Healing for the Healthy

guilt

2011-02-08T23:23:00.004-05:00

paper mache privacy
holds back no coldness
poison words seep
uninhibited into
unintended ears

everything and nothing
a touch to dust
collapsing

i dont know how to forget

The Bay House

2011-02-03T20:05:00.001-05:00

During one of our yearly pilgrimages to visit my grandfather in Maryland, my mother pulled me outside for a talk. I went willing, suspecting that this talk had something to do with the woman whose house we were going to for dinner. My grandfather was a quiet, introverted man, and I’d never even seen him talk to his neighbors. I didn’t even know that my grandfather knew any women, so I was dying to know what was going on.

It was July, and the Maryland sun was scalding. I had been too stubborn to put on shoes, so I had to run across the pavement to keep the bottoms of my feet from being burned. I waited on the far side for my mother, who had taken the time to slip on her L.L.Bean sandals before leaving the house.

We walked two lots toward the end of the cul-de-sac before my mother came to a stop. I stood in the grass next to the sidewalk, shielding my eyes with my hand and trying to be patient.

“Your grandfather is getting married,” my mother finally told me. It had never occurred to me that old people got married too. “This is where they are going to live. They are both going to sell their houses and move into a new one together.”

I squinted through the bright sun, shifting from one foot to another, regretting my decision to forego shoes. The empty lot was blanketed with dandelions, which seemed to glow gold in the bright sun.

At the wedding, my grandfather’s wife did not wear white. I was eight, and I came to understand that I understood very little.

* * *

A full year went by before I returned to Maryland. In my absence, a house had sprung up. I had not seen any of the construction, just that it had not been there, and then it was: a magical appearance. It was the largest house I had ever seen, stained a deep mahogany and built into the side of a hill. The front yard, where the dandelions had been the year before, was level, but in the back it sloped down at a sixty-degree angle to the banks of the Chesapeake Bay.

There was a rope between two trees at chest height that ran the length of the hill. To get to the water, we had to belay down a steep dirt path. It was best to go second, and allow my brother to walk face first through the numerous spider webs that appeared across the path overnight.

My new grandmother owned a section of beach. It was no more than seventy feet of reed-covered sand at a narrowing of the bay called Kinnaird’s Point. The bottom of the bay had been carved out to allow large boats to pass through. The water was neck-deep four steps in from the edge.

We loved that beach. I think we would have loved it even if it had been strewn with rocks and the water never got deeper than our bellybuttons. The words private beach spelled us into love before we had even seen the place.

* * *

The house was the first thing to magically appear in Maryland, but it certainly wasn’t the last. My memories of those summers all mix together, and I can no longer say for certain in what order things appeared, or how old I was when each happened.

Some things appeared permanently. A dock appeared, allowing us to cast our lines out into the channel when we fished and to perform sloppy cannonballs into the deep water. A set of stairs replaced our belaying rope, to my parent’s relief and my secret disappointment. The stairs had five flights and a bench halfway down. The bench had been intended to give people a place to rest, but was more frequently used to wait for slow adults. Baby cousins, who grew far too quickly and whose names I could never keep straight, were also added to the mix, along with some dogs to bark excitedly whenever we caught a fish.

Some things only appeared for a single summer. During a particularly bad drought, the usually brackish water became salt water. With the shift of the salt-water line came new salt-water creatures. For the first time, we were able to catch crabs off the end of the dock by tying raw chicken to the end of long pieces of tine and lowering them to the bay floor. After an hour, the chicken was slowly brought to the surface and scooped up with a net when it was six inches from the surface. The crabs would skitter sideways around the dock with their claws above their heads, before running off the side and plunging back into the water. Jellyfish were also a novelty, but only for the first day. Most were only the size of a quarter, and pulsed along with the current. I thought they were adorable, until one stung me. I spent the rest of the trip hauling them out of the water with a net to die a slow and painful death on the sand.

During the same summer as the drought, my father took it upon himself to try to clear some of the reeds, and ended up with a terrible case of poison ivy for his troubles. I glimpsed my father sitting in the bathroom in his underwear, his skin raw from itching. It made the jellyfish-shaped welt on my leg feel insignificant by comparison.

There were also people who appeared for a single summer. There was a pair of Irish soccer players, whose accents were so thick that I could not understand them, but they sounded pretty. An exchange student also visited us from Germany. She was fascinated by the one-legged heron that stood on the other side of the bay every morning.

* * *

I never saw Maryland in a state of transition; things appeared and disappeared between summers, but I never saw them changing. Somehow, not seeing things change allowed me to delude myself into believing that things weren’t changing, that I wasn’t changing. Maryland seemed to be beyond time, a paradise that was not subject to the laws of the real world.

Except it wasn’t.

I was seventeen, and I was walking beside my grandfather up the five flights of stairs to the house. He was going painfully slow, and I felt awkward beside him, waiting for him to take each step. His breathing was harsh and heavy, and each step was more faltering than the last. We were two thirds of the way up when his balance suddenly shifted backward, not a lot, but enough. In slow motion, I saw him begin to topple, and before my mind had even caught up with what was happening my hand was on his arm, steadying him.

He looked at me, and his face was red with exertion. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, or an illusion created by his red face, or even my imagination, but in that moment my grandfather’s eyes looked like a child’s: bluer than any contact and surprised by his own helplessness. I was struck by a flash of vertigo, of a half memory of a time when I was the one going slowly up the stairs and he was the one reaching out to steady me. His arm trembled under my hand, and I was no longer sure who was steadying who.

* * *

I didn’t tell my mother or my grandmother about the almost-fall right away, though I probably should have. The encounter had scared me, and I needed time to taste the words before I said them.

That night, my grandmother showed me a stash of treasures I had hidden in a drawer the first time I visited the Bay House. They were silly, childish treasures that I could barely remember owning: a glittery lip gloss on a red lanyard, hooker-red lipstick and some chunky bracelets. I had left them there nine years earlier, when I had been someone else, an eight-year-old who now felt as foreign to me as the treasures in the drawer.

Time had dehydrated the lip gloss, reducing it to some powdery glitter at the bottom of the tube. I was struck with the childish notion that I could add water to the lip gloss, and make it like it used to be. I got as far as the bathroom door before realizing it was silly and stopping.

With the lanyard clutched between my fingers, I finally found the courage to tell my mother about the almost-fall. I whispered it like a secret, but she already knew. I realized that she had always known. Maryland had never been free of time. That had been an illusion of my creation.

Thanksgiving Company

2011-02-03T19:54:00.002-05:00

The entire house was hot. It was a dry heat, the sort that results from having the oven running all day. The food had been assembled on a table in the room next to the dining room. The table was dressed in a white lacy runner, a gift from Germany that Mrs. Wagner had insisted would never be used, but had somehow found its way onto the table anyhow. The turkey sat on a massive platter in the center, with the stuffed acorn squash to its right. The squash had needed to be cooked in the neighbor's oven, because they would not fit in the Wagner's oven beside the turkey. The mashed potatoes sat to the turkey's left, a gravy boat and the dish of cranberry sauce perched perilously between them. The stuffing flanked the mashed potatoes, along with the fruit salad, the five bean salad and the regular salad. The right side of the table was dominated by a three gallon punch bowl that had been filled to the brim with lemon-lime punch and scoops of orange sherbet.

* * *

Dinner at the Wagner house was a serve-yourself affair. Most of the family gathered round the serving table, serving themselves generous portions. Mrs. Wagner, who had spent all day in the kitchen with her daughter, took the opportunity to sit down and pour herself a glass of white wine. She was a graceful woman, whose dark hair had been streaked with silver as she aged. She was wearing a sophisticated navy-blue blouse and white dress pants. She had dressed carefully, knowing that her in-laws would be present for dinner. As she watched Grandpa Stag and Grandma Joan circle the serving table, she knew that she had not only met, but exceeded their expectations. As Mrs. Wagner watched, Grandpa Stag turned to throw her an admiring look.

Grandpa Stag was a short, wiry man in his seventies, who had been married three times in his life. His most recent wife was a blonde woman in her fifties named Joan. As Mrs. Wagner watched, Mr. Wagner came up behind his father, and engaged him in a lively conversation. Glancing between her husband and his father, Mrs. Wagner observed that they were a great deal alike. Mr. Wagner was taller and had not yet gone totally gray, but their manner of expression was strikingly similar.

Mrs. Wagner finished her glass of wine and lit the candle in the center of the table. It was pumpkin pie scented and sent wafts of spiced aroma into the overly warm air.

“Boy, I sure am looking forward to that pumpkin pie later; it smells delicious!"” Grandma Joan commented, pronouncing the words like they were themselves were a delicacy.

Mrs. Wagner glanced at the candle, then at her mother-in-law.

“That's actually just the can—” Mr. Wagner began.

Mrs. Wagner stomped on his foot, effectively silencing him. “Thank you, Joan!” she finished, smiling.

As Grandma Joan and Grandpa Stag finished loading their plates and took their seats at the table, Mr. Wagner and Shelly, the Wagner’s daughter, took their place at the serving table. Once they had their food, they too took a seat at the table.

Mrs. Wagner noticed that her son, Greg, and his girlfriend Stephanie stood slightly apart from the rest of the family with Stephanie’s two daughters and had made no move toward the food, despite the obvious social cues. Mrs. Wagner served herself and took a seat at the table with her family, leaving them standing.

