Thursday, February 28, 2013

Instead of Writing and Reading

So I am a little toasty, i.e. I went on a writing glut and now I don't have any left in me for now, so I did this instead:

1. I took a costume from Halloween that was already getting too small, and had a busted bodice, and a $2 dress from the thrift store, and Princess Aurora had a suitable gown for costume day at school today.

Princess Aurora Eating a Nasty Mayonnaise Sandwich

She accessorized with Hello Kitty sneakers.

2. I played "Turtle Binchons" (Turtle Binchons is Eli speak for Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.)

3. I read a blog that has inspired me, but I'm not quite ready to write yet.

4. Written TWO "I don't feel like writing" posts. hhhmmmmmmmm....

Sweet dreams y'all!


Wednesday, February 27, 2013

Case of the blahs

I think I overexerted myself already this week. I need to learn to pace my writing and my reading other blogs.  I really want to participate in 3WW today, but I can't think of anything to write. There's not a time limit, so maybe tomorrow. Besides, I need to finish my daughter's Princess Aurora costume for school tomorrow and I should probably clean the kitchen. Blah! It feels like graduate school.

Talk to you later,


Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Random Late Night Post Recapping My Tweets About Motherhood

Things I tweeted about motherhood when I first joined Twitter.
2yr-old's unspoken battlecry~I'm in charge~is only left unsaid b/c~he hasn't figured out how 2 put those words together~yet. h. #micropoetry

Watching them play~sun streams~illuminates skin golden~highlights their curls~I'm mesmerized by love~shit r those plastic bags? h. #poem

6am and my sweeties are up~climbing all over me~mommy, i'm so hungry~i give them my ipod with cartoons playing~guilty sleep for me. h. #poem

Watching my girl walk 2 her class~is watching my baby grow up&away~&a terrible joy stops my breath 1 moment as I rejoice and mourn. h #poem

Quietwarmdarkness~silence felt likea quilt~smalldrowsy boy~fights sleep w/closedeyes~a longsound~trumpeting~whiteteeth shine~Mommy I pooted.

I could watch you dance all day ~ except that I want to join in. #micropoetry
Sometimes~I look at you~&myinsides tighten so~I can't breathe~&I don't care~because rightthen~loving you~ismore important~than breathing. h.

Dear Aoife~You're the reason~poets and lyricists~rhyme "girl" with "world". h. #micropoetry

OMG~courtesyflush(cf)~publicrestroom~cf~pottytraining~cf~thesmell~cf~nextstall~cf~"mommyitstinks"~cf~whywon'tucourtesyflush! h. #micropoetry

No nap for me~but the grumpy is long gone~a sweet baby boy curled in my lap~dreaming~and bringing me peace. h. #micropoetry

Old me~slept late~stretched across bed~sometimes with a fella~New me~6:30& awake w/a Mommy I sirsty~& a pull on my hair. h. #micropoetry

What my son tells me in his sleep~I don't want any vegetables~if it weren't cottoneyejoe~hot dogs~Daddy, go to the park~ he has no secrets.

My sweet girl~with her happy smile &~ her bright curls~brings joy to~everyone who lets her~why do I get so frustrated? h. #worldpoetryday

Their eyes well up~the big tears roll down their cheeks~their bottom lips poke out~my heart melts~all I want is to hold them close. h. #poem

Parenting 101~when his heinie becomes ticklish~cleaning poo gets tricky~it's time the little man learned about the toilet. h. #micropoetry

Homemade juice pops~dripping down little hands~making faces sticky~cooling us all~hot southern days. h. #micropoetry

Grumpy mommy~trying to stay mad ~wanting to play on phone~2 yr old sings"Funplex"~&4 yr old dances~I'm losing this battle. h. #micropoetry

My son at two~sings~talks~laughs~My daughter at two~so quiet~so unresponsive~except when she laughed. h. #micropoetry

Trying to dim his light~will not make hers shine more~it will just dim his~Look again~recognize hers~already blazes bright. h. #micropoetry

I come home~she runs up to me and~with a hug says~I'm a zombie~aaarrrrrrr~kiss my brains!~My daughter~my joy. h. #micropoetry

The joy of parenting~the mad dash~complete the project~due tomorrow~that you found out about this evening. h. #micropoetry

My heart ~ no longer my own ~ is now carried around in your tiny hand. h. #micropoetry

The joy of parenting~I get to say~"please don't lick my face with~chewed up cheese cracker in your mouth." h. #micropoetry ?

