's wet he smells just as bad as that dog. He's the one you never invite to the party, but somehow he manages to show up...but for some reason it's never a "real" party if he isn't there.

Their twin sister Queasy has one blue eye and one brown eye. Despite all of doctor's efforts, the brown eye is still lazy. She has buck teeth, the only two left in her head. She collects porcelain cat statues and is fond of the color red. Her 1970 AMC Gremlin is a patchwork of odd colors and dents. She is quite often mistaken as Paris Hilton when seen walking down the steet...especially if she's seen in the Red Light District.

TomFoolery's Word

I saw your word Vellum and stole it
for the sheer TomFoolery left for when we're old.

Apple trees in the graveyard.
hug me in the doorway to Dream.
Just one last night of us - alone in
the eye of a paperclip.

Stop! Freeze! Endulge my lover,
In the wading pools of essential joy
                                                   left for the blood in a stone.

So,
Dream on little Dreamer! Dream on!
Shhhhhh...I won't tell!

Us.

A Spanish guitar plucks and whines, stringing a long note of mystic trance across the mind's eye.
The sands of time shift under our bare feet; bronze bodies dancing in the approaching dawn.
Tents liter the grounds of our tribes; dogs and livestock mingle among our life.
Dawn breaks the horizon.
Horse flesh moves under me, a panting froth of sweat, heat and exertion.
Hooves of fine Arabians break the earth.
Human skin sizzles under the approaching heat.
The race of survival continues it's run with each turn of the Wheel.
You are Us and We are of this Mortal Life.

Crab Apple Crush

Light from the Autumn's sun filters through my window, spilling across the book, dish, computer-littered table. The warmth of the afternoon tingles across my skin as I sit here reminiscing of a life ten years gone. A shy freshman of 15 years old walking home from a brand new high school. I remember how in the beginning I hated how far my walk was. Felt like it took me FOREVER to get home. And the faster I walked the longer it seemed to take. But after the first few weeks my legs strengthened and I learned to enjoy the moments it took for me to get home.
Autumn was a full fledged seasoned robin. Apple reds, Lemon yellows and Tangerine Oranges littered both sides of the street. The dusty air manipulated the kaleidoscope of the seasons into an even brighter world of beauty. Part of my walk was sheltered by a splashing of crab apple trees. The sidewalk was covered with the little tart-cherry fruits. I half expected a soft "squish" under my tennis shoes; instead all I got was a heel full hard marbles under my feet.
My senses swam with the sweet intoxicating smells...and fluttering, girlish crush on a man. That was what made that walk home so memorable. Him. Here was a gangly, barely AA cup breast girl, (while all the other girls around me flaunted their hormone-injected-food-that-caused-them-to-have-breasts-the-size-of-Pamela-Anderson) with a fantasy crush on a person who had simply smiled at her and made her laugh. For three years, prior to high school, I had been the humiliation and blunt end of cruel treatment from teachers, students and even so-called-friends. Broken, lost and in a world of pain, this simple girl found solice and safety in a man who saw her as a an individual who did have the right to live and enjoy life...and by God for once be free of pain. It was during those long walks home that I reminisced about him. The classes, the lectures, working on homework together and helping him out with stuff for the class. I idolized him. I laughed with him, joked and learned that there was beauty and fun in the world. I had found a true friend. But as time went on, his fear of me pushed him away. When school started the next year, he'd forgotten me. I was lost book in the back of an abandoned library. He paid attention to the other girls and I was not even a memory. Life had played a cruel trick. It had painted a mask of love and friendship over the monsters of pain, anger, sadness and...abandonment.
Now I sit here, ten years later remembering those days. I wonder what could have happened if I wasnt forgotten. What life would I be living now? My daughter's squeaking and playing quietly in her room now. My little angel. You know, if it hadnt happened like this then I wouldn't have my miracle baby...and that is what I live for now.

@#%^$# WRITERS BLOCK! $%^##@!

Just slightly opinionated about Writers block....can't ya tell? Blah. But that's what my little blog here is for. Its the "warm up" before the marathon. (God and its nine thirty and my daughter is still whiny and crying in her bedroom thinking the world's ending b/c she has to go to bed now....rrrrrrr) (Each squeak she makes feels like someone's running a sharp rake through my body).
Last week I signed up for the Lighthouse Writer's Workshop 101 class. I started it in hopes to give myself some structure and responsibility towards my writing. The first class was ok. Reviewed some writing exercises that'll help the mind start pumping the words. The exercises worked that night....but sadly their not working tonight. Ugh.
I think it's really just boredom that I'm facing. I'm bored. But how can you be bored of writing? I'm really not then...just plum out of ideas. Well I have ideas...just feel like I really can't go anywhere with them. No, I can go somewhere with them, just not sure of where. Sigh.
Well...wrote for five min. Three paragraphs....that's three paragraphs more than when I first sat down tonight.

Severed Hand

A sleeping road wraps itself deeper into the realm of night. Screwtape giggles under the highway bridge. He squats deep in a corner; trash, feces and used condoms float in the green puddles of his cave.
He's holding his hands clasped tight together. He first glances up, then down the canal. He's alone. His mad chuckles grow louder. Like a blooming flower, he slowly opens his palm. Cupped in his hands is the severed hand of a man. Screwtape runs a claw along the fingertips. His eyes glow. He feels the lifeline across the palm of the hand.

The fool never tried. Never expected this. Brought it on himself...yes he brought down his own life. Destroyed it. Sealed it. The coward. He never used this hand for himself. No. Gave all he had for fear he'd fail. Fear, yes my beauty; Fear is why I took you. The man will rot. No one will find him. Fear crippled him in the end, now his corpse is crippled for eternity. Yes my precious. Be thankful for it. Fear brought you to me. Let mortals fear. Maybe I'll use you to shake their cowardly hands.

Screwtape flicked his tongue, tasting the night.

Memories

What a strange thing: memories. They reach for us from such a great expanse. They are the only thing that tells us an event really happened. We may look at photos, we may watch a home video, hell me might be sharing them with family or those who were with us when the event happened. But photos can deceive, movie's degrade, people forget or pass on.
So what are we left with that tells us something happened? The memory. But how can we relay on the truth of our memories? We can't. Only you, yourself and your memory, can confirm that the memory did exist. But if the only alibi to the memory, is the memory itself, then what? What do we do?
Enjoy. Simply enjoy. For I believe it better to remember, whether it happened or not. Really, you are the only one who can recreate this.
So when life is grim and the shades of pain slip in through our dreams, remember. Hold tight, ride the wave, carry the tune....because whether or not the event or existence of something really happened, only you can revive it. Revive the memory...

"When those who knew him descend into shadow, he himself will fade from the pages of time."