The Greg that stood in the dining room looked nothing like the Greg in the pictures Mrs. Wagner had hung on the walls. He had gained at least a hundred pounds and grown his hair out into a long, scraggly, greasy ponytail. About an inch down the hair strands, his hair took on a grayish tinge, from when he’d tried and failed to dye his hair blue a couple of months earlier. There were purplish semicircles under his eyes that made Mrs. Wagner wonder whether Greg ever slept.

Stephanie leaned into him, clinging in a way that was almost obscene. She was short, only about five feet tall, but she was far from petite. Stephanie weighed close to three hundred pounds and had nearly every health problem known to man, though Mrs. Wagner suspected that there was at least some hypochondria at work. Stephanie was dressed from head to toe in black, and had even taken the time to apply a thick layer of black eyeliner to her eyes.

Stephanie’s daughters, Elisha and Alana, were three and nine, respectively. The girls looked strikingly different: Alana had straight brown hair, while Elisha’s hair hung in golden ringlets. It didn’t surprise Mrs. Wagner that the girls looked different, since they had different fathers. Stephanie had been married twice before meeting Greg, with a child resulting from each aborted match. Mrs. Wagner was glad that Stephanie had had a hysterectomy, and that Greg wouldn’t become the third man to father a child by Stephanie.

Elicia grabbed Stephanie’s thumb, tugging insistently. “Momma, I wanna watch Wizard of Oz. Why‘ren’t we watching Wizard of Oz?”

Stephanie smiled indulgently down at her daughter, “Greg’ll fix it, Elicia.” She then turned toward Greg, glancing up through her lashes. She leaned up to give him a slow kiss, their bodies forming around each other in a mass of quivering blubber to allow their mouths to meet. As they pulled apart, Mrs. Wagner saw the glint of Stephanie’s tongue stud and shuddered with revulsion. There is a time and a place for everything, and in front of the entire family is not the place for a plus-sized make-out session.

Greg lumbered toward the TV, switching off the football game and popping in the Wizard of Oz. The rest of the family watched slack-jawed. Grandpa Stag’s mouth was working like a fish, wanting to protest but not knowing how. In the end, it was Mrs. Wagner who said something.

“Greg? What are you doing?” Mrs. Wagner asked politely.

“Elicia wants to watch Wizard of Oz, so I’m putting it on for her,” He promptly turned back to the task of working the remote with his stubby fingers.

“No, you aren’t,” Mrs. Wagner replied.

“What?”

“No, you aren’t,” Mrs. Wagner repeated. “We always watch the Thanksgiving Day football game as a family.”

Greg had the decency to blush. “Mom, Elicia will throw a tantrum if she doesn’t get her way. We have to watch Wizard of Oz.”

“She throws tantrums because she knows she’ll get her way if she does. Give her something else to play with and tell her no. She can watch it when you get home,” Mrs. Wagner said, with finality.

Greg’s chin jutted out, and he ground his teeth. He turned the football game back on and stomped back toward Stephanie and Elicia.

“Aren’t we gonna watch Wizard of Oz? Momma?” Elicia asked, resuming tugging on her mother’s hand.

“Mrs. Wagner said no,” Stephanie told her daughter. “You have to watch football like everyone else.

Elicia let out a deafening shriek, like an angry teapot. Her face flushed maroon and her eyes welled up with tears. “WANNA WATCH WIZARD OF OZ! NOT FAIR!!! GREG, FIX IT!! FIX IT NOW!” She grabbed the lacy runner and tugged, sliding all the food toward her as she collapsed to the floor, sobbing. The punch bowl lurched precariously, hanging out over the edge and sloshing some of its contents across the floor and into Elisha’s golden curls.

“Elicia, honey, would you like to play with some blocks instead?” asked Mrs. Wagner, hopping up to try to salvage the situation. The effect was instantaneous: the sun came out from behind a cloud and the tears dried away to nothing.

“I never would have thought of that,” Greg said, awed.

“Can we have those blocks to keep her quiet at home?” asked Stephanie.

“No, they’re to keep her quiet while she’s here,” Mrs. Wagner replied, rearranging the things on the table and setting the punch bowl away from the edge. As she stooped to mop the punch off the floor with a rag, Stephanie pulled Greg into the next room, whispering in his ear. Alana, who had been her mother’s silent shadow the entire night, went with them, leaving her sister to play with the blocks.

“Mom?” Greg called around the corner. “Steph forgot some important medicine in the car, we’re going to run out and grab it.”

As the outer door squeaked shut, Shelly got up from the table and came to join her mother, bringing paper towels. Shelly was a sophomore in college, and had come home for the holiday to visit with family and help cook. Her long, blonde hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and she wore a black button-up shirt.

“Mom, when are they going to leave?” Shelly asked.

“Not for a while, Shelly. Dinner is only just starting,” Mrs. Wagner replied, taking the paper towels and continuing to mop up the liquid.

“Stephanie was asking me to be her bridesmaid, and I didn’t even know Greg had proposed. She was asking me what color dresses I thought would be best.”

“She’s planning a wedding?” Mrs. Wagner asked in disbelief. “She hasn’t said anything to me about it. Is there anything else she’s said to you?”

“You mean other than when she pulled me aside to give me advice on how to put Velcro between the buttons on my blouse so they wouldn’t pucker at all? She was making comments about how us big-busted women needing to stick together. I don’t get it, I mean, proportionally speaking, compared to the rest of her, her boobs are not that big.” Shelly wrinkled her nose in distaste, gathering up the soiled paper towels.

Mrs. Wagner pushed a wayward strand of blond hair behind her daughter’s ear. “Sweetheart, you’re beautiful just as you are. Don’t worry about what she has to say.”
Shelly threw away the paper towels and returned to the table, just as Greg and Stephanie returned, chomping gum and reeking of cigarette smoke. The atmosphere twisted and stiffened.
Greg and Stephanie finally served themselves and the girls. Once everyone was seated at the table, Grandpa Stag gave a brief blessing. No one closed their eyes.

Mrs. Wagner took her first bite of turkey, gazing speculatively at Stephanie. "So, Steph, I heard something about you planning a wedding. How come you didn't say anything about it to me?"

"Oh, yes, Ma'am. I asked your daughter to be our bridesmaid this afternoon, since she's Greg's sister, and we were really hoping that you guys could be a part of our marriage, since Greg didn’t invite you to his last wedding, and weddings are so wonderful, and I was thinking that Greg could wear a ducktail suit and that the bridesmaid dresses would be blue, since that's a color that looks good on everyone...”

Mrs. Wagner tuned out for a moment, watching Stephanie speak rather than listening to what she was saying. Stephanie’s mouth was still half-full of broccoli, which sprayed out of her mouth with each syllable and fell down the front of her blouse. Mrs. Wagner looked back at her plate.

“...and we were thinking about November, since that's when my best friend Nicole's coming home from Norway, where she's living with her fiance, but she has to come back to the states because she had a rubber band put on her stomach and it slipped, and she can't even eat, and so she needs emergency surgery--"

"Oh God, enough! I'm gonna be sick!" Grandpa Stag exclaimed, clutching his stomach.

Stephanie, glowing with the limelight, paused uncertainly at Grandpa Stag's exclamation.

"Go on, Steph," Mrs. Wagner urged, trying to move the conversation forward.

"Apparently they only do rubber bands on stomach in America, and they use staples in Europe since it's safer, so they won't even operate on the rubber bands, and--"

"You were saying November?" Mrs. Wagner prompted.

"Yes, because the weather in November is so lovely for weddings, and I think it would be perfect, and Greg will be able wear his suit comfortably, and the girls will be able to wear long dresses, and I really like fall weddings best."

"When were you planning on inviting us?" Mrs. Wagner asked.

"Of course you're invited! We were planning on you being there, since you are
Greg's family, and of course we want him to have people there too, and of course I'm going to invite my parents."

“Then is your divorce with Elicia’s father finalized?” Mrs. Wagner queried.

“No, Ma’am,” Stephanie answered. “since he doesn’t want to let me go, and his mother has always hated me, so she’s waited years to be rid of me. My divorce with Alanna’s father went so much smoother, and we were able to still be friends afterword, but I don’t think that’ll happen with Elicia’s father since he’s being such a jerk, and he resents Greg moving in with us, which I don’t understand since I love Greg, and just because we’d only known each other for five weeks before he moved in with me doesn’t mean we’re moving too fast, and--”

“What about you, Greg? Has your divorce with Liz gone through?” Mrs. Wagner asked, hoping to draw her son into the conversation.

Greg grunted, his mouth still half full and his neck angled forward like a vulture, allowing him to shovel food into his mouth quicker. He had hardly even glanced up from his mashed potatoes, and Stephanie was already answering. “No, Ma’am, since you have to have been separated a year under Australian law before you can officially get divorced, and I think that’s really a stupid law, since I’ve been married and divorced twice already and I’m only twenty-six, so people should be able to get married and divorced as they choose.”

“Wow, two already at twenty-six? You must really chew through ‘em! I’ve had three wives, and it took me fifty years to work my way through!” Grandpa Stag exclaimed, throwing back the last of his third glass of scotch. Grandma Joan winced at the reminder that she was his third wife and twenty years his junior, a blond bombshell seated beside a gray-haired older man. It was bad enough that the children accidentally called her “aunt” sometimes.