Lazy day ~ blowing off housework ~ hanging with my toddler~ he sweetly holds my hand to his face ~"pick my nose Mommy." h. #micropoetry

The joy of parenting means~I laugh w/my children when they sneeze long gangly snot-worms out their noses~Although I gag too. h. #micropoetry

Conversation at bedtime: I'm a zombie aarrrrrrrr!~Raspberry my tummy!~Go to sleep Baby Jaguar.~ I love my little girl. h. #micropoetry

My sweet baby what do you want for breakfast ~ hotdogs ~ lunch ~ hotdogs ~ supper ~ hotdogs~ todo buy stock in OscarMeyer. h. #micropoetry

Free Write Friday Submission: Fly Away

Credit: Richard Baxter
Free Write Friday 2/15/13

Fly Away

She has hidden in the old house
clutching her dolly
praying for a magic that will save her.

Outside, he looks for her.
He didn't see her run into the house.
He reeks of the beer he used to try to forget his troubles.

She is little for her age and underfed.
She has been her own caregiver
and she is too young to raise a child.

He didn't start out a bad man,
or a drunk man
and he does not know what he is supposed to do with her.

She is praying for escape
squeezing her tiny eyes shut
wishing she could fly away.

He hears the sounds of birds
and looks up.
They form a dark cloud and are flying towards the old house.

She is exerting all of her strength, hoping.
She does not notice the sounds or the dark, or the motion
as the birds circle, and then lift, the house.

He watches the house fly away and
crushes his beer can with the hand holding it
and never notices.

She feels a breeze and opens her eyes.
She sees the birds.
They have saved her.

He vomits on the street.
He calls the cops, and becomes a
suspect in her missing person case.

A far way away, the birds unceremoniously
drop the house onto the grey ground.
They fly away.

He is interrogated, suspected and
she is gone. Eventually, he is released.
Her case goes cold.

She is not in Munchkinland, or Oz, or even
Kansas. But she feels free, and as she looks at the
dark skies around her, she feels safe.

written 2/25/13 for Kellie Elmore's Free Write Friday prompt for 2/15/13

Click here to listen on Chirbit

This is a late submission. I discovered some cool prompts and decided I want to do them all, so it has taken me this long to get to this one. Check out Kellie's site  by clicking on the link about to find out about her Free Write Friday and to read some cool submissions. I have to admit that with this prompt (write a response to the picture about) I kept thinking about The Wizard of Oz, but I couldn't come up with anything. Last night, I was looking at this picture again and focused on the birds rather than the house, and that's when the idea hit me.  I hope you like it!

There was also an interesting discussion on the dVerse blog Pretzels and Bullfights post about commenting. I am happy to get comments (not spam) and critiques. If the critique is long or complicated, or you're too shy to post it publicly, please feel free to email me . I would love to hear from you.

Sunday, February 24, 2013

The Sunday Whirl Submission: The Final Moment

Wordle 97

The Final Moment

The woman is alone in her house, alone in her bathtub. The water was hot and she is in a deep, deep sleep. She has hoarded all of the pain pills after her C-section, and now the pieces are melted in her body. With a seeming patience, they are slowing her down. For the first time in a long, long time, there is some hint of a smile on her lips, and no tears waiting in her eyes. She gave a fleeting worry about the man who loves her and is also sad, but he is away, farther away than just work, and so the thought of him leaves quickly. Instead of a note, she left the dirty, discarded baby bottle on the bathroom counter. Slowly, the water in her tub begins to turn cold.

The man is at work. For a moment he feels a sharp pain in his chest, stealing his breath. He thinks "I'm having a heart attack." But, the pain passes and the moment is gone and his discipline tells him that there is work to be done. He tries to call her at lunch but the phone just rings and rings, and he leaves a message. He worries a bit and calls a neighbor to ask her to check in, but it is the neighbor's grocery day, and she is already in the supermarket gazing at the food labels. She says she will check when she gets home, but, while looking at produce, the school calls and her little boy has fallen off of the monkey bars and needs to go to the emergency room. She is a human being and a parent, and has all of the limits associated with these two titles. She forgets all about the man and the woman and leaves her cart standing as she rushes out of the store. At that moment, she is heroic, but she is the heroine of a different tale. However, he doesn't know this and returns to his work, eats a Snickers bar in the afternoon, and in the evening, gets ready to go home. If this were a time of prophets, maybe he would have had a more concrete warning, but, if this were the time of prophets, he would probably ignore it.

