Ode to a Gluten-Free Romance

To Stephen, who couldn’t eat bread:

You were my first idea of love. A five year old little man of mystery. Freckles, a gap toothed grin: your cologne was the syrup from your breakfast that morning or the summer dirt from the t-ball field. You were Superman, GI Joe, maybe even Ken. We catapulted off couch cushions, climbed the rocky steep of the jungle gym, and skied down its slopes.
We rode a bright, ornate merry-go-round during those years. Orange and metallic-- it became a living kaleidoscope when our fathers would push us. We saw the world spinning around us, a collage of purple, green, blue and sunlight. We held on tight and laughed.
Your family moved away. And you went too. I remember thinking you would kiss me good-bye. In my mind, I would run out the front door of my house in my yellow sundress and watch your car ride away to your new far-away home. But Stephen, you never came back, and I forgot about you. And that’s ok, because in my mind, when we were spinning on the merry-go-round I knew what I wanted.
But for me, that merry-go-round stopped for a long time. It rusted from its idleness— the orange paint peeling and flaking off unto the dry ground. I stood at my front door many times though, in my yellow sundress, and said goodbye to a few others who took me further and further away from that fast-paced ride of my past.
But maybe I will one day return to that merry-go-round. And maybe someone will hop on with me and we will see the world in a collage of colors. And we will laugh and get dizzy. Maybe he won’t eat bread either.

Sticky Situations

There was always hope on Saturday mornings and it came in the form of a fluffy pancake. Dad would wake up and grind the coffee beans--each pulse releasing a delicate yet bold aroma in the still air. Mom would soon follow in her soft, oversized pink robe. Her wet hair freshly combed out of her face and her skin dewy and slick from her Oil of Olay.
There was no tension on Saturday mornings. The TV boasted Bugs Bunny and company and the dog was subdued by the couch. You were on the floor, prone, in your footed pajamas playing with an imagination that can only exist in a child's mind. You were an Indian princess, a silver wolf, the president. You were seven and in love. In love in the way that there were no schedules, no possibility for hurt. This was how it always was.
The call to breakfast awakens you into another fantasy. Warm, Bisquick pancakes fresh off the griddle. The butter sizzles and melts, the syrup coats the delicate dough with a sugary perfection. Your little sister uses her fork. The family is proud. Orange juice--sweet, sour and then the pulp: your biggest concern. Bacon, fried and crisp--crunches and breaks apart. Forks scraping, feet kicking, cups clanging. This is life on Saturday mornings.
What you don't see isn't important then. The mail from Friday in a pile by the microwave. The bills, the coupons to save ten cents off of a pound of ground beef. A blinking red on the message machine. Call the doctor's office. It's important. But it's not. Not on Saturday mornings. When the world is still for a little while. You are in your pajamas and your fingers are sticky.

The Meeting: An Introduction

I went to see you today. It's been a long time, hasn't it? It was just like how it used to be--it was easy. It was sort of like the time that Grandma bought you that little battery-operated dog for your fifth birthday. You know, the one that would shake, then flip backwards three times, and bark? Remember how you laughed? It was a child's laugh--pure, deep, spiritual. I haven't heard that in awhile.
I went to see you today--and you were there. Waiting. It's like you were expecting me. Can I tell you something? Can I tell you that I almost cried when I saw you? I felt whole again. Like the time when Mom and Dad sat between us at church. You took each of their hands and studied them. You loved dad's rough, dark hands--how large his knuckles were compared to mom's. Her hands were flawless--smooth, soft, petite. Her nails a brilliant pink. Together, they felt like a warm blanket. That was your religion. Wasn't it?
Now that I met with you today, I feel like I need to apologize. But, first can I say that it wasn't until our meeting that I realized I lost you? I mean, I really had no idea how far away I had gone, and how long I had stayed, and that I missed you and all that you are. I was wrong. But I just didn't know at the time that I didn't know what I thought I did.
I left you because I thought I knew what it meant to grow up. I'm sorry for the quick decisions, the betrayals, the neglect. I'm sorry for wanting things to be different and for putting Him and Her and It before you.
Let's go back to the places I remember but at one time forgot. Maybe if we visit these places together, I won't ever lose you again.

Letters to Me

It's pages are old--
A tarnished yellow--faded
and wrinkled.
They smell like a million
Words left unsaid
Baking in the hot sun.

The weathered binding is
Splitting at the seams.
Worn and well-used--a
Sign of friendship that
Longs to expand but knows it can't.

Its words are beginning to
Fade, but only in print.

For what it holds is a peace
that comes after the rain,
or from a first kiss or
from the smell of a long goodbye--
or a long hello.

Look beyond the cover--
See me.
For who I am.
For Who I long to be.
Find in me what I find in you.