Stephanie opened her mouth to answer. Mrs. Wagner kicked Mr. Wagner under the table, frantically mouthing, “Do something!”

Mr. Wagner said the only thing he could think of that would prevent Grandpa Stag and Stephanie from having a drawn-out and awkward comparison of past conquests: "So, Greg, how did you propose?"

Greg was on his second plate of mashed potatoes. His neck had seemingly extended, allowing him to put his mouth closer to his plate and shovel even faster. He swallowed, and paused long enough to say, "I didn't." He immediately went back to eating.

Mr. and Mrs. Wagner glanced at one another, unsure. Stephanie continued prattling on about weddings, dresses, and how certain she was that she and Greg had been made for each other. Greg continued eating.

As Stephanie continued to talk, a rather large glob of gravy fell from her fork into her cleavage. For the first time since he had seated himself at the table, Greg stopped eating and sat up. He took a napkin and reached into his girlfriend’s shirt to clean the gravy away. Stephanie giggled flirtatiously, gazing up at him through her lashes as Greg’s hand lingered longer than necessary.

* * *

By the time Mrs. Wagner and Shelly had begun to serve dessert, Grandma Joan had succeeded in wrestling the scotch glass out of Grandpa Stag’s hand, but the damage had already been done. The old man was glassy-eyed and drunk, and Mrs. Wagner doubted he would remember anything come morning.

Dessert was served on Mrs. Wagner’s grandmother’s nice china, as it was every year. Stephanie insisted that she didn’t want dessert, and that she could just have some of Greg’s slice instead. It soon became obvious that she was lying, as Mrs. Wagner watched Greg and Stephanie work together to polish off four whole pieces of pie.

As Stephanie cleaned off the last of the fourth piece of pie, she asked, “This is a lovely piece of china, and it looks very old, like what my grandparents have. Is it worth a lot?”

“I really don’t know, Stephanie. I’ve never wanted to sell it.” Mrs. Wagner replied tersely.

“Well, I think it would be, since it’s so pretty and so old and in such good shape, and I bet you could sell it for a couple hundred dollars.” Stephanie paused in her examination of the plate, suddenly serious. “What time does the last person leaves for work in the morning?”

“You have no need to know something like that.” Mrs. Wagner answered sharply. “I think the girls are getting tired, and that you guys should head home now that you’ve had dessert.”

“I was thinking that we could maybe stay the night, since it’s late and I don’t know if we really feel up to driving, and I’d really like to see more of your lovely home,” Stephanie answered, suddenly eyeing the silverware intently.

“You are not welcome to stay the night without invitation, Stephanie.” Mrs. Wagner replied, bristling.

“You’re Greg’s mother, and you should be supportive of us, and my mother would have let us stay the night without an invitation! You’re a terrible mother, and I want you to know that Greg and my love is too strong to be broke apart. It doesn’t matter if you approve, ‘cause we’re going to be together forever,” Stephanie stood up suddenly, her stomach colliding with the table and rippling from the impact. “Elisha, Alana, get your coats. We’re taking the moral higher road!”

“Aren’t we getting pie to go?” Greg asked.

“I’ll make you all the pie you want, Schnookums,” Stephanie replied leaning over the back of his chair to kiss him before dragging him out the door.

* * *

The Wagners watched through the front windows as they got into the car and drove away. After their tail lights had vanished around the corner, Mrs. Wagner turned to her husband and asked, “So, how about a drink?”

Before Mr. Wagner could answer, Grandpa Stag turned to his daughter-in-law, his eyes glassy. “A drink? An excellent idea, my dear!” He reached around his wife to reclaim his scotch glass, and promptly refilled it, despite Joan’s protests. “Have I mentioned how lovely you are? Greg’s got a winner of a mother, yet he’s choosing to date a whale!” Grandpa Stag paused to drain half his glass. “I know! The nine-year-old! She’s quiet, and her father went to MIT, so she must be smart! Greg should marry her instead of the mother!”

The entire family gaped.

Mr. Wagner jumped in, trying to make light of the situation. “How like you, Dad! Always trying to rob the cradle!” The family let out a collective nervous chuckle, and Grandma Joan shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

“Well, my boy, we can’t all get lucky like you and marry such a beauty on the first try!” Grandpa Stag grabbed Mrs. Wagner’s arm. “Really, my dear! You have such a pretty face! I would expect to see it when I open up a catalogue, not when I come to have dinner with my son’s family--”

“Dad, I think you’ve had enough to drink,” Mr. Wagner said sternly, stepping forward to shield his wife and pulling the glass from his father’s fingers. “Perhaps it’s time for bed?” Mr. Wagner shot a look at Grandma Joan, who hurried to her feet and took her husband by the arm.

It took several minutes for Grandpa Stag to make his way up the stairs, his wife leading him the entire way. He rambled under his breath about whales, Greg and catalogue models the entire way. Grandma Joan said nothing, recognizing that he probably wouldn’t remember any of this in the morning, and making a mental note to have a long talk with him about his drinking in the morning.

* * *

The Wagners sat downstairs, each nursing at a glass of wine, not knowing what to say. After the door to Grandpa Stag and Grandma Joan’s room finally clicked shut, Shelly excused herself, and headed upstairs to bed.

Now that they were finally alone, Mr. Wagner turned to Mrs. Wagner. “I’m sorry about my father. I should have made him stop drinking sooner.”

Mrs. Wagner made a choked noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a cry, and reached out to squeeze her husband’s hand. “Matt, let’s not have any company for Thanksgiving next year.”

Mr. Wagner laughed humorlessly, and then leaned over to give his wife a kiss. “All right.”

Estrangement

2011-02-03T19:44:00.001-05:00

Our mother used to come home from parent-teacher night upset. My brother and I were only two years apart, so she had to visit both of our teachers in the same night. Almost invariably, Greg’s teachers revealed that he hadn’t been doing his homework, even though he told Mom he didn’t have any homework, every time that she asked.

When Greg was in middle school, he skipped a project worth 15% of his final grade. That was the last straw. Our mother put a new rule in place: Greg couldn’t play any video games unless he got at least B- in every subject.

Greg used to calculate how many homework assignments he could skip and still get a B-. Sometimes he didn’t do as well on tests as he thought he would, and he ended up with Cs. There were whole summers during which he couldn’t play his video games.

For Greg, losing video games was the worst punishment imaginable. He loved video games enough that he’d lie, cheat and bully me just to play them. Our mother had to lock up the video game console, hiding it from him, to keep him from playing when she left the house. With the video games hidden, Greg’s punishment became mine. Whenever he got a bad grade, I was punished alongside him, even though I had done nothing wrong.

It didn’t really matter to me that I couldn’t play video games; I didn’t like them as much as Greg did. A summer without video games was not the same torment for me that it was for Greg. It upset me on principle, though. It bothered me that I was being punished when I’d done nothing wrong.

* * *

Looking back, there’s a part of me that can almost understand Greg, as he was then. He resented our mother for forcing him to do his schoolwork. He resented our father for siding with our mother. He resented me for being the perfect little sister; for setting a standard that he didn’t want to live up to. He resented our family, because he didn’t want to be a part of it.

In hindsight, it’s all clear. Sometimes, I think I should have seen it coming. Greg must have imagined himself to be like the heroes in the comic books I remember seeing lined up across the top of his dresser. He must have imagined himself escaping from the mundane reality of his life, moving toward something bigger and more exciting. He never thought of who he might be hurting by leaving. Of course not. He never thought about anyone but himself.

Maybe the whole thing was predictable. Or maybe I only see it that way because I know what happened. I can’t tell what’s true any more. My memories are too colored by knowledge for me to distinguish the truth.

* * *

The first time, he was only 20. He vanished to Australia chasing a woman as old as our mother who he met playing World of Warcraft. Her name was Liz, and she had a daughter older than him. She had the same birthday as me. He spent two weeks visiting her, before deciding to move in with her. I didn’t hear from him until a year later, not even on the birthday that his girlfriend and I shared.

The call for help was sudden, unexpected. He called our parents directly. My mother called in all her favors to get him out of trouble. She got our uncle to arrange an emergency flight for him out of Australia because he claimed to feel endangered. He returned a married man, even though we had never even heard of the engagement. Our parents gave him the money they had saved for him to go to college to get himself out of debt. Two weeks later, he was corresponding with her and considering going back using that very money. Our parents informed him that he would have to pay our uncle back for the emergency flight first if that was what he wanted. He decided to remain in the US.

I’ve never even seen a picture of his first wife.

* * *

He met the second woman on Craigslist. Her name was Stephanie. She was 26, had been married twice and had two children from two different fathers, only one of whom had been a husband of hers. She was 300 pounds and she smoked. You did introduce us to Stephanie, unfortunately. She came into our house like a tornado, destroying any sense of peace that might have existed. She scoped out our home like a burglar, even going so far as to act what time the last person left for work in the morning. She then accused our mother of being a negligent parent to him, and informed our parents that they did not have the right to speak to him without her present because their love was too strong for their disapproval to break them apart. He said nothing to contradict her.

