Monthly Archives: April 2014

I Open At The Close

Twenty-nine days ago,
I dared myself.
I exposed my thoughts and feelings
for anyone to see or stumble across.
I took off my filter,
and instead of hiding behind
some screen of sarcasm, humor,
or some lyric written
by someone else who said it better,
I wrote.
You read.
And this might be the happiest I’ve felt
in a long time.
Creativity and honesty are the best fuel,
the best fodder, the best humanity
I’ve experienced.
And though this challenge is over,
I will challenge myself to be,
from now on,
The Girl Who Lived.

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Channeling Chanel

She said, “A woman who cuts her hair
is about to change her life.”

I lost track of time.
Somewhere between
the packing and moving,
unpacking and improving,
the upheaval and the slowing,
the highs and oh-so-low-ing,
the drinks with friends and the dinners at home,
and the sleeping together and sleeping alone,
and everything that came with it all,
my hair finally got long enough
to pull back into a ponytail.

I say, “A women who changes her hair
is changing her life.”

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Mud Mask Moon

Recharging. Refueling. Reenergizing.
Absorbing positive elements
and sloughing off the other dirt.
Pulling toxins from down deep
and washing them away.
Pampering. Purifying. Perfecting.
It’s a new moon tonight.
Time to tear down
and rebuild.

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M. Shadows

My day started with your voice.
It’s rough, masculine, raw.

I know that in the technical sense,
“raw” is from your earlier days.
It’s physical.
But that’s not how I think of it now.

I think of your “raw” voice as
honest, genuine, full.
I think of it as beauty.
Comfort.
Truth.
It’s more than physical.

It’s almost easy.

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Station Hope

We turn the corner and we’re greeted
by the crescendo of a gospel choir.
We move toward the parish hall,
wind down creaking hallways,
wait patiently at the top of the stairs,
and finally we descend.
We see dancing,
feel the drums,
stare at mirror images,
study a silent crying woman.
They are moving,
but they are not why we came.
Finally, we see it.
The Delivery – from the mind of a man,
to the faces of these women
to our common, open hearts.
These women’s words make us
uncomfortable, angry, and hopeful,
as we should feel.
They make us laugh,
as we hope they did sometimes.
They make us cry,
and we need to.
And the only thing we can say after
is “Jesus.” “Wow.” “My God.”
After, the air is frigid,
and though we fill it with our own
warmth and laughter,
we’re still reeling.
These women join us.
They stand with us.
They laugh with us.
And when one of them asks us
for a cigarette, and we have none,
my sister tells me later
that she’ll always regret not having one
because that was her chance
to give this woman something in return,
and she came up empty.

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Steady As She Goes

Dust.
Nerves.
Lawsuits.
Stomachs.
Judgments.
Scores.
Estates.
Debts.
Claims.
Disputes.
Affairs.

Men.
Women.

They settle.
I won’t.

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Isn’t It Pretty To Think So?

O Romeo, Romeo. I didn’t tell you everything.
I told you most of it because you told me your whole story
before I ever asked you anything.
What I didn’t tell you was how this whole thing started.
I was afraid you’d laugh or think I was crazy.

It was a dream.
A dream I’d had months earlier
that gnawed at me subconsciously
until I acted on it.

In the dream, I came home after work.
You were home early and surprised me.
(We lived together. I don’t think we’d married.
I remember our counter tops, though,
and the fact that our kitchen had the island
I’ve always wanted.)
You’d cooked for me.
For the first time since I’d known you,
you’d made a meal, and it was beautiful.
It was in a black roasting pan,
and you were wiping your hands
on one of our kitchen towels.
You were so proud. Proud the way a boy is
when he brings home his first A or his first trophy.
And I couldn’t say enough how happy I was.

You kept trying to cushion it.
You told me to wait because it might taste awful after all,
but I didn’t care because you’d made it.
You’d made the effort. And you were happy,
and that made me happy.

This was well before I knew you didn’t know how to cook.
That someday, this could really happen.
That you could cook for me.
That you could be that proud and happy.

I had to know.
I wanted to find out
whether that dream was prescient,
whether we’d be more
than just another daydream.

We weren’t, and that’s okay…
but isn’t it pretty to think so?

(Yes, this is the second poem of the day. It came to me later in the day, and I’ve never been a patient person, so I had to get it out. I’m relatively certain you won’t mind that I’ve gone beyond my goal for the day.)

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