And here I am, still writing this, becoming less optimistic that I can spin this into something happy. I am just a fly on the wall of this story. How is it that when I write, the characters take control of the story and do what they want? I have seem similar questions, and if I have seen the answer, I don't remember it. I wish that there was something sublime to all of this. I do think that there is one more moment that we need to see, a post-moment moment.

written for The Sunday Whirl Wordle 97

This is the third part of a story that I have made from the weekly wordles since I started participating in the prompts. The first one is One Moment in One Day and the second is At Some Point Later. You can go to them from here by clicking on the titles here, or in the side bar. I am glad that I paid attention to the comments from the One Moment in One Day and didn't stop there, although this story makes me sad.

Mag 157 Submission: The Trouble with Tribbles

Venus de Milo with Drawers, 1936, Salvador Dali

The Trouble with Tribbles that they get into everything.

written: 2/24/13 for The Mag 157

Yeah, it's cheap and I went there, but it was honestly the first thing that popped into my head. (More Tribbles here!) Happy Sunday morning y'all! The submission are really good this week. Head over and read some!

Mag 156 Prompt: Bubbles Popping

Wind of History by Jacek Yerka
The Mag 156 (I missed the Linky)

**I am linking this to the dVerse Poetics prompt for 4/13/13. It's a short story rather than a poem, but I worked like crazy on this and it got no love. If you are visiting through dVerse and would rather read a poem about monsters, please click Nightmares.**

I usually save my comments for the end of my posts, but there are some things I wanted to tell you before you read this. I am using a writing prompt from Magpie Tales (The Mag 156). We are to write about this really cool picture.  I am a huge fan of those old radio programs, and this picture reminded me of an episode of Lights Out called The Dark. I decided that I wanted to write a version of  The Dark for this prompt. An extra warning though, this is a gross story. If you would like to listen to the original, you can find a streaming source by clicking this link Lights Out: The Dark (This link will take you to the Old Time Radio Internet Archive. The episode I am using is #19 on the play list.*)

Bubbles Popping

Finally, there was some sign of human life. Dorothy and Nora had been driving the deserted countryside lost for hours. They had made a lovely picnic on the shore, but had missed a turn somewhere on the way home.  As twilight began to settle around them, Dorothy saw tire tracks off the side of the road. Up a hill, she saw the house.

"Nora, turn right here."

Nora turned the car and they were jostled by the bumpy hill.

"Slow down Nora!"

"I thought you liked bumpy rides," Nora said, but she complied and eased the car over the hills and the holes of the yard up to the house.

"I really have to go to the bathroom." It was true, Dorothy really did have to pee and she hated going outside. She hoped that the house would have someone friendly and some sort of facilities.  Almost before Nora had stopped the car Dorothy had jumped out and hurried to the door.

"You can stop dancing, I'm sure they will let you in." Nora joined Dorothy at the door and was adjusting her hat. Dorothy knocked on the door and it opened a bit. She stuck her head inside and choked on the damp smell of decay.

"Hello?" Nora called out from behind her. She pushed the door open further and then wrapped her arm around Dorothy and guided her in. "Is anyone here? We're lost and my friend here needs to use your powder room."

There were no lights on inside the house, only the dim light that streamed in from the windows.  "It smells like a barrel of rotten apples in here." Dorothy looked over at Nora and saw her crinkling her nose. Dorothy stopped choking and her eyes adjusted to the gloom. Past Nora, she saw the old woman staring at them from the corner.

"Nora..." Dorothy nodded her head towards the old woman. Nora looked over and saw her.

"Oh, I am sorry. I have forgotten my manners, but you see, we have been driving a long time and we are lost and tired. My name is Nora, and this is my friend Dorothy. I hope you don't mind, but the door was open..."

The old woman just stared at them. Her chin was almost touching her chest and she was looking up at them. She clutched a dirty rag doll to her breast and she her mouth was moving slightly like she was muttering, but there was no noise.

"Nora, let's just go." Dorothy no longer had to go to the bathroom, and if the urge came back she would gladly pee on the side of the road in front of God and everybody, but she suddenly needed to leave this house.

"Are you ill?" Nora let go of Dorothy and started to walk towards the old woman. "Do you need some help?"

"Nora, I think she's okay like she is, please, I think we need to just leave."

Nora reached out and touched the old woman's hand, "Can I..."

"AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!" The old woman leaned up and was screaming in Nora's face. Nora stumbled back and fell on a small table breaking it, as the woman shoved her and ran out of the room laughing a high, shrieking laughter.

