Sunday, March 9, 2014

Marrying your rapist is not justice



Each kick recalls some vile picture that I can’t seem to expel
My bruised legs are tired and shaking again
Would you please stop shouting & picketing as if this were easy?
I am sorry that such violence left life lingering within
Sometimes I close my eyes and pretend I am a splintered swing
I pray that the wind will push me up and over the fence of this world and my ropes will snap on the other side
I do not know if embryos go to heaven

But I cannot bear this weight
knowing that she might learn to spell the word genocide
one sunny afternoon in a spelling class. 

Saturday, December 17, 2011

Harvest Me?

I am a can of pumpkin puree and I reside in a cupboard next to my opaque and dehydrated friend, milk. As a young squash, time spent in the pumpkin patch was soft and unhurried. My days were composed of sounds overlapping in harmony. I felt the sleepy grass resting beneath me. The farmer’s dog, Buddy, once buried his wet nose into the cool, receptive earth and a ladybug latched on and laughed. My undisturbed heart was light and the honeycomb sun took my mind on many whistling adventures. My spirit became full of fairytales and I dreamt of the day when I would be harvested and turned into a golden carriage or carved by a young child into something silly or beautiful. My innocent flesh was very tender and passing rabbits often warned that I might become too soft and rot.
I remember the day that I was stripped of my natural nakedness and processed. Reason invaded like a legion of swarming ants and shrewdness displaced the sympathetic. It was time to grow up. My whimsical imagination and outlandish dreams were stifled.  It seemed strange that I had been created one way only to be forced to transform into another. I did not want to bid my baby pumpkin seeds farewell and I battled the reality that I would soon be baked and practically liquefied. Food mills were frightening, but I was nevertheless on my way to becoming an inert space filler, another ingredient, transmuted into a labeled resource that would benefit the entire baking community. Soon after my metamorphosis, I was shipped off to a grocery store in hopes that I might be sold. A sticker which read “Libby’s 100% Pure Pumpkin” was branded upon my new tin home. However, I did not feel "100% pure".  I felt mutilated and hideous... and who on earth was Libby? I encountered a flood of commercialization and was soon introduced to the collective media.  I was paraded around in front of cameras and soon was exposed to everyone on television and my picture was placed in magazines.

I missed my skin and how it felt and reacted to the wind. I once heard droplets of melodious water falling from the sky. I think those droplets were created to fall and replenish the earth. Mama orangutans aren't made a commodity without their consent, except in zoos. I felt as though I was meant to dwell in a pumpkin patch to bring children joy when leaves change their colors. I have been processed and this cannot be undone, but I would prefer to be emptied and baked into a pumpkin pie rather than to sit on this shelf idly. Maybe then I could then hear the giggle of a child as he places a whipped cream hat on my head and lets me skydive from his fork on to his shirt. I am a pumpkin, no matter my present form, however, I long to be one that is relational rather than merely marketed.

Grow


My dad is a tree. His bark is enduring for he is clothed with strength. He is a giving tree. Firmly planted, his leaves do not wither or fade and he prospers in all that he does.
He passes out barrels and delights in those who come to gather his golden apples and sit in his shade. At times, my dad can be a man a few words but his actions speak volumes. He is anchored and I can confidently say that I have never encountered a more stable man. Over twenty years ago, my father was faced with the reality that his beloved wife had been killed in a car accident. No doubt a painful floodgate was opened and brokenness settled in. My father though, never allowed bitterness to bind upon his heart and cripple his spirit. Never once did he ask for sympathy although it was deserved, he never voiced his grief but he instead gave. My daddy gives little children dollar bills simply to see their faces light up, he goes to restaurants and blesses strangers on his birthday and he serves without expecting anything in return.
Without ever even opening his mouth, he reminds me incessantly of his unconditional love. Dr. Seuss once said, “Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It's not.” My dad, he cares a whole awful lot. He cares enough to give up everything he has ever wanted in order that he might be able to provide more and invest tremendously into my education. He cares enough to make us pancakes, take us hiking and iron the never-ending pile of clothes. He is in no way overbearing and although he has unearthed much truth for himself, he refuses to force his beautiful discoveries upon me. Yet as I look upon his life my gaze is directed towards that which is much greater than myself and I desire for his truths to become my own.

