Tag: writing

Shy, Parsnip, Mother’s Day

I feel so private, so shy. Earlier in the week I submitted to two magazines. I hadn’t done that in a long time. There is a poet group I want to join, but I can’t even fill out the paperwork. Putting myself out there feels exhausting and violating – especially because they talk about giving readings and things like that. I have never been an extravert. In fact, I have been very introverted my whole life. The older I get, the worse it gets. There is a group of horror writers I want to get plugged into. I am excited about it, as I really love reading horror, have supernatural experiences at home, and I want to write fiction.

The thought of going to a meeting sucks my spine out of me.

Forcing myself to go would be good for me. I would love to find inspiration and meet like minded people. Being there would probably be spectacular. The thought of going gives me butterflies. Not even butterflies. It gives me moths.

Parsnip has a new enclosure that Craig built for him. It is in the library, which gives him more sun than he got in the laundry room. There are plenty of pros and cons for parsnip. He is now enclosed in a much smaller space. It’s more fun and definitely cozier, but it’s smaller. When he was in the laundry room he got to go out and run around the house a lot more. He was shut into the laundry room while we were sleeping or when I had to go to a store, but he spent a lot of hours a day running around the house. Now he doesn’t. This us partially to minimize possible future damage to the house. My little bunny has already caused trouble. Part of it is because this new enclosure doesn’t have a way to open the gate. He has to be put into his enclosure from the top. So if we let him out to run around the house and we aren’t available to really really watch him and follow him he could run into trouble. If he needs to eat, drink, or use his litter box he can’t get to it. So he can only come out of the enclosure at certain times. It was possible to make an enclosure that would allow him to get into it, but then it wouldn’t be secure enough to keep him from getting out of it. Parsnip is a fuzzy genius. Craig actually stapled the walls of the pen to the plywood.

We took Angelica out front on her skates. She doesn’t yet know how to skate per se, but she walked in the skates. Her balance was amazing – especially considering we haven’t been teaching her. We need to take her to a rink.

Mother’s Day was lovely. Good food, good gifts, good time. My daughter picked out a pretty watch for me. Craig got me two pieces of art from a local gallery, and another gift that I am not sure where he got it. We grabbed lunch at that cute little French place. I feel cherished

Misplaced Sky

The naturalized sky

does not fit in here,

stylizes himself after

the hapless fop in the café.

 

Before the sky signed up

with us,

I was like a firefly

in a jar with no lid—

except I was too stupid

to leave.

 

Before sky,

we had limitless

and endangered.

 

Now we have a cap

binding our angels

closer to us,

and selling our demons

into our authoritarian world.

 

Ether is just a dandy,

the accumulation of

blue, just garish.

He doesn’t belong here.

Everyone is looking

at him.

Crows

Crows circle my condo,

nest on the roof to taunt

the hawks.

The sweet vibrations of

a busy week well up

from the foundation.

My days are painted

with doors

over a base coat of darkness.

I take my sacred wishes

out to the trash.

Crows will collect them.

Hawks grab me on my way

back to home.

Flavorful Ghost of Pink

The wanton thunder laps up
the silence.

Sweat from a world of
goals spills out over the street.

My skin is dry.

Oceans in my ears
receive cargo ships of lead.

Fishing in front of the shops,
the woman with
an unknowable face.

She is the only one
Who has an umbrella,
The only one who doesn’t
Need one.

I want her to speak a
language of breeze behind
my ear,
letting her fingers wander
over my shoulders then down.

The flavorful ghost of
pink will hover over us.

I have nothing to grip
but my body when her hands
dip lower
like cloth into a basin.
 

The Trouble With Fiction

 
In my glitter book
I write stories.

Adverb symphonies,
I explain preciously.

Expediently
is always precocious.

The problem with plot
is a lack of self-awareness.

Leaving my pen to face
her fears on the precipice
of the table,

I see the morning’s
crumbs
rearrange—
spell,
but why should I care?

Facts and Figure

My husband is cloaked

in information.

When he slips my pelerine

off my shoulders,

the heat of my borrowed home

sinks into my chest,

exhausted.

Mouth on mine,

he breathes empire into me.

Always his tongue studded

in stats.

Interested,

I absorb his mind.

I absorb everything.

I absolve the world of nothing.

My husband kisses me

with countries I’ll never see.

With all his facts he

warms my figure.

The Shadow

In the shadow behind the drapes,

heart aglow and beating,

living illustration of a lost

red charm.

Allergic to light,

he is happy when unnoticed.

Children talk about him.

Houseplants have faith in him.

The sun-soaked parents don’t believe.

The oysters were alive

when mother extracted

Her pearls.

It is in the dim hiding

places that being is born.

Frightened,

the children watch the feet

that peep out from under the drapes

shift.

Day and Night

The dawn makes much of me,

flooding as she does

over the delta of dark.

The cowardice of night,

the dryness on the dark,

amaze me like

the paranoia at the foot of

my bed,

gnawing his hands

and begging for bandages.

Dawn always grows up.

Noon holds me in

a vice grip,

and I yearn for my shadow

and his praise of me.

Slowly,

sun turns to chaos

and things separate.

Evening falls like linen

on my hair.

Holier,

I brave the coming dark,

already thirsty,

as the light flows

to her next season.

Cut Short

(The celestial sobbing

of a year cut short.)

When the world ends,

we will all be high,

laughing at the telenovelas

we have lived.

The fire will clash with ice.

But where it all really

breaks down

is the anticipating

burning in the dumpster.

Like champagne

the old distrust bubbles

out from my upturned tumbler.

Now there is nothing

but trust.

(We all know how it ends.)