The second disappearance lasted only six months. He called me, instead of our parents, with a long story about how he had never realized that Stephanie was manipulative, and that she was cheating on him and never at home, but that she wouldn’t let him go. He kept me on the phone until six in the morning. He claimed that the only thing he had gotten out of his relationship with her was “more drama with you guys.” He told me he was in debt, and followed the claim directly with the words “I love you.”

When our parents rescued him from Stephanie’s home in Massachusetts, they only relocated him to our grandmother’s house in Michigan to get him away from her, and didn’t give him a cent. He left after two months, throwing all of his belongings into a sheet that he slung over his shoulder, and walking out of our grandmother’s house to a waiting taxi, without telling her where he was going.

This separation feels much more permanent than the first two. He’s vanished: deleted his facebook, his email, and disconnected his phone. He’s completely cut off contact. The first two times he disappeared he merely ignored our messages, now he’s cut off our means of sending them.

Grandma opened his next bank statement. It showed gas stops every ten days heading to Connecticut, where the father of his girlfriend’s younger child lives. She splits custody with him in ten day rotations. That means she’s with him, and he used us to get a fresh start away from the filthy apartment he was being evicted from. He was never sorry, and he never changed.

In hindsight, I realize his story was a mess of contradictions. How could Stephanie have been holding him captive if she was never there? How could he have not noticed that she was manipulative? She wouldn’t let our parents speak to him without her in the room! Greg may be lazy, but he’s not stupid.

His story was a ploy to get money by forcing me to be the intermediary, because he knew our parents didn’t trust him. He cut off contact afterward because we weren’t giving him money anymore, so we had no more use.

* * *

The last time we spoke, the night I stayed up until six in the morning, he said the word suicide. He only said it in passing, and I didn’t realize it was like a threat until I woke from a dream of him strung up from the ceiling. He had the body of a chicken, like the ones we used to see strung up from the barn door at Mrs. Kunz’s house. His face was purple.

Maybe he’ll call and ask me for money again, the next time he’s in trouble. He’ll kill himself out of spite when I tell him I don’t want to hear it.

Maybe the call will never come. He’ll wind up dead in a gutter somewhere, and no one will know to contact me. I’ll live out the rest of my life, not knowing that my brother is dead.
Or maybe, sixty years from now, I’ll drive past a funeral procession and never know that it’s his.

Extraterrestrial Life

2011-02-03T19:36:00.001-05:00

I am driving to Boston for the first time, dropping my father at the airport. I have never driven to Boston before and I am apprehensive about the airport traffic. I am nowhere near as apprehensive as my father, who sits in the passenger seat clinging to the oh-shit-handle above his right shoulder so tightly that his knuckles are white. I’m a good driver, but you wouldn’t know it based on the look on my father’s face when he rides shotgun.

I am attempting to navigate one of those twenty-lane toll stations where Massachusetts’s drivers feel obligated to drive like maniacs just because there’s space enough. A plane passes low overhead, and the engines rumble, vibrating the car’s windows. It starts out low in pitch as it comes up behind us and then transitions to a higher drone as it passes overhead and becomes a speck in the windshield.

I am no longer a twenty-year-old girl sitting in the car with my terrified father, but a five-year-old who has snuck out of bed in the middle of the night and is peeking out under the window shade to check for UFOs, my brother beside me. We never do more than peek; we are convinced the aliens will abduct us if we actually lift the shade to look properly. It is always just a normal plane, but that doesn’t stop us from sneaking out of bed in the middle of the night, whispering in voices we think are quiet, to make sure. We are so sure that the next one will be a UFO that we lay awake in our bunk beds long after bedtime, waiting for the next rumble of engines so that we can run to the window again.

Our house is not far from the Manchester airport. Every hour, planes pass overhead low enough to rattle the windows in their frames. Whenever we have guests from out of town, they never sleep well because of all the noise. It never bothers me. When we go to visit relatives, I find it too quiet.

When we are awake, the airplanes are a game. In the summer, we pause at the first faraway rumble. We stand there, barefoot, wearing the mismatched t-shirts and shorts we threw on that morning in our haste to be outside, with our necks craned, gazing toward the sky. We try to guess how big the plane will be based on the sound of the engines in the distance. Sometimes we try to guess what company owns the planes, because the planes are low enough to see, and we are old enough to read. Whoever guesses wrong has to run and get the ball the next time it rolls out of bounds or down the hill into the woods.

In the winter, we play hide-and-seek with the planes, running into the trees and burying ourselves with snow to hide until the forces of evil have left the area. The fact that my garish fuchsia snow pants are visible from the air for miles never even occurs to us.

They are especially a game after the sun has set and it is time to be sleeping. The planes pass low enough that we can see their wing lights flashing around the edges of the light blocking shade our mother has hung in our window. The UFOs are not our idea. there is a story about extraterrestrial life on the news. I do not know what the story is about, and it is not important. The square glow of flashing light around our shade and its alien brightness is what’s important.

One night, we actually see a UFO. The lights are so much brighter than any other plane we have ever seen. The noise is so much louder, an entirely different breed of drone. We panic and run straight back to our beds and pull the blankets over our heads, as though that can protect us from anything. It takes me longer to hide, since the top bunk is mine. I slam my knee on the railing as I clamber up the ladder. I’m breathing heavy and shaking when I finally to pull the plush green blanket over my head.

We wait a full minute after the windowpanes stop shaking and the last rumbles of the engine have faded into the distance, before we finally run down the hall, to where our parents are watching television in the living room. We tell them that we just saw a UFO! My father is angry, but he isn’t shouting. His quiet-angry is worse than his shouting. He tells us calmly that it was just a military jet, and to get back in bed now. We are offended by his incredulity, but know better than to argue.

My father is shouting at me to pay attention to the road, damn it. I am no longer a five-year-old peeking under the window shade to check for UFOs. I don’t live in a house near the airport anymore; I haven’t for many years. I’m a twenty-year-old driving through a chaotic toll plaza, and my frantic father’s knuckles are now nearly purple from the strain of clinging to the oh-shit-handle too tightly. I roll my eyes, because, yes, I am paying attention and, yes, I do see the black SUV that is about to cut me off.

Then we’re through the tolls, and my father’s hand is relaxing ever so slightly.

I think back to the UFO that my brother and I saw that night. My father was probably right; it was probably just a military jet. But I want it to be a UFO, even though I don’t believe in UFOs anymore. I glance up again, looking for the plane, but it’s gone. I don’t know whether it has landed or simply passed over the horizon. I wish I had seen where it had gone.

Self Portrait

2010-07-18T19:41:00.003-04:00

I think I must be very ugly.

How can I be annoyed with others,

when I do the same or worse?

As soon as I pinpoint someone else's fault

it comes bubbling up through my own skin

like a giant greasy zit.

How can I easily hide the truth

with rotten flower-words?

That's what he did,

and I hated him for it,

so why do I do the same?

How can I feel so damn entitled?

Today a man asked me to feed him.

I told him I didn't have money,

but I did.

I walked a block and crossed the street,

then doubled back and gave him my orange.

How ungenerous.

To need a block and a half

to decide to feed a hungry man.

How ugly.

Möbius Strip

2010-06-24T10:27:00.005-04:00

Life with you is like a circle,

twisted once for good measure.

A gut-wrenching trip

that always ends right

where it began.

Round and round...

...and round...

Faster and faster...

...and more nauseating

each and every time.

I don't think I can bear it again.

-----

Prompt: Write a poem based on the concept or idea of a "Mobeus strip."

Truth

2010-06-09T15:29:00.003-04:00

He sat there,

drinking like a fish,

consuming enough bourbon

to knocked a man out.

He was a happy drunk:

jovial and flirtatious,

at all the wrong times

and with all the wrong people.

It was an act of mourning.

He drank because he'd lost a child,

a grandson.

Lost him to a fit of stupidity,

with a woman who didn't care.

He laughed because he felt like crying,

and drank to forget the truth.

----

Notes: My prompt was "Write a poem that begins with a description of an event, telling what appears to be happening. Then give a description of what is really occurring."

Between us

2010-06-09T14:27:00.004-04:00

There is so much between us

too much

miles of tundra condensed

into a single sheet of glass.

We stand back to back

separated by inches of miles.

The glass has broken before,

shattered by circumstances

that you control.

The shards always rain down on me.

Cutting and tearing,

destroying everything that I've built.

I'm the one who gets hurt

and you never turn

to help pick up the pieces.

It's tragic--

replacing the glass with brick.

Even if you finally turn around,

you won't be able to reach me.

Earth & Sky

2010-06-02T16:25:00.004-04:00

I could see the storm coming for miles,
angry bright flashes among ominous clouds.

I could feel the change in the wind,

suddenly cool and agitated,

herding the leaves,

burning against my cheeks.

The darkness ate the sky,

smothered the hazy blue sky.

Immense. Powerful. Awful.

I could have passed by the seed

a hundred times and never noticed it.

Tiny and insignificant, I could hold it in my palm.

I pressed it to the earth and turned my back.

While I was gone the earth created

something out of nothing.

Tiny. Powerful. Incomprehensible.

----

Notes: Today's prompt was ""This and That"- Write a list of phrases such as "salt and pepper", "cats and dogs", "love and war". Write a poem with the first stanza about the first word and the second stanza about the second word." I like how this one turned out.