My dad possesses humble confidence and produces peace wherever his spirit stands. He has truly shown me how to operate through love and how to be a positive thinker. The contraction can’t is absent from his vocabulary; his mental strength is admirable for he dwells in a place of rest despite external circumstance. His heart teaches me that people matter more than anything this world has to offer; they take precedence over money, status and social judgment. My dad reminds me of my outlandish dreams and then shares how I might simply position myself in places where they can be birthed and then flourish. I have realized that rather than exploiting and conquering the world, I am to leave it with a gift. And rather than manipulating and asserting supremacy over people, I have a contribution, no matter the size, that I can gently place in their lives. My father’s life has splashed paint all over the walls of my soul. His vivacity stirs me to be a tree and this paint takes that shape, because of him I long to remain rooted and produce scrumptious fruit. I desire for strangers to rest in my braches and play in my shade, always. 

Thursday, June 16, 2011

Perch, Settle & Drift





Sit. from the feel of grass, the kiss of the brick, the pinch and tickle of wood.  melting amber sticks to my teeth and the roof of this motionless mouth. listen and you might hear droplets of water in the wind. color peaks out behind tall emeralds. Sounds are fading...flowing and the white is intertwined. everything hear seems to react. And I? I suppose I respond. If I could share this. only. Humming strokes the windswept sky. soft, subtle, soothing. you lie and I lean unusually. the colors depend and consider one another. they are far from hurried. my eyes are not heavy…however. settled. my heart is at peace when I stop it’s racing. when I pretend I am not. Why do I mind that it grows dimmer? It is displaced, indeed. I am safe. wrapped in wool, faintly frightened. but take note! chirp chirp. the chirping crickets carry the birdies song. the setting sun waves hello. now the moon steps up and peaks through taller leaves. I was mistaken. the transition is like the amber. it is not bitter but instead kind. not an abrupt shift, rather a tender sweet sigh. settling. sorrow is elsewhere. keep my mind. you linger when you leave, without even trying. I cannot seem to slip away. a pit flies, stems they fall. they land. crimson sugar swallows my mouth and clings to my lips. I wish there were no sirens. I am taken to wolves. they ought to return to their babies. the sky is blue and it is bright. a bigger blanker. Come and sit.

Thursday, March 31, 2011

Paint





orange tree. park. fox and the pigeon. pesto pasta. act of purchasing pink shoes. sparkle among the trash. hope. little voices. warmth. sweet soft dessert. singing and steps. mirth. mindful. roaming. risotto. rain. aged windows. soup. crevice in the splintered wall of wood. staircase. adventure. whistle.  crepes. lace. listen. bubble baths. converse. eyelashes. safety.  mango tree. enfold. flower in her hair. lipstick. dungeons. chandelier. melon. amber. tiramisu. sever. leggings. aussie. nutella. enclosure. answer. handwriting. ice cream globules. rainbow cobblestone. strawberries and lead. honey. combs. pancakes. light. bees.  batter. bumble. flying saucers. kaleidoscope. flashing. bus. holster. swing set. icy eyes. crystals. rubber ball. hibernation. ballerina. magnifying glass. planets. fossils. satisfied. sunbeams. rain cloud. spring. health. blue jay.













Saturday, October 23, 2010

Pieces of Poetry & Pancakes



Spend some time with Hungry Mungry, Shel Silverstein and a plate of piping hot pancakes. After that, go ahead and smile a little bit. It’s seriously healthy.  Paint your nails, read a book and relax. It’s Saturday.


Pancake Poem

Who wants a pancake,
Sweet and piping hot?
Good little Grace looks up and says,
"I'll take the one on top."
Who else wants a pancake,
Fresh off the griddle?
Terrible Teresa smiles and says,
"I'll take the one in the middle."


Now, Draw a crazy picture or write a nutty poem. Sing a mumble-gumble song, whistle through your comb. Do a loony-goony dance 'cross the kitchen floor, put something silly in the world that ain't been there before. 
-Shel Silverstein 

Saturday, October 9, 2010

Say Cheese!


                      
                                                                      Senior Portraits.



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