Dorothy ran over to Nora and tried to help her up. "Oh Nora, are you okay? Please let's go now."

"Okay, I ...oh! ouch!" Nora could not stand up. Glistening, dark blood ran through her torn stocking and down her leg. Dorothy removed he scarf and dabbed at the blood. There was a long cut down Nora's leg with a large splinter of wood embedded in her calf.

"Nora, you're hurt and I can't stay here, Nora. I'm going to wrap this up and  carry you to the car and then we are leaving. When we are away from here, I will stop and get that wood out, but we are leaving first." As she talked, Dorothy wrapped the leg in her scarf. She tied it tight and a door opened near them.

A soft, frail light fell into the room. There was the old woman again, watching, holding a candle. Behind her there was a wet smooshing sound and a muffled moaning.

"This crazy old crone is going to kill us," Dorothy muttered as she locked her gaze with the old woman. Then the old woman stepped to the side, and Dorothy saw what  was on the floor next to the door.  Her brain could not make sense of what she saw. It was man-shaped, but it was a mushy, bloody, undulating mess. The darkness of the house seemed to swirl behind him. There were what looked like pockets of meat on the floor next to him, attached by slimy stands.

"Oh, those as his insides. He's been turned inside out. How..." Dorothy peed. She never noticed. She was crying and never noticed. Nora was yelling at her, and she never noticed. She just saw him as he began to make sense. She stood there staring at this man as a long, bloody limb reached out to her. It was his hand. He gurgled and then died.

That's when she heard the laughter. Dorothy looked at the old woman. She was looking down at the mess that had once been a man, holding the doll towards him, and laughing. The laughter turned to screaming and then laughing again. The swirling darkness seemed to move from him to her. It whirled around her hand holding the doll. It crept up her arm. Screaming now, she shook her arm and tried to move. The darkness wrapped around her greedily.  Dorothy saw her hold the doll close to her and then the old woman was turned inside out. It sounded like someone slurping the last bits of an egg creme from a glass. 

She felt a sharp pain and her head swiveled to the right.

"Get out of here!" Nora was standing on one leg yelling in her face. Dorothy wrapped her arm around Nora's side and started to move towards the door. She felt a chill around her ankles and she tried to run. The feeling was sticky like taffy and cold like ice. It pulsed up her body and she was suddenly face to face with Nora. They were bound tightly together by the sticky cold. They no longer look like two separate people.

A sound echos through the house, a wet, slurping sound. It does sound very much like the remnants of an egg creme resisting the suction of the straw. The slurping is wet and somewhat drowned out by the sounds of two women in pain. Then there is one soft, moist thump. It is a sound similar to dropping raw ground beef, reserved for this evening's supper, on the hard, cold floor.  Finally, there is a muffled whimper and a muffled sob, and the sound of blood bubbles popping.

There were no signs of human life.

completed (maybe) 2/24/13

*(If you are a Bill Cosby fan, you may have heard his routine about being scared of a radio program where a chicken heart terrorizes the world. This is the same series, just a different episode. For the Cosby fans, Chicken Heart is #9, and here is a youtube audio of Cosby's routine.)

Does anyone else find editing hard online? I think I need to start printing these out to do my edits. Maybe it's my age...

Saturday, February 23, 2013

Mag 155 Submission: Untouched

artwork by Joseph Lorusso


The woman sits across the cafe from the couple.
They don't see her although the three of them are the only patrons there.
He cannot keep his eyes or hands off the girl.

The woman twists her wedding band around her finger
not touching her tea, not touching anything
except for the gold on her finger that only takes warmth from her.

The boy has started kissing the girl, running his hand up her leg,
under her skirt. She kisses him back and holds him closer.
He pulls out his hand and wraps his arm around her back.

The woman knew this passion and obliviousness in her youth,
but never with her husband. Her husband is a sweet decent man who
never touches her, never embraces her, never initiates...

A tear is born and the woman knows that she is the Mrs. Roper in this
episode of "Three's Company" and she needs to get away from this couple.
She lays down her money and leaves the tea, like so much in her life,

written 2/19/2013 for Magpie Tales

This is a late submission, but I really like this picture. I was torn between this and something erotic and steamy (and maybe a little porny), but this is what I wrote instead. It is my first submission to Magpie Tales, or The Mag, but I plan on coming back. For these prompts, a picture is posted and then you write in response to that picture. 