Ripples

2010-06-02T10:08:00.005-04:00

Last night I dreamt I stood
between an old woman and a child
in a place where the black ground
rippled like water.
You hurried past us, no backward glances,
leaving a stormy wake.
The child shrieked after you
stomping out large ripples, uncomprehending.
The old woman watched you go, silent.
Her tears made plinking tiny ripples.
You didn't notice, and she,

unlike the child, was unsurprised.
I made no ripples at all.

The dream turned on its head,
changing black to white,

and in that surreal moment,
I was both old woman and child.

Luxor

2010-05-23T21:43:00.008-04:00

always sits,

watching us intently,

forever patient and understanding.

His eyes: too light, penetrating.

I wonder how deeply he sees,

how much of us he really understands.

His eyes are much too insightful, too intelligent.

His whiskered eyebrows bounce, creasing to show his concern.

He is never far away, our eternally faithful furry guardian.

----

Notes: This poem was based on the prompt "Write a poem that starts with a one word title, two words in the first line, three in the next, and continues by adding one word per line. (Variation: use as a prose exercise.)" I apologize for falling off the one-a-day bandwagon.... I fear that with the start of summer and my upcoming move, I've had other things to worry about. I will do my best to pick up the pace once I've gotten settled in.

Auction

2010-05-18T18:32:00.006-04:00

Why should we value an oil portrait

painted of a stranger by a stranger?

Or an exotic tamed monkey?

What use could there possibly be

in the fibula of a long-dead saint?

Why do we dress up in austere clothing

and march in pairs into distinguished halls

to wave bills about like fans?

Such a bizarre, barbaric ritual.

"Starting bidding for the nude cupid statue

at ten thousand dollars."

"Ten thousand!"

"Ten thousand from the gentleman

in the garish sport coat.

Do I have fifteen thousand?"

"Fifteen thousand!"

"Yes, fifteen thousand from the veiled lady

with the diamond ring and pearl earrings.

Do I have twenty thousand?"

"Twenty thousand!"

"Twenty thousand from the woman

with the sapphire brooch.

Do I have twenty-five thousand?

Going once, going twice....

SOLD, to the woman with the sapphire brooch."

----

Note: Today's prompt was: "List ten items that you would buy at an auction, or tag sale. Write a poem including those items. You may chose to title your poem, "Things Found At An Auction". Variation, have someone else create a list for you." Not my favorite, so far. I'm really not a fan of prompts that ask me to use lists of items in my poem. I think they're just awkward. Oh well. I did the best I could.

The same

2010-05-16T23:04:00.003-04:00

I was surprised yesterday,

when I fell back

and actually hit the floor.

I think I became too dependent,

too used to you catching me.

Expectant and ungrateful.

The day before yesterday

I condemned mannerless children

who make demands without thanks,

without thought for anyone else.

I condemned him for forgetting me

when he didn't need my help,

for turning his back and leaving.

Today I realize that I am the same.

Too little, too late:

you're already gone.

----

Notes: Today's prompt was: "Write a poem concerning the "absence" of something. Consider the absence as a positive, or a negative." I wasn't particularly in the mood for writing a poem about absence, but I put my best effort into it anyway. I hope it came out okay.

A cello's anatomy

2010-05-12T16:26:00.005-04:00

Every day he waited patiently
to feel her cool fingers on his spine,
for her to draw her bow across his strings.
He waited to sigh in ecstacy
under her gentle caress.

Today was no different.
As she approached, he felt his
metronome begin to tick faster.

----

Notes: The prompt for this one was to write a poem using metronome... it turned out to be harder than I thought it would be.

Chain-link fence

2010-05-12T15:40:00.003-04:00

A web of cold metal
spun out of spite.
Her fingers strained
toward the warmth
that she could see,
but not touch.
Her frostbitten knuckles
bled.

It was the finest torture.

----

Notes: The prompt for this one was "chain-link fence"

Saturated

2010-05-12T02:04:00.002-04:00

The air was a sponge

gluttonously filling itself,

packing itself as full as it could,

til it was too full to breath,

suffocating and heavy.

Saturated.

And then it exploded

into a myriad of light

refracting rainbow drops

plummeting to the earth,

flashing their blinding vibrance,

full, bright and colorful.

Saturated.

They crashed into them,

onto their lips of flint and tinder,

into the space between them,

too full to bear, about to explode.

Saturated.

----

Notes: I apologize for how long I've been away. I finished my last final exam today, so I should be more reliable from now on. I'll try to catch up on the prompts I missed over the next week.

Anyway, the next prompt from The Journal was to write a poem using three different definitions of the word saturated.

My house

2010-05-04T17:03:00.012-04:00

My house is big and beautiful and green.

Because green is my favorite color.

I helped paint it.

I held the paintbrushes

while Daddy stood on the ladder.

Mommy has lots of gardens,

but there are never flowers.

Except for the yellow ones near the house

and the pink one in the forest

that I'm not supposed to pick.

She says it's because of the trees.

I don't understand. I like the shade.

There's a snake in the woodpile.

Daddy caught it and showed me.

It's skin was slippery and cool,

like the hose when Mommy waters the flowers.

He wouldn't let me hold it.

He didn't want me to get bit.

I asked Daddy if it was a boy or a girl.

He didn't know.

I think it's a boy.

Daddy caught me a frog, too.

I kissed it, but it didn't turn into a prince.

I kissed it again, to make sure.

The carpet in my room is orange.

Mommy wants to change it.

She says it's ugly.

But I like my orange carpet.

Mommy promised me green carpet, though.

I guess new carpet would be okay.

There's lots of planes.

Mommy says they land near our house.

She wears things in her ears at night

because they're too loud.

My brother and I always check

to make sure they're not UFOs.

They're so loud and so bright.

They can't be normal planes.

I have a swing-set, with monkey bars.

I like to do the monkey bars.

I'm good because I practice a lot.

The swings on my swing-set are green.

Mommy and Daddy gave it to me for Christmas.

We have a big hill in the backyard.

During the winter, Daddy piles up snow

until we can sled from the deck.

It's fun, but there's lots of trees at the bottom.

My brother bought a snowboard

at a yard sale with his allowance.

It's pink.

He's really bad at it and he always falls.

I like sledding, especially on the green sleds.

They're round and they spin really fast.

Sometimes Daddy sleds with me.

Behind the hill there's a swamp.

During the summer it smells funny

and there's lots of bugs.

I don't like bugs.

During the winter, it freezes.

My brother and I walk on the ice

until we can't see the house anymore.

There's a tree on its side.

It's roots stick up like fingers,

reaching to grab me

and bring me to another world.

----

Notes: Since I didn't get to write a poem yesterday, I wrote two today to make up for it. This is the fourth prompt on The Journal. The prompt was: "Write a poem that describes a walk through a house from the perspective of a child." I liked this prompt.

Why?

2010-05-04T16:43:00.004-04:00

Why am I me?

I was born as me;

I don't know how

to be anyone else.

But why was I born?

I was lucky.

I was one of millions of eggs.

I was at the right place

at the right time.

Was it fate?

I don't know,

no one ever really knows.

At least not while they're living.

What does it mean, to be living?

It means having a pulse.

It means thinking.

It means vibrance.

I can't explain it.

Why not?

Because I'm human.

I'm a candle

next to the sun,

overshadowed by the light.

----

Notes: Today's prompt: "Write a series of questions and answers to compose a poem." I didn't really like having to write in questions and answers, and I'm not thrilled with the final poem. I do like the last three lines, however. Perhaps I will be able to use them (or some modification thereof) in a future poem.

the faults of a sparrow

2010-05-01T20:31:00.008-04:00

he was an eater of seeds

a generally harmless common creature

content with anything in small amounts

blunt-beaked and stubby

not at all extraordinary

she had seen a thousand sparrows

it was not him but the ruthless eagle

that she caught her eye

----

Notes: I'm currently sitting the the Newhouse labs waiting for my videos to export, so I decided to take on prompt #2. I was amazed by how little I had to say about sparrows! This is what I managed to come up with... thoughts?

The prompt was: "Write a free verse poem using "sparrows."

Watching

2010-05-01T15:51:00.005-04:00

Sun always watches from afar:

watches flowers burst into vibrant colors,

watches the slow, inevitable changing of seasons,

watches the heinous deeds of humanity

performed with false certainty of privacy.

Sun watches everything, knows everything,

except for the existence of Moon,

who watches Sun,

from the protective shadow

of her brother Earth.

Sun is too caught up in watching

to notice he is being watched.

----

Notes: So, the first prompt on The Journal is "Write an Anaphora poem. An Anaphora is 'the repetition of a word or expression several times within a clause or within a paragraph.' In poetry the repetition of the phrase can be just at the beginning of each line, setting the tone as a meditation or a mantra, or it can be utilized more subtlety within the poem. The poem can be free verse or prose style." I decided that I'm going to go in order so that I don't accidentally miss one. The word I chose to repeat was "watch."

Update

2010-05-01T15:43:00.003-04:00

So, NaPoWriMo is now over. Next, I intend to work through the 53 poetry prompts found on The Journal. For those of you who would like to join me, you are more than welcome. Post it in the comments so that I can follow your progress as we go forward. There are 53 prompts, and I'm going to try to keep up the one-a-day posts, so I should be finishing up this list sometime in the middle of June, at which point I will be looking for suggestions for more prompts to take up. Happy writing!

