A Wanted Ache

The depth is sore.
Once the not feeling --
An absence --
Now there and raw.

Motions fill the space
Around me.
They were the mechanics of days
And days on end,
Slowed now somehow.
No sense to the slowing.
Though no one seems to notice.

This depth I cannot fill with words,
Suddenly useless and
Insignificant.
What to do instead
To soothe an unfamiliar hurt?

Silence and the soreness
Becoming familiar.
An aching want.
A wanted ache.

Thug Life

Some poems and haikus for the baby boys; Baby Ronnie, Harris, Noah, Ben, Gage, Cole, Nicholas, William, Aydan and Keegan.

Shark in the Lake

They told me...
"There's a shark in the lake!"
They dared me...
"A quarter to dive in!"
It's dumb to be afraid.
My daddy read me a book about oceans
I know sharks don't live in lakes.
But I'm not telling.







Photo Credit: Paul Specht

Haiku: Sand Artist

My boy could play there
In the sand, for hours on end.
Imagination.

Photo credit: Beth Armsheimer

Haiku: Visit to Aunt Agnes

Not smiling for you.
My haircut, stupid toys and
New overalls suck.

Photo credit: Superbomba

Haiku: Thug Life

Pour out a little
Milk for the homies that I
Run with in the hood.

Photo credit: Fashion fever

Haiku: The Park

Aa-aa-ah-hh-hh!!!!
The most fun I've ever had
Don't let go of me!

Photo credit: Lightgatherer

Undercover

If I hold it like this
then flip it over my finger
and grab it on the back
with my other hand
and squint my eyes real hard
that makes me a police man.
Undercover of course.

Photo credit: Unknown

Butterfly Warrior

A silly poem for the baby girls: Mina, Brooke, Asa, Maggie, Lizzie, Ari, Olivia, Emily, Valentina and Bebe.

I may look small
I may look sweet
but don't mistake me
Don't underestimate me
I know who I am
and who I'm not
I love these goggles
I wear them alot
They laugh at me
but I don't care
They knock me down
and pull my hair
But I get back up
I always will
Mom and Daddy told me
I can rule the world
I'm a superhero
In flowers and curls
I'm a butterfly warrior
I'm a little girl

Inmost Cave

This week's homework, our sixth and last assignment, is to write our protagonist's "Approach to the Inmost Cave."
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Monday morning. Evie rolled over and buried her puffy eyes in her pillow. How could she possibly go through a normal workday after what had happened? Could she call in sick for smothering grief and violent waves of self-loathing?

She stood in the hot water of the shower for a long time trying to get control of her emotions. She rationalized that she wasn’t the one who chose the charges. She wasn’t responsible for those God chose not to save.

She made her way to work in a sorrowful daze. She stepped on her favorite red scarf at the top of the Metro escalator. It fell into the mud. She walked on.

Sitting at her desk, she sobbed. She rested her head on her tissue box as her computer hummed to life. She cried for the dead girl and she cried for herself. She’d never know if what she had done had added to the “greater good” she was supposedly working for. She questioned whether God was behind the stone’s power and whether he/she/it was “good” at all.

She looked up from the tissue box and wiped her eyes. In the corner of her desk, in the place where the tissue box had been, she saw a folded piece of paper with her name written on it in elegant script. Hastily, she grabbed and unfolded the page and read:

Evie, you will not be surprised, I think, to find my letter now, in your moment of need. I must say that my hiding place is enlightened. I am certain that it will not be long before you return from a journey in crisis, as I did. In my estimation one doesn’t move the box of tissue until they are shedding true and continuous tears. (I, of course, use a linen handkerchief, so am no expert, but I feel certain it is so).

I’m sorry to boast as you sit on the brink, but please believe me when I say that every Intercessor has been where you are. Here, my dear, in this letter, I must reveal what I can not tell in person today, at our first meeting. Only now, as you cry, will you be able to understand. (Won’t I feel silly if you are simply suffering from hayfever.)

Most Dreaded Scene

For our fifth assignment, our writing teacher asked us to write the scene we are dreading the most. He said, with a chuckle, that it is usually the sex scene that every writer dreads most, but as we were going to be talking about each other's work in class, we ought to be careful which scene we choose. I have chosen to write my opening scenes, not necessarily because I am most afraid to write them, but because they are what will draw in a reader. I want the first scenes to be appetite-whetting. I'm talking "this-book-is-worth-$22-bucks-for-the-hardcover-cause-it-sounds-that-awesome" good.
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Chapter One

I’m getting too old for this, Alistair thought to himself as he ran through the dark, close streets of Florence.

One hundred and sixty-seven is far too old.

His red velvet cap had long since flown from his head. His red velvet mantel, all the rage only hours before, now trailed behind him like a superhero’s cape as he attempted to outrun the Medici guards.

His cane caught on a cobblestone and wrenched his arm backwards. Over his shoulder he saw that his pursuers were catching up quickly.

He ducked down an alley and hid in a doorway to rest, feeling sure that it couldn’t be much longer until sundown.

Doubled over, hands on his thighs, he sucked air in deep huffs. He tried to control the sound of his breathing but, at his age, and after a half-mile sprint, it was a biological imperative he could not control.

He knew the men who were chasing him would find him at any minute. His only hope was that minute would be one minute too late.

With profound relief he felt the familiar sinking sensation that signaled safety and was falling back into his living room.

“That is the last time!” he shouted to the empty room, one hand holding his heaving chest and the other groping for his armchair. “I’m finished! I can not run anymore!”

Instantly he was engulfed by the sensation of contracting into himself and then expanding like an exploding star. His racing heart quieted, his muscles slackened and he felt a physical lightness he didn’t recognize.

It wasn’t the first time he had, in a moment of frustration, said that he was through, but it was the first time that he had ever really meant it.

With a twinge of regret tempered with acceptance he knew instinctively that he was finally free and that he had, in fact, been free all along. He only had to choose it. Somehow he hadn’t expected it to be so sudden.

He remembered the Mentor’s words. Soon the stone would call him to journey to visit his successor; the person to whom he would become the Mentor. When this final journey was complete, he could die.

The thought brought him such incredible relief that he got up, suddenly lighter on his feet, and poured himself a celebratory scotch.

Sea Monsters

(Joseph Mallord William Turner: Sunrise with Sea Monsters - detail (c. 1845; Oil on canvas)

To battle all the monsters in the sea
To weather the storm and the cold
Ask these first of me, please
But do not ask me to love you.

Weapons I can wield against monsters
Shelter I can build against storm
But I have no defense against you
Exposed, without armor or sword

You could cut me down with a single blow
Or devour me whole, and yet…
It sounds so inviting
See your sorcery, what you’ve done to me?
Oh, please, just come to me.

Cleansing

Water weeping slowly down
In smooth, translucent, quiet lines
Pale skin that drips like a melting wax
Beneath the flame; the head, the mind.

Clean and yet not clean enough
Naked and not open, bare
Hopes like waves of heat arise
Water, dirt and soap descend.