Friday, February 22, 2013

The Sunday Whirl Submission: At Some Point Later

At Some Point Later

She has exerted more effort and summoned more strength than she knew she had in order to get to this point. She has decided to take a bath and is now sitting on the toilet seat. It cold against her naked skin, and she is staring into the mirror on the back of the door. Why are there so many stupid, fucking mirrors in this house? She listens to the water fill the tub and breathes in the steam.  Heavy limbs are lifted and moved to the water which is too hot and she is held in an embrace that makes her drowsy.  Maybe too quickly, she is asleep.

The man continues his day and works. There are more interactions with people, but he feels like the real him is hiding somewhere under his skin. He is under this man that everyone sees.  At some point he has given birth to a son that wears him like a costume and goes through his day for him.  He wonders how she is doing and thinks he should call her, but he will not. This costume, this mask lacks empathy and he cannot reach her, so he mourns alone while he carries on with his duties.

And here I am again, at the end of another moment, trying to root out a happy ending for my imaginary family. I write by candlelight with my netbook on my lap and the solution to their problem scurries beyond my reach.

Well, there is always next week.
written 2/19/13
Submitted to The Sunday Whirl

This is my second submission to The Sunday Whirl. It is continuing from last week's submission, One Moment in one Day. It may be interesting to see where this goes with the wordles from The Sunday Whirl. I copied the picture of this week's (almost last week's) words from Wordle 96. If you want to learn more click on the first link above. There are some cool submissions.


Wednesday, February 20, 2013

3WW Submission: Once Upon A Time There Was a Girl

Once Upon A Time There Was A Girl

A long time ago, there lived a miller with his daughter, a maiden.
She was quite lovely, but they were alone and this
Worried the miller. After much pondering he decided
That she should marry. But how to pick her groom?
He must be of means, not a beggar or a pauper or a robber,
But a gentleman, the first to come along…that seems valid.

So, he’s worried, but thinks that the first man in finery is a valid
Choice. Makes you wonder who will come to claim this maiden?
Soon she was promised to a suitor who sought to rob-her
Of her heart, but she did not like him. The reason was this
Whenever she saw him, she felt a secret horror. He was bad, her groom.
However, there was nothing she could do, it had been decided.
It would have been nice if her dad had asked her before he decided
To marry her off to a stranger or at least checked to see that the offer was valid.
Now she had to go to the center of the dark woods to visit her groom.
She scattered peas and lentils to mark her way, and walked all day, this maiden.
She reached a cottage with a bird at the door. “Turn back! This
Is a murder’s house,” the bird warned.  Her fiancĂ© was a killer and robber.

He also ate people, and wanted to eat her, according to the old housekeeper of the robber.
The maiden found the old woman deep inside of the cottage. She was tired of the carnage. They decided
To flee. A plan was made. Our heroine hid behind a great hogshead and this
Was when she would discover if her trust in the old woman was valid.
Because right then the murders returned carrying a terrified young maiden
Who begged for her life. She drank wine until her heart burst, forced by the groom.

 The evil crew fought over her possessions, a ringed finger was flung next to the groom’s
Intended.  Quietly she fought the urge to heave up her lunch. She really hated this robber.
The old woman drugged them and soon the men slept. The girl vowed justice for the dead maiden.
The peas and lentils had sprouted and led the girl home and soon she had decided
How to fulfill her promise. She showed her father the proof. He agreed that it was quite valid.
Soon was her wedding day and at the feast what happened was this…

 The entire village was there, and each person told a tale of that or this.
She was quiet until her turn and then this story she told her Robber Bridegroom.
She said that she dreamt about peas and birds, old and young women, cannibals and valid
Proof of a terrible crime. She then showed a ringed finger to the robber.
He tried to escape. He lied and denied. He and his cohorts were guilty it was decided.
They were all executed for what they had done to many a young maiden.
And, here is the end of this story, a tale of a nasty bad robber,
A hastily accepted groom and a girl not asked before it was decided.
I think there’s a valid moral here: never fuck with a clever young maiden.

written 2/20/13 for and submitted to Three Word Wednesday

The words for this week's Three Word Wednesday. The words for this week were Heave, Ponder, and Valid. I have been wanting to write a sestina lately (it has been over 20 years) and I thought a word prompt would be a good place to start. My original intention was to use the three words as three of my sestina words, but that didn't work out. I have also read some poetry posts on some of your blogs that have used fairy tales in interesting ways, and I really wanted to do something with a fairy tale. So, as you can see, I sestina-ed The Robber Bridegroom. I apologize or the weird spacing, but I typed it in Word first and the cut and pasted and now it's wonky. It also automatically capitalized the first letter of each line and now I can't remember if that's what you're supposed to do...seriously, the last time I wrote one of these it was 20 years ago... and now Copacabana is playing in my head.

