Moon in A Box, or Life Story 4

He was enchanted

By her luminous glow

And sought at once

To possess her.

He reached up high

Pulled her down low

And put up a fence

Around her.

She was no longer worshipped

No one admired

Her grace, her magic,

Her splendor.

No songs were sung

No petitions, no prayers

Only darkness

Confusion, despair.

The moon had been plucked

From her beloved sky

Captured

And put in a box.

Never again would she

Call in the tides

Or cast ocean waves

Upon rocks.

But she was the moon!

A goddess, by right!

And she simply refused to

Give up the night.

So she kissed him goodbye,

Restoring herself

Among the stars

In the heavenly realms.

Now when a man is enchanted

With our goddess moon

And bids her

Please come down

She winks and she shines

And she sweetly declines

Possession,

Preferring her crown.

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Misdiagnosed- A Memory

This picture (below) was taken a little over a year ago at Children’s Hospital of Atlanta. We had taken Wy to our local ER and that visit quickly turned traumatic, as we were told he (95% likelihood) had leukemia.

Leukemia. Cancer. The ER doctor said words like “morbidity” and “prognosis”. I didn’t cry. I remember clearly that I, quite uncharacteristically, did not dissolve into a heap of tears. I was angry. Indignant. I came here expecting to hear he has the flu, and now you’re spouting life-expectancy statistics? I was mad. At who? I don’t know. Everyone?

It was close to midnight. I called my dad. We drove home, left our older son with family, packed a bag and traveled to Atlanta to be seen immediately (around 3 am) by an Oncologist. It was a quiet car ride. I texted my Doctor friend and my Mom (who is an RN) the entire time.

In my stomach I felt sure the doctor was wrong. I don’t know how, I just knew he was. Wyatt had fought through so much just to be born. Just to be our son. He can’t have gone through that kind of hell in order to live, just to die two years later. It wasn’t possible. I believed he was well. Sitting in the back seat of my father’s sedan, I felt an overwhelming peace. Wyatt was ok. My job was to be calm for him and to gather information, so that’s what I would do.

Still, it was a tough couple of days. Blood tests, screaming, scouring Google, waiting. Sitting in the Oncologist’s office a few days later we waited to find out the lab results. Wyatt gave in to his exhaustion and fell asleep on the palm of my hand. I was exhausted too. I started giggling. I think it was that nervous kind, like when you laugh at a funeral. None of us had really slept in days.

Thankfully, Wyatt was cleared as quickly as he had been diagnosed. We weren’t given much of an explanation, and frankly I didn’t care for one. I wasn’t mad at the ER doctor and I wasn’t upset at what my family had just been through.

I remember this string of days with enormous gratitude. So much gratitude, it probably seeped from my pores. My big little guy was healthy, and all was right with the world.

This whole fiasco is on my heart today as Wyatt has been very difficult this weekend. I am reminded of how much I cherish him, and how quickly things can change. I take a deep breath, regain composure, and hug him tight. I’ll take a temper tantrum over a night in the ER every day of the week.

Wyatt and his beloved Doggy

contrarywise

Sometimes time runs backwards

And sometimes beggars do choose

Sometimes silence is deafening

And sometimes to win is to lose.

Rainbows aren’t always colorful

Stars don’t always shine

Sometimes lies are the only truth

The sourest grapes make the sweetest wine.

Sometimes the day feels like night time,

And sometimes we sow what we reap

Sometimes the hymn is not sung in church

Sometimes the wolf is a sheep.

Sometimes insanity grounds us

And sometimes darkness is light

Sometimes love doesn’t conquer all

Our blindness allows us clear sight.

 

 

 

artist’s dilemma

it’s tough to write about things i don’t know about,

and i do it with some amount of humility

careful not to overstep or offend

which usually results in rubbish

it’s tougher to write about personal things,

but much more real, raw, accurate

which usually results in spectacular prose

not everything here is autobiographical

(except my disdain for uppercase, that’s all me)

writing a book right now – a novel – a fiction

it’s hilarious how much of it is drawn from real life

and how much of it is drawn from this other life,

one i’ve imagined a million times but never visited

and how authentic they both feel to me.

it’s not that one is real and one is imaginary

both are real, to me. both are me. both are.

i want to present a story that is gripping, heart-wrenching,

imaginative, amusing, compelling, magic.

to do that i have to tell my readers things i’ve never told anyone

admit to things, examine them, lay them bare

i’m mostly ok with that, except

judgement, of myself and of my work – that is myself

i think all writers feel this way, or at least

the good ones do.

Inspiration by the Numbers

I have written 198 posts on this blog.  (This will be 199.)

83 of them have been since January of this  year.

115 were from 2012-2018.

Averaging 19 posts per year for that time.

This year I have written nearly 12 posts per month.

That’s a 361% increase in production.

Not counting the things I don’t post.

It erupts out of me like lava, what can I do?

83 posts this year with 5 months to go.

I suppose I should collect them in an anthology.

A coffee table book.

One million notes on Springsteen… and counting.

 

 

In Response to a Letter I Shouldn’t Have Read

The Popliteal Fossa

Some guys say knee pit

What the back of the knee’s called.

[Also, I hate you.]

Which is to say, I don’t hate you at all.

siren [poem draft]

My hips move like ocean waves

Pulsing, crashing, gyrating

To some ancient rhythm only I can hear

Smooth, inviting, life-giving and

Life-sustaining

I could kill you if I wanted to.

 

My song calls you out into the depths

Curious, enchanted, beguiled.

Wading in my waters and forgetting yourself

Fluid, calming, immense and

Passionate

Abandon hope, all who enter.

 

Cling to me, swim away from shore

Dance with me on the ocean floor

 

I want to drown you

I want to drown you

I want to drown you.

 

thank you note

Thank you for being the one,

For illuminating the dark places

Inside me

And for showing me

I deserve more.

Thank you for being the one,

For opening my eyes to truth

About myself

And for pushing me

To grow.

Thank you for being the one

Who shone brighter than the north star

In my nights

And for showing me

What love is.

 

Abdicated

The queen sat, soot faced, in a heap upon the grass

She wept over all that could have been

She wept over the past

But as the morning sun broke through

And the smoke began to clear

The queen realized the burned down castle

Was the freedom she once feared.

And so the queen set off that day,

A new song in her heart

Excitedly contemplating what was to come

Grateful for this brand new start.

is it still a limerick if it’s sad?

you promised that you wouldn’t hurt me

you said it and i’m a fool, i believed

i’m sitting here burned down to ashes

reminiscing on life as a tree

 

i already gave you my happy

i don’t want to give you my sad

how can i mourn losing an abstract –

a lover i’ve never actually had?

 

maybe nothing i believed in was real

an illusion, a ghost, a mirage

maybe you’re scared and you’re running

and this cruelty is your camouflage

 

the day will come i’ll be alright again

i’ll remember you fondly and well

and hope that maybe, a decade on

you’ll show up and unring the bell