Reflection on NaPoWriMo

2010-04-30T22:39:00.003-04:00

First off, I'd like to thank all of those who have taken time to read and comment on my poems. Receiving feed back from you all helped to make the NaPoWriMo challenge a ton of fun.

My decision to take the NaPoWriMo challenge was a very last minute one: I decided that I was going to participate at 8PM April 1st. I was emotionally and physically at the end of my rope, and in desperate need of a constructive way to let out negative energy and my feelings. I stumbled upon the NaPoWriMo challenge when an acquaintance made a post about it on Facebook. It was a fateful encounter. After doing some quick research and some soul searching, I decided that I had found the outlet I had been searching for, and I decided to take the challenge.

Given that I was stressed before starting the challenge and April is the last month before finals, it was probably not the wisest decision, but I've long sense decided that wisdom is overrated, and the NaPoWriMo challenge is something I wanted to do. So I did it. I successfully completed a poem a day for the entire month, a feat I wasn't sure I'd be able to achieve and that I am now very proud to declare.

The only thing left is to select my top three poems for submission. I know which three I like the best, but I'm always curious to hear other people's opinions. Do you specifically remember any of my poems that you particularly liked? Please leave a comment if you have an opinion one way or another.

Thank you for taking the time to read my poems, and I look forward to reading and writing more poetry with you all in the future!

NaPoWriMo #30 - Free Day and Farewell

2010-04-30T16:37:00.006-04:00

Burning

Every second of every day

is consumed by burning.

It's what people do,

something we all have in common.

We burn with passion,

anger, desire, regret.

Even our tears cannot

extinguish our burning.

We burn brightly

because we are temporary.

We burn everything we have

from the inside out,

then implode,

like a human super nova.

And then the burning is gone

leaving behind a cold husk

that's nothing like what we were

when we were still burning.

----

Notes: So, I couldn't think of any prompts that I had failed to write to that I wanted to write, so I decided to revisit the elemental prompt and take on a new element. I did water the first time, so I decided to tackle fire this time around.

Liar

2010-04-29T20:17:00.005-04:00

I knew you were lying

the second I saw her,

watched you together:

clinging, disgusting,

like a pair of mating slugs.

It turned my stomach,

both the sight and

the sudden realization

that absolutely nothing

had changed.

----

Notes: I wanted to write on prompt, but today's prompt was related to headlines. I'm part of a journalism school, and I'm so sick of all things journalism related that I wanted nothing to do with today's prompt. So, this is my submission to NaPoWriMo #29, which is really just a second intuition poem, sans free write. I liked yesterday's poem, and my free write was intuition based, but the poem just wasn't.

NaPoWriMo #28 - Intuition

2010-04-28T22:36:00.006-04:00

I wonder

I wonder what it's like

to watch the world

speed away without you,

to be left alone

while the wind blows away

pieces of what you once were,

to be conscious of your own fading

into the unremembered, into oblivion,

to become faceless, nameless,

some benevolent giver of life.

I wonder what it's like

to have a future written in stone

and a past of vanishing sand.

Free write:

When I remember my “a-ha moment” from my past, I understand the place I am meant to go with my words and poetry today is somewhere. There's no wrong place for poetry to take you, no wrong place for poetry to go. I'll go wherever the wind blows me, whether it be an enchanted forest or a volcano perched on the edge of eruption.

I realized on a day that there was nothing particularly special about that I am going to die. That's right: I'm not immortal and I won't be young forever. Everything around me is temporary. My world is even more temporary than I am. By the time my grandchildren are born (assuming I have grandchildren), everything will be different. None of them will know what a DVD is, and they'll probably never have been to a movie that isn't 3D. I wonder if I'll get lost in the confusion. If I'll slowly slip away into the sands of time until there's no one left who knows that I existed.

It's a sad thing, being left behind. Possibly even sadder than dying. I don't remember even the names of my great-great grandparents, let along further back. It makes me feel guilty. I wonder if I'll be remembered. If someday someone will be proud to have me as an ancestor, or if I'll be a faceless giver of life.

I'm much more likely to be faceless.

----

Notes: Well, my free write was focused upon my intuition (especially the last line of it), but somehow that didn't quite come across in the poem. Though I did focus on the same subject that my a-ha moment surrounded.

NaPoWriMo #27 - Let Someone Else Take the Lead

2010-04-27T21:27:00.006-04:00

For my dearly beloved,

Everything you could ask for and more

But not the thing you really want,

Really need...

Unnecessary things only

And things you don't want

Right when you don't need them...

You didn't actually expect more, did you?

----

Notes: February is my birth month. I chose it because it has so many things associated with it, and I didn't feel like writing an acrostic poem that was actually about myself.

I haven't written an acrostic poem since elementary school. They're not one of my favorites, but they're more interesting than I remember them being (and they accomplish the task of easing us into the final stretch quite nicely.... but let's not think about that. It's too sad).

NaPoWriMo #26 - Getting Scrappy

2010-04-26T21:24:00.009-04:00

I'm not my brother's keeper

How many times must I let you break me

before I hold you at arms length?

How many times must I

allow you to hurt me?

Am I bad for wanting

you to just go away?

Don't get confused:

I do still love you.

That's an obligation

of being siblings

But it doesn't mean

I want you near.

You used me up.

My patience

is all gone.

There is

nothing

left.

Free write

Phrase: Am I my brother's keeper?

Oh, the irony. That it was said by Cain, when the Lord asked about his brother, Abel, whom he had killed. Siblings, anger, and the desire to kill all in one neat little package.

Do we deny association to deny guilt?

I don't. I deny association and refuse to be associated with him because I can't handle it. He tears me apart and destroys me. Every time I let him get close, I inevitably walk away bleeding. Lies do a lot more damage than blows, no matter how hard they might be. I've had enough of cowering in the corner and letting him walk all over me.

I am not my brother's keeper. It's not an easy thing to say. There's a part of me that wishes I was strong enough to grab him by the scruff of the neck and drag him back onto the right path. To make him understand how much his lies hurt. It hurts me to admit I can't do it. I feel guilty for deserting him.

It's not that I've given up. Not quite. I just don't want to get hurt anymore. It's like a shield, that I'm reluctant to let down.

I am not my brother's keeper. It's not my responsibility.

I'm not my brother's keeper. I need to learn to let go.

-----

Notes: Earlier on today, I wrote a highly experimental piece, and I'm not sure how well it came out. I'm currently sitting in a lab waiting for a video to render, so I decided to write another. I really enjoyed the phrase prompt, and had started a second freewrite based on a second phrase. Here is the conclusion of that start.

Apocalypse

2010-04-26T15:45:00.010-04:00

When Man was created,

He was good.

A protector, a name-giver.

Then entered corruption:

vile, profane,

slithering up,

twining round

our souls.

Then incest-

Lot's daughters-

the destruction of purity,

the birth of monstrosity.

What is humanity now?

Where are we going?

Is there anything left?

The world is ending.

----

Notes: This is my submission to NaPoWriMo #26; it's off prompt. I wanted to play with combining words and the images together into the same poem. So, this is my depiction of the corruption of humanity through the degradation of language. I hope that it communicates clearly.

NaPoWriMo #25 - First Things First

2010-04-25T17:12:00.006-04:00

I really hate this graphics project

"I really hate this graphics project,"

is what she said to me,

and though it's not in my nature,

I'm inclined to agree.

I don't feel like going,

there's nothing more to say,

but since the meeting's scheduled

I've got no choice today.

There are scant few minutes

til out the door I go

In those minutes I've written,

though it's not my best work, I know.

-----

Notes: Okay, I found out shortly after reading this prompt that I have to be at a meeting for a group project in a couple of minutes. (Meaning I have very little time to write this). Ironically, that means that the first thing I heard after the prompt was "I really hate this graphics project." So, this little poem/rant is an expression of my frustration.

NaPoWriMo #24 - Find a Phrase

2010-04-24T17:22:00.007-04:00

the leopard

i wonder sometimes

how it felt to be trapped

trapped in his own skin

he could never escape

from his mistakes

from his past

from his spots

he had tattooed them on with ink

in a dusty cellar

before he knew better

before he understood

that they would never come off

or maybe someone else

tattooed them on him

while he was sleeping

maybe he didn't even know

it didnt matter

the world didnt care what happened

She didnt care what happened

he had spots

and that was that

he was stuck on a path

he hadnt chosen

and there was no way

to go back

he was a prisoner

in his own skin

Freewrite

Phrase: A leopard cannot change its spots.

This English proverb originated from the Bible, in the chapter of Jeremiah. It talks about how a sinner is no more capable of changing his ways than a leopard is capable of changing his spots. Are we all fated to be stuck? Stuck on some path, that we choose when we're young, before we know better? Is it really true that you can't teach an old dog new tricks?

A leopard cannot change its spots. No matter how hard he tries, he'll always be spotty and dirty and not good enough. I think leopards are beautiful, even if no one else does. Why would they ever WANT to change their spots?

Sometimes I think that beauty is found in the imperfections: the mole on the side of a supermodels face, or your tendency to flush bright red when you're embarrassed. Like watching you turn into a giant, angry tomato.