Tuesday, February 19, 2013

February 19, 1999

February 19, 1999

I don't know all the names he was called,
but I can imagine:

What I know about his death is from
what I've read
what I've seen on tv.
I won't

So today, the anniversary of when
he died. I say a
prayer for him,
and his friends
and his family,
and for those who killed him.

And I pray for a better world
full of love
for all of us.

written 2/19/13 in memory of Billy Jack Gaither
submitted for dVerse Poet's Pub

Today marks a sad day in Alabama history.  I don't really have anything else to say except please check out the link above about him.

Thursday, February 14, 2013

dVerse The Poet's Toolbox Submission: Repost of The River

The River

I stand in the river of
my actions and it drips,
drips, drips down and I
doubt if I was right, but
then I stop.

Because I know I was right,
right, right, and that I hav
                                     e no w

                                      and I

                                       I lis

                                      my t
                                      s as

                                     ey d
                                     rip, d
                                 ip, drip, drip,
                               drip, drip, drip,
                                   drip, drip,

written 1990?
submitted for dVerse The Poet's Toolbox

I have been writing more than I am used to lately, so I am reposting a poem that I posted in the early days of this blog, but that I wrote when I was19 or 20. I loved playing with the way the words looked on the page. (I was also heavy into alliteration). I hope you are having a lovely Valentine's Day!

Also, please check out Break the Chain from One Billion Rising

Wednesday, February 13, 2013

Three Word Wednesday Submission: Wednesday Afternoon

Wednesday Afternoon

This afternoon, my sweet girl was anything but...
she went from silly to distraught to grumpy to...
all from the burden on being too hungry and too tired.

She has the cumbersome job of being five.
So much to learn. So much to do.
So many rules to follow.

At bathtime, she becomes defiant.
My desire to be a good parent is second to my
desire for a 10 minutes of quiet.

Dark thoughts creep in the side of my mind,
not morbid, but not happy either.
I am walking a tightrope.

"Aoife! I am getting very frustrated."
"Are you mad Mommy?"
"Are you sad?"
"No, but I have lost my sense of humor."
"I will help you find it, Mommy,
what does a kumor look like?"

The rampage of my impending bad mood stops then.

"I think you just found my kumor, baby.

Thank you."

written 2/13/13 for Three Word Wednesday

The words this week are Cumbersome, Morbid, and Rampage. No more to say as I am trying to get this submitted by the end of the day.

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

dVerse OpenLinkNight Submission: A Brief Conversation Between Two Social Workers

A Brief Conversation Between Two Social Workers

It was one of those days when Anna was wondering why she had decided to become a social worker.  Although, if she were honest with herself, she would have to admit that this problem was not only a social work problem. She also realized that she had hired Kim because Kim was thoughtful and took the Core Values seriously. However, Kim thought too much before acting. They had even addressed it in Kim's last evaluation. Of course, Anna did not write "You overthink shit, Kim" in the eval, but there was discussion of  "taking too much time to come to an appropriate decision." Maybe she had sugarcoated it. She was going to have to rectify that quickly.

"Kim, you overthink shit in a crisis."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"This is not the time to be considering the dignity and worth of the person..."

"Well, I think this could be argued as a social justice issue..."

"No! No arguing, Kim. Those are no longer oppressed and vulnerable people. They are no longer your clients. We cannot think of them as human being who have inherent dignity and worth. Those are motherfucking zombies, and what they want is to eat your brains. We are not going to let that happen, okay? You and Jake and I are going to secure the shit out of this place, and then we are going to figure out, quickly, how we are going to the hell out of here!"

Anna was aware that she was swearing too damn much. It was going to be a swearing kind of day.

drafted June 4, 2012

Submitted for dVerse OpenLinkNight: Week 83, which I hope is okay because it isn't poetry, but, with the exception of "how i met rachel" my posts over the last week have been damn depressing and I was in the mood for something funny. I also am very interested in critiques because I want to go a little further with this, but, it kind of ends for me here. I have left the few notes I wrote trying to get the story straight, and they are why I think that there is another story along these lines. Also it includes my favorite things, social workers and zombies. How kick ass would that story be?

Zombies attacking social service office.
Client zombified.
Social Worker worries about ethical consequences of killing zombies (dignity and worth of the person).
Supervisor trying to help social worker through crisis while trying to not get brains eaten.

