Sunday, December 20, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Inspired by The Weekend Wordsmith
photo courtesy of Pink Sherbet
Correspondence is a lost art--
not the type it in and click send sort.
The kind that exacts a price
in ink, paper, postage, and hands sore
from gripping a well made pen.
Most everything is faster now than it was
when I was a kid. Back then, everything was
faster than it had been before.
I wonder at what point we’ll lose
our equilibrium; revert of necessity
to a less dizzying pace. Maybe then we’ll sit
down of our own accord on a summer evening
with a glass of actual fresh-squeezed lemonade;
write a letter to someone who remembers
less hectic times than we do.
29 October 2009
for MJ & the Brats
photo courtesy of Rich Bowen
He could find a four leaf clover anywhere,
and he always did--even 14 years later in my yard,
a relative stranger now. He bent toward the ground,
worked his magic once more, and I remembered
luck was a luxury--we were more like dandelions
blown across the globe wherever the Forces willed.
We flew with the wind and landed,
hoping this plot of land would be
as or more kindly than the last.
29 October 2009
Inspired by The Weekend Wordsmith
photo courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/furryscalyman/
I think I might welcome a wasp or two--
they’re a sure sign summer has long yet to surrender--
standing at the bus stop on a chilly fall twilight.
If not for the knowledge that Winter is on his way,
the morning would be relatively unmarred.
The air isn’t cold enough to sting; to rob me
of the paintbrush trees and the flaming bushes...
29 October 2009
inspired by The Weekend Wordsmith
photo courtesy of Moab Girl
I prefer a quilt to a flag--there’s room
for mixed loyalties, preference more complex
than blood and honor, courage and fifty-one stars.
Ambivalence wreaks havoc on those lines--
the unrelenting contrast a written-in-red-and-white-
stone patriotism which makes it difficult to think
beyond black and white.
The quilt was made by my mother. I watched her
stitch the pieces together on a military base
on foreign soil, where soldiers had died.
So did we all, for the sake of a mission,
nevermind the casualties at home.
29 October 2009
photo by dr.ppr
There’s a line, a point of indecision
beyond which it will cost dearly to go back,
lose weight, make right, arrive
at the intended destination. Too Late
is a myth, but one always hopes to turn
before interpreting the point of indecision
as the point of no return.
29 October 2009
Inspired by The Weekend Wordsmith
photo courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/ghoulmann/
I had traded my picket sign
for a picket fence, but injustice doesn’t disappear
because I am safe. There are battles to be fought,
and I, being the soldier, cannot sit idle;
let this or that chauvinist think it’s ok for him
to leave the chivalry to you.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Thursday, October 08, 2009
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
Monday, October 05, 2009
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
22 July 2009
Her name on his lips brings a smile
and memories, laughter. She still lives
because he remembers her. I come to know
the woman she was through stories told
around the table and the view
through the window overlooking
a field where the milking barn used to be
before she died, before the farm was rented out,
before they sold the cows, and the silo for scrap,
when the boy who would grow to be my husband
called this place home, milked cows, played
and worked in the hay barn and caught fireflies
under her swath of New Jersey sky.
Sunday, July 05, 2009
5 July 2009
Bernice Imogene Pope
Now and again I get back
a part of myself. A cobbler brings me
face to face with my grandmother
and the dewberry bushes that grew
at the back fence in Victoria, south Texas
when I was younger than my little ones.
She picked them thinking of me--
no one loved those berries quite as much as I--
and she pummeled them through
a v-shaped colander so only the sweet
juice was covered by a rich cobbler crust.
The pan is two feet across,
the crust golden, the berries
sweeter than they’ve ever been since
in my memory.
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
Friday, June 12, 2009
12 June 2009
Inspired by The Weekend Wordsmith.
I still forget sometimes
especially when the Straw Man comes,
sets flame to all the arguments
I learned to keep me sane back then.
I must remember these arguments
do not serve except to train my mind
in another vein, prepare me to receive
another Truth, higher than any
proposition he could offer
that would have had me running ‘round
in circular arguments I couldn’t win,
even to save myself from the flames.
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
Today a surprise came in the mail for me, and I really, really love it. I don't imagine anyone else cares, but I still want to share it, and give my husband a huge pat on the back for picking something for me that I'd have chosen for myself. He has a gift for giving. At least with me. I don't think he's ever gone wrong.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Friday, April 24, 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Toying with names for the painting when I should be going to bed. I have no idea whether it's finished. I had originally intended ONE of these to be an acrylic rendering of an old pencil sketch I'd entitled Silent Reverie. However, I like them both so much, I'm afraid to mess with them.
This one's a bit of a teaser, as I've only included the corner of the canvas. Actually, i guess it's just a little less than half of the canvas. I started this painting and left the last as it is because I liked the latter so much, and was afraid to mess it up. I am now falling in love with this one was well. *Sigh*. One of them will have to serve as fodder for a more complex painting. Dunno which it will be yet. Maybe both.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Sunday, April 19, 2009
I tried to take light from the Light
which Darkness cannot dim.
The darkness was complete enough
to hold a sinner in regret; hide my longing.
But the veiled and twinkling mystery
danced its way across watery vision,
nimbused by tears, grief
I cannot lay down while the darkness persists.
I need light to find the foot of the cross,
and the Savior.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Thursday, April 09, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Also, keep in mind that my husband presently has both our good cameras with him in Amsterdam. I'm very aware the quality of the image is severely lacking.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
I've had an image in my head for a while which expresses, for me, a portion of the chaos of it, and I started painting it today. I think for this one, I will dabble in mixed-media for the first time, because there are some things I simply cannot do in acrylics. We'll see how it turns out. Here's a peak at Stage 1. I apologize in advance for the quality of the photo. My husband is out of the country, and he accidentally left with our good point-and-shoot digital AND the digital SLR. So I have to work with what I have.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
There’s nothing wrong right here.