A leopard cannot change its spots. That's such a sad statement. I remember in Tarzan, when Jane's mother tells Tarzan that he's a spot and Jane is a stripe, and that no matter what Tarzan does, he'll always be a disgraceful spot. Thinking back on it, I guess that this was a reference to this proverb.

So some of us are spots, some of us are stripes and some of us have no pattern at all. I wonder which I am. Probably no pattern what so ever. I'm not chic enough to be a stripe, yet also not outlandish enough to be a spot. I guess I'm kind of boring, really. But that's okay. Like the proverb says, I cannot change what I am. Nor do I want to.

NaPoWriMo #23 - Unlikely Couples

2010-04-23T19:24:00.004-04:00

A girl and her dolls

I think I've owned one or two,

I'm not sure because they never

made much of an impression on me.

I never liked girly things,

like playing dress up or putting on makeup,

unless it was forcing my brother to be my model,

but then it was fun for an entirely different reason.

I never played with them,

they sat in a net on my wall

collecting dust.

I used to pretend they were fishes

being hauled out of the ocean,

their cries of "help me, help me"

muffled by the absence of water

to fill their gills.

They were wholly uninteresting,

but sometimes I could transform them

into fishes or crocodiles or enemy soldiers

and battle them with my ruler-sword

(or gun, if I felt like playing in modern times,

for a change).

My playground was the world next door,

and really, who needs dolls there?

---

Notes: I had no idea what to write for this prompt, so I ended up writing about something I didn't like that I should, rather than the other way around. A twist on the prompt, but still applicable, methinks. X.x

NaPoWriMo #22 - A Wordle

2010-04-22T16:06:00.006-04:00

Rust

Things eat at you

when you're left alone.

When there's no one else

to wipe away your tears

and they're left on your face

to fester, to rust.

Looking at me,

you might think I had freckles

across my cheeks

and beneath my eyes,

that I sat too long in the sun

without protection,

allowing my skin to burn

leaving a myriad of colored splotches

in the wake of its peeling.

Would you ever suspect

that I was rusting?

Right before your eyes,

every moment I get closer

and closer

to falling apart.

-----

Notes: Looking at today's wordle, "rust" was the one word that really stuck with me. So I based a poem around it. :)

NaPoWriMo #21 - Perfectly Flawed

2010-04-21T18:06:00.006-04:00

Perfection

Perfection exists

in the realm of nothingness.

No person has ever seen it,

no object has ever touched it;

There is no proof of perfection.

Does perfection exist?

------

Notes: This poem was (admittedly) written very quickly. I have a lot of school work to get done tonight, but if I finish early I may revisit the prompt (or write something off prompt) to make up for it.

Solar Eclipse

2010-04-20T12:00:00.004-04:00

I remember you were a golden sun

with eyes that glistened bright like morning rain.

You were as wild as raging rivers run
once just as sweet and just as free of pain.

I remember I looked to you,

as adventurous sailors seek the stars
forever lost upon the ocean blue
or sitting drunk in weary seaside bars.

Now you have fallen, without any grace,
like a great bird with broken battered wings.
Your terrible, bloody, deceitful, face
now shows the plain and awful truth of things:
if you had really flown so very high,

the fall would certainly have made you die.

----

Notes: So, I wrote this sonnet a couple months ago. When I saw the today's NaPoWriMo prompt, I dug it up so that I could post it, because it suits the prompt perfectly. That being said, I did write a new hero poem (see below).

NaPoWriMo #20 - The Hero Poem

2010-04-20T11:52:00.004-04:00

Storybook Hero

I plucked you from a storybook

complete with your plastic sword

and fearless stead -- a pony in truth,

but faithful nonetheless.

I prescribed you many traits:

courage, honesty, strength.

When I was scared,

I painted you with war paint

using my mother's eye-shadow.

When I was happy,

I polished your crown 'til it shone.

Until I closed the book

and looked You in the eyes.

NaPoWriMo #19 - Light bulb moments

2010-04-19T21:35:00.007-04:00

Human

How many years did I live

under the impression that you were perfect?

A saint. No, an angel. Infallible and righteous.

I still think so, sometimes. Most of the time.

Unless I'm reminded otherwise.

It was a flash of unexpected anger

when your eyes, ever calm, teared up.

You didn't cry, but nearly.

It struck me

the moment the gale of your anger

reached my ears.

I don't remember the exact words,

but it sounded like

"I'm only human."

NaPoWriMo #18 - meow!

2010-04-18T16:07:00.004-04:00

Well, I've kind of already written a cat poem, see Mittens, but I will do my best to write a second.

House cat

Sometimes he's all purrs,

sitting there in the sun

eyes closed, apparently relaxed

his thrashing tail the only sign

of impending mischief.

But it's over in a flash

and then he's a fluffy mass

of pounce, destroy and bite.

Wild, fierce, like his cousins

who must be fierce to survive.

Instinct, I guess.

But then he's tired,

and the only battle left to fight

is over which bed he should sleep on.

NaPoWriMo #17.2 - Something elemental

2010-04-17T14:43:00.003-04:00

Necessary

She had always wished

to be as necessary to him as water,

to be something he couldn't live without.

She knew it was selfish,

that it was impossible,

that it was foolish, even.

But that didn't stop

the stab of envy in her breast

every time she watched him

raise his glass to his lips

and sip, eyes closed in contentment.

NaPoWriMo #17.1 - Something elemental

2010-04-17T14:34:00.003-04:00

The Power of Water

She had always been conscious

of the fact that her body was 70 percent water

and proud of it, too.

She had seen often enough

how water could carve its way through rock

with only persistence and time for tools.

It was gentle, yet powerful.

Soothing, yet destructive.

It was such a beautiful contradiction,

one she strove to emulate.

NaPoWriMo #16 - What's that smell?

2010-04-16T21:25:00.008-04:00

Okay, for today’s prompt we had to write a 5 minute free write on a smell and then write a poem based upon that free write. I’m going to post the poem first, and then the free-write below it, so that you can read my inspiration.

Mittens

He was a storm cloud with wide yellow eyes

and a kink for having his tail pulled.

I remember him being beautiful,

but in the eyes of a child all things are.

He was too skinny, but I never realized.

He was sick, but he still took care of me.

He curled around my head like a lion:

Glaring. Watchful. Arrogant, despite his size.

Even then he smelled sick.

Like urine and sickness and death.

I was too young to know,

I’d never smelt it before.

Sometimes I think he really was a lion,

forced into a much smaller body.

That’s why he died,

because his body couldn’t handle it.

Scent: cat urine

I remember how weak he was. He couldn’t always make it to the litter pan. How long was he sick before we realized it? How long did he take care of me while I was sick before I realized it?

I remember his fur smelled like urine. I didn’t clean the litter pan, so I didn’t know it at the time, but years later, when I got a cat of my own, I finally realized what it was.

I remember he lay on my pillow, next to my head, watching over me, glaring at anyone who dared to come near me. Protecting me. His eyes were like an owl’s, and even then he was too skinny for it to be healthy. I can’t believe I never realized it, how sick he was, I mean. And he still had the time and the patience to take care of me. Animals are amazing.

I remember my pillow smelled like his fur for months after he died. Cat urine is a hard thing to get out. I remember holding him in my arms when he was a ball of fluff. He was so cute, like a storm cloud with big yellow eyes. I remember how he actually liked having his tail pulled. What a strange cat.

I remember how weak he was. I remember being unable to turn my back when he was put to sleep, even though I didn’t want to watch. It was raining. The mums were in bloom. We brought home three red mums to plant on his grave. Mums don’t usually survive the winter, but those did, and I was glad.

I remember my mom wrapped him in a towel. We didn’t unwrap him before we buried him. I think we didn’t want to see the body. So we buried him, towel and all. He has a headstone, too, but since there are so many rocks in the area, it’s hard to find unless you know where to look.

I remember going to visit him, a couple of times. I need to go more often. I don’t live there all the time any more, but he was precious, so I should visit him. I wish I could visit him. I’ll never forget him.

NaPoWriMo #15 - Carrying a tune

2010-04-15T19:35:00.005-04:00

Ok... I think I should be upfront about this: I can't carry a tune to save my life. In other words, this cannot go well.

Their skin fit beautifully

It impacted her strikingly,

how their skin fit wonderfully.

She stared fretfully

thinking hers fit awfully.

Her eyes simply couldn't see

that her skin fit-- it was meant to be.

She'd fill out like a sapling tree

if only she would let it be.

NaPoWriMo #14.2 - You want me to write a what?

2010-04-15T18:21:00.015-04:00

Ok. As promised, here is my second attempt at yesterday's prompt.

Edit: After reading through some of the other cleaves posted (which I couldn't see before because I posted this from my phone), I realized that I was doing this entirely wrong. I apologize for my failed cleaves, and I will try to do better in the future. T.T

Her mind

She was in a desert
where there was nothing.
No cacti, no oasis, no end,
not even a scorpion to sting at her feet.
There was sand,
but after hours of walking,
hours of it scalding her souls
that too was reduced to nothing.
Baren. Parched. Even her frustrated tears
did nothing to quench it.

It was raining watermelons,
baby kangaroos and munchkins,
and small creatures--never before seen
from the bottom of the sea
with headlights on their eyelashes.
Too much, too fast!
Her mind overflowed
in a flood of multicolored paint
scrawling with reckless abandon a rough imitation of her flood.