Monday, February 11, 2013

The Sunday Whirl Submission: One Moment in One Day

One Moment in One Day

She sits on the bed, looking through herself in the dresser mirror. She can see in the reflection the building chaos peeking from the dustruffle. There is a bottle still half full of coagulated, useless breastmilk. She thinks "I should feel something. Some thread of something." Yet, there was only a vast deep emptyness, a rut where her soul should be. Still not seeing herself, she looks in the mirror and knows that she should get up, bathe, cry, eat, do something, do anything, but mostly move. That doesn't happen.

Outside of this room, outside of this house, people court life. They go to work and complain about their jobs. They eat out and worry about their weight. They play ball with their kids and allow the sun to witness. They fuck and they make love. They laugh and they cry. There is an evershrinking number of them who think about this woman.

There is one man who does think about her. He journeys from the house into the open world and still lives a life. It is a dry, lonely, confusing life. He answers "fine" to the incidental "how are you?" He knows that he lies, and you know too, but, what are you supposed to do?

There are terms that describe what is going on. Terms as sad and tragic as dying coral and just as baffling. And, as we watch this sad tableau searching for the tiniest wisp of happiness, not seeing the plumes, there is a small guilty relief that it is not us.

And me, writing this sad story? I want to rewrite and make it all better. Think of something genius to help this family that I am overidentifying with, but that ending is not in me. Not that this is a rare occurance, often these things run away from me.

Maybe I can save them tomorrow.

written 02/11/13 for Wordle 95 of The Sunday Whirl .

This is my first attempt at this prompt, which I found through Whimseygizmo's Blog. Each week there is a word bank posted and you write using some or all of those words. I have been wanting to write more prose lately, and have had a heck of a time doing it. So, I used this opportunity to exercise those muscles. I also want to write something funny, but obviously did not do that today.  This week's words were: bathe, term, court, open, bottle, dry, coral, ball, plume, rare, incident, and thread. You can click on the links above for both blogs that I have mentioned here. Thanks to Brenda for the post and the opportunity. I look forward to next Sunday (and maybe something funny.)

Saturday, February 9, 2013

dVerse Poetics: The Art of Letting Go Submission: Last Love Letter

Last Love Letter

My cousin was a year older.
He was the second grandchild.
He was the younger brother
I was the first granddaughter.
My cousin lived three hours away.
I saw him and his brother
only some weekends. Two or three a year.
He was a sweet, quiet baby.
When I was six, I wrote him love letters
on scrap paper.
When I was ten, he taught my brother
how to turn his eyelids inside out
that made me run screaming.
We played baseball with socks wrapped in electrical tape.
I privately competed against him.
He was a funny, reserved, young man.
He once wanted to be a store Santa
because young women liked to sit
in Santa's lap for a picture.
When I was twenty-six, he died.
and I forgot everything but the pain.
and a vigilante hummingbird.
I forgot his smile.
I forgot his laugh.
I forgot his wit.
I forgot his love for his nephew.
I forgot.
I would have traded anything to have
him back.
To hug him the last time I saw him.
To Tell Him I Loved Him.
And I cried
Tonight I found some pictures.
And I remembered:
How he was sweet
How he loved his nephew
How he was funny
His desire to be Santa
My notes
The woods
Hawaiian Punch
Hot Chocolate
Hide and Seek
His eyelids
His smile
and i cried.
originally written:3/13/97

I am reposting this for the dVerse prompt Poetics: The Art of Letting Go. Claudia challenges us to write about the art of letting go, which made me think of this poem. Writing it after he died was a way for me to let go of the hope that he would return home and we would find out that his death was an elaborate hoax (although maybe not totally...I still sometimes think I see him on the street.) So, for my sweet Ronnie and for your consideration...

Kellie Elmore's Free Write Friday Submission: I Lie in My Bed

I Lie in My Bed

I lie in my bed
with you
to you
and then sleep whirls in.

I lie in my bed
and I dream
of a life without you
and of vague single happiness.

I lie in my bed
next to you
and the cold chills
my bare skin.

I lie in my bed
awake again and your stillness
conjures a siren's song with one rephrase

I lie in my bed
but the sheer curtains float
at my open window, blown from the winds of
a coming rain.

I lie in my bed
thumbing the opal on
my wedding ring
and I am trapped.

