Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas!

Sister

I always picture you running.

Not in fear, or to get away,
But the way I used to watch you run the track when we were young:
Powerful,
Head held high,
Chest thrust forward almost comically.
All your movements are precise and efficient.
Your blond hair trails behind you wildly trying to keep up.
You carry a soft slight smile,
That your lips perfected years ago.

You are one of the strongest women I know.
Even through the obstacles, you run with power.
I don't always know how to help you...
You move so fast.
Even your thoughts move faster than mine.
But in the low points,
Know that your running will take you to great places.
Pace yourself, beautiful sister.
You will get there.
And I will be behind you, trying to keep up.

Pillow Talk

Tell it to me slowly.
Tell it to me sweetly.
All your little secrets and thoughts are treasure in my ear.
Your voice makes colorful circles in my head.
We laugh at our own stupid jokes.
I giggle all night, at our own private stand-up comedy.
Don't hold anything back.
Tell me everything.
It's all beautiful.

Things Fall Apart

Things fall apart.
It is destiny.
No; it is fact.
Life un-strands itself, thread by thread.
The order we once knew becomes disheveled.
New generations change history.
Children lose their innocence.
Houses begin to show wear.
Virgins rarely stay that way forever.

There is no escaping change.
You can try to fight it, but few win that battle.
You can try to deny it, but you will be considered a fool.
Order turns to chaos.
Treasures become broken.
There are very few constants.

Things always fall apart,
But You hold me together.

"It is more difficult and more bitter when a man fails alone."
- Chinua Achebe, Things Fall Apart

Sunday Decadence

The smell of fresh cut spruce
Crushing an empty egg container with my feet
Lazy Nap Time
Cuddling with the man I love
Cuddling with the boy I love
Little, big feet on my kitchen stool
Gingerbread cookie cutter art
Fireside loving
Chocolate ice cream with fresh raspberries

My Exhausting Affair

I have a deep rooted love affair with language. I am mesmerized by the way words can be tangled and weaved into something amazingly beautiful. I could spend hours sighing over the colorful arrangement of letters and sounds. My secret "little black book" is a list of literature I plan to read or have read; a list of previous love affairs tucked discreetly in my purse. I get carried away sometimes with the simplest quote or witty statement. It sweeps me off my feet. Shakespeare in his time probably could've had his way with me.

I'm a word connoisseur, my cruelest critic. Nothing ever seems perfect enough. Nothing is ever finished. I can't even find the perfect prose to describe this exhausting affair.

"Look at you fumbling over the right things to say... and you call yourself a poet." I mumble to myself.

Sometimes this blog forces me to create and other times it forces me to "publish" what I believe to be intolerably flawed. I read it over and over shaking my head. My heart jumps as I push the POST button. Instantly it appears on my blog. I want to take the words back again, like a call you wish you had never dialed.

Emily Dickinson was once told, "Your poems are quite as remarkable for defects as for beauties and are generally devoid of true poetical qualities."

I often speak the same words to myself.

However, the passage of time turns literal crap into beauty. When I read something I wrote five months ago, I'm transported to that exact moment of emotion. I can feel exactly what I was feeling when I first wrote those words. That is why I keep punishing myself with this love affair. By carefully building word and phrases, I can make something meaningful. It helps me remember. It makes me stronger.

Vomit Haiku

It's three thirty-five am,

Why did I order calamari?

Head in the toilet.