Her mind was by nature a cyclic beast.
There was no mean that it strove to attain
nor any certain predictability.
She found there was no use pondering it.
Instead, she opted to simply let her mind
borrow her hands when it had something in it.

NaPoWriMo #14.1 - You want me to write a what?

2010-04-14T19:18:00.016-04:00

Okay, this is my first attempt. I will probably come back and attempt to write another later today, but I'm not sure I'm going to have time, so I'll post this for now.

Their skin

Her skin was too tight.
It constrained her,
squeezing so hard it burned.
Pointing her into the future
like a straight jacket.

His skin was too loose.
He swam through it
lost and confused
trying to find his heart
in the endless void.

Their skin fit beautifully.

He leant her some of his spare skin,

and, unwittingly, his heart.

He freed her from her straight jacket.

She found his heart and filled the abyss.

Together, their skin was beautiful.

NaPoWriMo #13 - Smoke a Dubie

2010-04-13T11:13:00.003-04:00

Kisses

A kiss is like a dress falling off a tall building.

Sometimes it flutters, slowly, softly, to the ground

delicate, intricate white lace pooling at his feet.

Other times a bead sewed to your breast drags it down

bringing it crashing to the floor, and in the confusion,

you're not quite sure what has happened, or why,

or even who you are any more.

One time, it slipped off your shoulders like it was velvet,

leaving tingles and rays of introverted sun in its wake,

and you weren't even sure when the dress hit the ground

because your sun was shining too brightly

for you to see anything else.

NaPoWriMo #12 - Secret Code

2010-04-12T14:53:00.006-04:00

Daylilies

I sit in my mushroom throne

surrounded by daylily courtesans.

They'll only last a day

and then I'll be tired of them

and their constant simpering.

But they can't really help themselves.

Flowers are the sex of plants, after all.

Soft petals, wet with nectar,

chasing after bees,

who are already pledged to another.

How lewd! How common!

It's no wonder I can only

tolerate them for a day

before wishing them gone!

But so long as it is summer,

there will always be more daylilies.

NaPoWriMo #11 - The Thing You Didn't Choose

2010-04-11T16:17:00.003-04:00

A Poem to You

It's been a while, hasn't it?

Since I walked away.

It's not a choice that I regret,

but it's made me different today.

You could have been my lover,

but it wasn't in the cards.

You were far too immature,

so the choice wasn't even hard.

I've never liked to compromise,

so when you asked me to choose

it was easier to walk away

than to walk a mile in your shoes.

As a result I'm alone,

without you by my side.

Free to do as I like,

but part of me has died.

NaPoWriMo #10 - Celebrate!

2010-04-10T18:30:00.005-04:00

The last two prompts have been really hard for me, and I haven't been in an especially poetic mood, so I hope this came out okay.

I'm an adult now

in the eyes of everyone.

The government finally

acknowledges my independence.

There is nothing I can't do,

no rights left to gain,

no barriers left to cross.

It seems kind of sad.

Something so cherished,

so anticipated,

passed almost uneventfully.

No fireworks,

no dancing in the streets,

just a quiet admission of age

on a day not so unlike

every other day.

NaPoWriMo #9 - Your Mission

2010-04-09T16:22:00.008-04:00

For today's prompt, we had to write a poem that contained 12 words from a list, a bitter taste and a couple words from a poem that hadn't quite worked.

My twelve words were: flap, pail, jug, lever, octopus, marionette, rug, jam, limp, startle, bruise, walker. The poem that I took a chunk from was my response to Prompt #2, acronym.

On a side note, this is the longest poem I've written so far, and also the first one to rhyme.

How to Catch an Octopus

You'll need a pail of sardines

and some tuna jam

and a jug of sea greens

for if an emergency comes to hand.

Promise him a walker,

for every octopus longs to walk.

Slowly pull the lever,

tell him you want to talk.

Make sure he doesn't see the closing of the net.

Then raise him with a length of cord

til he dangles like a marionette

and let him struggle til you're bored.

Watch him in silence

as he flaps in the breeze.

But keep your distance,

for he has yet the strength to squeeze.

Don't startle the beast

or he'll ink

spewing black where you want it least

til it hurts to blink.

Don't be startled by his desperation

or his willingness to bruise.

There's no cause for admiration

of a creature who can't even wear shoes.

He'll never walk or even limp

or learn to cut a rug.

It's a wonder he's not extinct

when he's less capable than a bug.

Sell him to the market man

for a pocket full of change.

Then walk away, while you still can.

Don't look back til you're out of range.

Don't worry, the bitter taste is normal.

It's just the ink, nothing more.

You've done nothing abysmal.

You're no different than you were before.

NaPoWriMo #8 - Unusual Love Connections

2010-04-08T15:39:00.007-04:00

The five metaphors I ended up coming up with were indian summer, day lily, crocus, first frost and ice cream. I ended up writing about a crocus.

The First Flower

A crocus
pushed its way through the ice
accumulated over months of bitter cold.

He appeared overnight,
a spot of vibrance in the endless white.
Maybe he always existed
under the snow,
and I failed to notice him
before he bloomed.

He was the first flower.
Unexpected. Beautiful.
Short lived.

By the time the insects began to chirp
he was gone.
Leaving behind only a clump of crinkled brown
to prove that he had existed.

NaPoWriMo #7 - Love, Funny Side Up

2010-04-07T14:30:00.007-04:00

Our assignment for day 7 was to write a funny love tanka... for details on what this form entails, visit the Read Write Poem Website.

the night they met

a lewd comment overheard followed by a slap

a beer pitcher poured over his head in anger

another he stood by watching

impressed by her fire

their relationship began when he apologized

NaPoWriMo #6 - Converse with Images

2010-04-06T11:13:00.011-04:00

Today's prompt was to write a poem based off of an image and the memories associated with it...

Back then

I still remember

standing with you in front of the camera

with our chubby cheeks and jack-o-lantern smiles

giving each other bunny ears like it was an Olympic sport.

Me, in my garish fuschia leggings

that only a child could wear and not be embarrassed.

You, in a hand-me-down shirt from our older neighbor.

I still remember

what it felt like when the world was small.

Back then, my favorite animal was the t-rex,

and you played the trombone.

Back then, we collected Pokémon cards,

even though we didn't know what to do with them.

Back then, I still understood you.

NaPoWriMo #5 - Make Your Poetry Personal

2010-04-05T14:51:00.008-04:00

So today's prompt was to personify our poetry and give it a name.... It actually wasn't as hard as I thought it would be after I came up with a name.

Poetry

You are Ash,

short for Ashley,

the name I was almost given.

A part of me,

and yet completely separate.

You are Ash,

like what remains

after hurt and anger

burn through my body

and are extinguished by tears.

You are Ash,

the black chalky substance

I smear into words on the page:

imperfect, smudged,

yet beautiful in your honesty.

NaPoWriMo #4 - Inside Out

2010-04-04T16:08:00.007-04:00

I thought this was a really hard prompt....

In the twenty-first century

In the twenty-first century

it is no longer sufficient

to wear your heart

on your sleeve.

You must also

wear your large intestine

as a belt,

wear your small intestine

as a scarf,

carry your mind

as a handbag

to hold your worries,

and don your stomach

as a vest.

Your skin is

naturally

your suit.

It holds the outfit together.

In the twenty-first century

everything must be understandable

at a glance,

so no one has to take the time

or put down their blackberry

to actually look.

NaPoWriMo #3 - Scared Yet?

2010-04-03T13:26:00.004-04:00

The prompt for the 3rd poem was to write about something that scared or unnerved us.

Time

I'm caught in a riptide:

I cannot swim against it.

It cannot be fought.

It drags me

further from child-like certainty,

further from the shore,

going ever faster,

blurring into the future.

I can only tumble,

uncertain,

into the unknown.

NaPoWriMo #2 - Acronym

2010-04-02T13:42:00.007-04:00

Hmmm... I'm not sure I'm happy with this one...

Rare Witch Project

Crocodile's eyeball, testicle of a leprechaun,

fungus from between a giant's toes...

Mix in your Grandmother's pot

dusty from 50 years of neglect.

...frog urine, bat's blood,

the stomach contents of a trout...

Raise the temperature,

but don't let it boil.

...vulture's feather, a human tooth,

the big toe of a dwarf...

Stir clockwise thrice,

then reverse.

...a four-leaf clover, unicorn tears,

a rodent carcass from the side of the road...

Let it simmer, then cool.

It's almost done.

...three drops of scum,

from a fish tank uncleaned for a year.

Perfect, now take a sip.

Don't worry, gagging is normal.

A draught to bring happiness

is bitter by necessity.

NaPoWriMo #1 - Shuffle a Poem

2010-04-01T20:23:00.001-04:00

My songs:

I'm still here - Johnny Rzeznik

Tinkerbell - James Newton Howard

These Walls - Trapt

Lullaby - Orange Appeal

Butterfly - Corinne Bailey Rae

The last night

How long

have I sat behind these walls

in the castle you built me?

These walls

made of all the finest marble

and held together

with a mortar of lies.

How come I'm still here?

Do I imagine

that a brush of Tinkerbell's wings

or a lullaby

will be enough to set this right?

I'm foolish enough.

We both know that.

But even I acknowledge

that we'll never fly again:

we're a one-winged butterfly

and I'm the only one trying.