I lie in my bed
and the allure of leaving tortures me
as you wake and ask how I slept.
"Fine" I say

as I lie in my bed.

written 2/9/13 for

 Word Bank: Opal, Vague, Whirl, Dream, Sheer, Conjure, Bare, Allure

I really wanted to write a small short story with these words, but this is what came out. Hmm, funny how that happens. I'm not sure what I think about it yet. I live in fear of being melodramatic, especially when I write poetry. It is way too easy for me to go overboard, and ruin a good concept. Thanks for stopping by and I would love to hear from you.

Thursday, February 7, 2013

Mining the Memory: dverse Poets Meeting the Bar submission: how i met rachel

how i met rachel

"Heads down," and Mrs. Tew
turned out the lights.

Full of the righteous ire of
the falsely accused six year old
I want to cry.

20 little girls sitting with their heads
on their desks.
The room is quiet.

I look at the desk next to me.
The new girl sits there.

She has very curly hair
in ponytails.

She is smiling at me and
she waves at me.

I don't want to be nice.
I don't want to make friends.
I want to be angry.
I want to be out of heads down.

I frown and turn my head the other way.

Not knowing
how soon we'd be friends
or just how much
I would love her.

written 2/7/13 for

I realized as I wrote this that I never fully appreciate the people who will become the most important to me when I first meet them. I always seem to meet them grumpy. I have been wanting to write a poem about my friend Rachel and decided to use this prompt to give it a try. I am not sure what I think about it yet and welcome all (kind) constructive comments. Thanks for reading!

Semper Ubi Sub Ubi

Semper Ubi Su Ubi

I put on my last clean pair of pants,
and loaded my sweet fella in the car.

Grocery day and we're recovering from the flu.

Everything has piled up.

It will be nice to get out of the house.

Halfway to the store, sweet fella learns the lock to his new booster seat
and unbuckles it.

I pull over and buckle him back in.
It's cold and my heinie feels...
I brush my hand across my seat...
nothing wet.
I feel the carseat...
nothing wet.
That's strange...

I get to the store.
They know us here and
they love little fella.

I put him in the basket.

I tighten the belt.

A cold blast of air as we walk across the parking lot.

My butt feels wet again.

As I walk in the store,  I brush my hand again across the seat of my pants
and I feel the huge hole across the seat.

There is some comfort in the fact that I wasn't wearing dirty underwear,
not much though, since I was wearing none.

written february 7, 2013

(based on a true story)

Wednesday, February 6, 2013




So my first 15 minute meeting with a literary agent

Was supposed to help me get information as to what to do if

I ever thought I was ready to submit for publication.


She read some of my tweets, which I thought were funny,  and said

That I should try to target parents (did she not notice the fucking language?)

And that she really didn’t care how beautiful my children were…

(Bitch, that’s cause you haven’t seen them.)

She said that I lacked insight.

She didn’t read my poetry because she didn’t like the titles.

She said I should focus more on prose, but didn’t read any of the flash fiction I brought.


Wait, did she really say that I lacked insight?

Just by reading my tweets?

Did she not look at her shoes when she put them on?

One of us had on cute, leopard-print, ballerina flats, and the other one had on shoes that wished they looked as good as sensible shoes.

I won’t say which.

But I think you know who in that room lacked insight…

originally written 10/21/12

this poem us based on a sadly true story. no shoe deserves to be that hideous.  I think that the eight month writing block that has ensued was due to a pretty deep depression over that sad footwear. hopefully, i'm over it now. thanks for reading.


Tuesday, February 5, 2013

dverse Open Link Night: Repost of She's Still the Same Girl

dverse prompt and poem repost:
She's Still the Same Girl

Driving to the office, I tell myself
Whatever they say, whatever they find,
she's still the same girl that she is right now.
You're not going to come home with a
You'll love her the same.
She's still the same girl.

I am worried as I sit her in my lap and they prepare her for the test.
She does not like things on her head.
What if she fights?
What if she gets too upset?
Should I just leave with her?
We've gone this long
We'll get tests later.
She'll still be the same girl.

Once again, my sweetheart surprises me.
She laughs when the nurse gets Eeyore ready first.
He's so cute! Silly Eeyore!
My girl sits still and even falls asleep towards the end.
I always seem to underestimate my baby.
She's so wonderful.
She's still the same girl.

Then we go and wait.
The doctor comes in.
It's not the news we want.
It's not the challenges that we wanted for her.
My baby.
My sweet daughter.
She is playing as we talk and I love her so much and...
She's still the same girl.

written 9/7/2011

I have been really blocked since June, but I am trying to start back up. I also think that is has been long enough that I can appreciate some constructive comments on this poem. Thanks, and I hope you like it! heidi