Circus Clown

Mirrors, Mirrors on the walls--

Distorting my color and shape.

This house of fun is haunting

The happiness you think you make.

The striped tent stands alone

On a backdrop of amber red.

Lights, laughter, loneliness are the colors

On the canvas of the things you said

To me on the night of the circus.

A spectacle--Come one, Come all!

I bought my ticket, I bought yours too.

And walked your tightrope and tried not to fall.

The sound of applause (in your mind alone),

The tent remains pitched in your town.

You believe yourself the ringleader,

When all you really are is the clown.

Regret

It's a hunger when I am already full.
A haunting of my heart and mind.
A splintering cold slips in through the window I have closed
So many times.

When will you call and claim what's yours?

You said you would. You said
It wouldn't be long
Before I could breathe on my own.
Before I could warm my cold
Lungs with the warm breath of honesty.

But that's what hurts the most--
The icy chill of the truth--
It's the wind that breaks the fragile glass,
When all it ever does is watch for spring.

Love this poem: Enjoy.

The Shrinking Lonesome Sestina
By Miller Williams

Somewhere in everyone’s head something points toward home,
a dashboard’s floating compass, turning all the time
to keep from turning. It doesn’t matter how we come
to be wherever we are, someplace where nothing goes
the way it went once, where nothing holds fast
to where it belongs, or what you’ve risen or fallen to.

What the bubble always points to,
whether we notice it or not, is home.
It may be true that if you move fast
everything fades away, that given time
and noise enough, every memory goes
into the blackness, and if new ones come—

small, mole-like memories that come
to live in the furry dark—they, too,
curl up and die. But Carol goes
to high school now. John works at home
what days he can to spend some time
with Sue and the kids. He drives too fast.

Ellen won’t eat her breakfast.
Your sister was going to come
but didn’t have the time.
Some mornings at one or two
or three I want you home
a lot, but then it goes.

It all goes.
Hold on fast
to thoughts of home
when they come.
They’re going to
less with time.

Time
goes
too
fast.
Come
home.

Forgive me that. One time it wasn’t fast.
A myth goes that when the quick years come
then you will, too. Me, I’ll still be home.

Almost a Fantasy*

The polished keys on the piano- a contrast of black and white-glide effortlessly under the calloused fingers. The instrument itself is beautiful, perfect and the notes it produces seem to provide a perfect balance of melody and harmony—creating the classical music we have come to know and love. But there seems to be more going on between the notes of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.

A story is being told.

A story of confidence and power and its struggle to find a balance with a lighter, pure melody.

Under the cover of darkness and the illumination of moonlight, the notes dance off the keys and begin their interchange.

A pattern develops between a steady beating of a heavenly tune but is momentarily paused by a louder, bolder note—one that seems to resonate throughout the entire piece. This note is flat and a bit unsettling with the rest of the melody.

It’s paradoxical in its nature.

While it jolts the soft melody it also propels it—allowing for the listener to experience the same effect.

It’s mysterious—captivating—necessary.

The sonata doesn’t give us what we want. It tells us what we want. We think we want order and patterns so we can predict the next move. But in reality, it’s the darker, flatter notes in our lives that provide a brilliant contrast to the beautiful, softer tones.

*Beethoven included the title “Quasi una Fantasia” (Latin for “Almost a Fantasy”) in his sonata partly because it didn’t follow the traditional movement pattern.

I Drink My Tea from a Broken Cup

I am really enjoying writing along with my students these days. Today, I gave them the quote "I drink tea from a broken cup" and they had to either explain the quote in a paragraph or use it in some type of creative piece. Here's mine:

You want perfection.
Smooth, soft, hard, glassy.
You expect it. You demand
From me a goblet--gold, jeweled, sparkling
in the light.
As if the wine will taste better that way.
As if my cup--simple, small, fragile, an
Heirloom from long ago,
Would tarnish the flavor.

Keep your wine.
Keep your goblet--with its pretentious
Weight and cold touch.
You fail to see the beauty in imperfection.
I drink my tea from a broken cup.

I am

I had my students write an "I Am" poem today, so I wrote one too:

I am ready to live and love.

I wonder what life would be like without you.

I hear your bird-like truth, fluttering outside my window.

I see your light and feel its warmth.

I want to walk in you—to never feel lost again.

I am ready to live and love.

I pretend that I can sometimes do it on my own.

I feel nine and eight and seven—maybe five too.

I touch the sky—hoping to not get burned by the sun.

I worry that one day the little bird won’t fly.

I cried when I was in the dark.

I am ready to live and love.

I understand it won’t be easy.

I say it, but sometimes can’t fully believe.

I dream my dreams will come true.

I try to stay grounded—

I hope that I don’t.

I am ready to live and love.