There’s just a nagging fear that this
really cannot be enough for us,
because it never was for him, for her,
for so many of their kind who never grew
any way but bitter and affronted,
then looked back and colored life dissatisfying--
one drab, unflattering color,
and justified their destinations in the end
by the miseries they endured, the pains
in between which forced them to choose.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
So a relatively new acquaintance learns that I don't have my children with me today, and the conversation very naturally, though very uncomfortably for me, veers to the fact that they are each with their respective Other Parent. And my family is evinced as blended, and my heart as broken, though I'm never quite sure if the person with whom I'm talking understands the depth of the wound.
Or someone who has known and been close with both me and my ex, either in the past or currently, admits curiosity about our circumstance. And the conversation ends up in the vein of asking about our time-sharing agreement, and what the person perceives as the pros and cons of it, or asking me what pros and cons I experience.
It's not offensive to me to talk about--it's my life and it's dreadfully intimate, but it's bound to come up. I carry it with me everywhere I go, whether by the conspicuous absence of my children, or by the fact that my daughter addresses me by my first name, and my son addresses my husband as Baba. But it hurts. My, how it hurts. And no, I don't consider my children's Other Parents to be built in baby-sitters. It's not a newlywed perk that my husband and I are without our kids every other weekend.
And it will never be over. This is reality not just for the foreseeable future, but forever. My children will always have two homes, and I will always be obliged to split their time with folks who are, at least at this point, relative strangers, and worse yet, people who hurt me, and whom I hurt, by the very fact of our respective existential realities.
I heard someone recently say that if they had to choose between the death of a parent and that parent walking out on their other parent, they would choose the walking out. That statement provoked profound ambivalence in me. Ten years ago, I might've said the same, but now it strikes me as short-sited. Granted, the person who said it had lost a parent--one he loved and missed dearly. I honestly don't know which I'd prefer. Death is final. Divorce is an ongoing wound, with ongoing perpetrators. Death is closure, and leaves room to grieve for the person we knewso well, for good or ill. Divorce leaves us wondering who they are, whether the years we spent with them were really a lie, and whether there was something we could have done differently--or better. Divorce is never truly over, and given my demonstrable need for closure, I tend to think I'd prefer to deal with something cut and dry, something honest that Time might could help to heal.
Thursday, March 05, 2009
These affronts, at least, are mine,
somewhere half way between self- and other-
inflicted. Accepting culpability
doesn't close the wound, though
perhaps someday my bearing
of this burden will make lighter
for my children a cross they did not choose.
Monday, March 02, 2009
I can't say I hadn't thought about my tendency to blame culture, or about the importance of my own attitude toward my own body and my ideas about beauty in general. I also cannot say, however, that I had ever connect these concepts, and realized that while Barbie, Bratz, and all the images with which we and our daughters are inundated on a daily basis mean nothing next to the influence a mother and a father weild in the mind of a child. My comfort with my own body, and my husband's unconditional love for me, will speak volumes more to my daughter in the long run than a ridiculously proportioned doll.
That said, I'm still not a fan. Why Barbie could have been made with smaller breasts and a tiny bit larger waist, I'll never understand. Oh, and flat feet. Who wears heels everyday? Srsly.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Time is a moving target in its banks--
like dunes I barely own before they shift,
take on a different shape, a different place.
They move into a different time, and I
no longer recognize the clouds or sky
above them, much less this landscape
the river never ceases to mold.
Monday, February 02, 2009
Mom's sewing projects were disasters
of monumental proportions, but her wrecks
were always confined to the sewing machine cover,
strings of all hues, lengths and thicknesses
peeking out from among countless castoff swatches
of every imaginable color, shape and size.
The outcome of every venture was a masterpiece--
from Raggedy Anne to wedding dresses
that outlasted their respective marriages.
She had a gift, and she gave it to me.
I pull it out seldom, and with much effort
in the way of enthusiasm. I never nurtured the skill,
and I lack the talent of my forebears.
Just enough of my mother's grace exists
in my fingers to bless my own girl with a moment
like the moments of my childhood, to recreate
the beautiful disaster in some small way,
make the little girl I was a part of her.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
I trace the curve of my belly
too many times a day to count
with my eyes. I watch my skin
rise and fall in different places
than it used to, and I wonder
when these dunes will cease
to shift. My thoughts are prone
to solidify more swiftly
than the contours of my breasts--
from moment to moment,
I think, “this shape is It--
this is Me,” and the synapses fire
Then the wind picks up,
and the dunes shift again.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Wind whips the young, ice-glazed
branches of our slender sycamore sapling
out back, and I think hard at the tree,
“Hold on!” I suppose that one branch
is not so necessary in the larger scheme.
But that’s the branch upon which
my grandson will place his foot someday
to scale the limbs outside my window.
That branch will let my granddaughter
climb the tree a year or two sooner,
because the rule has always been
if you can reach it, you can climb it.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
I fully realized how dependent I was on my computer, and when I realized the hard drive hadn't fixed the problem, I was *extremely* discouraged. It's strange that the internet has become such a presence that it almost feels like something I *need* is missing. I know it's not a necessity, and I'm fully capable of going without, but the psychological strain its absence causes gives me pause--perhaps I should unplug more often.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
He thrives on stories,
epigram or epic--
hears them with relish,
tells them with an eye
toward making you believe
he was there,
saw it with his own eyes,
whether he actually did or not.
Who can tell? His joy is complete
in the sharing of experience
(his or someone else’s),
though he’d have you believe otherwise.
He is a lover of experiences,
but his addiction is reliving, retelling
an experience that never really dies