Monday, July 6, 2015

Adventure is Out There

So, in an effort to get the hell away from Lakeland, I took a fucking road trip.
I had vague plans to drive up to Georgia for Six Flags adventures with a friend, but those unraveled about three weeks ago. When she couldn’t come, and I got my heart smushed (as happens maybe three or four times a year), I just decided to drive until I figured out my life, or until I ran out of week.

This may sound like a strange decision, as I tend to get lost driving to the neighborhood Publix, but I decided to be randomly adventurous. Although I usually live a mundane and timid life, I have random spurts of adventure. These have resulted in skydiving, bungee jumping, and dying my hair purple. Some of these adventures work out better than others…

So, that is how I found myself here. In Georgia. Sitting in Starbucks waiting for the bank to unfreeze my credit card. Apparently, even my bank has trouble conceiving of me being adventurous.


Sigh…

Tuesday, January 20, 2015

Poem Prompt

I was looking through old folders, and I found some items from a creative writing class I took a few years ago.  There was an extremely fun prompt we had to follow, where we were each responsible for finding a poem in a foreign language, and then transforming it into similar sounds.  From there, we tinkered until it kinda made sense to us.

Remember the summer days and glasses of lemonade?
Remember what we had, until a spider
walked out on the web.  It bent under  the weight.
I still taste loss and failure in my throat.
Begin to un-seam my life, to break down body parts into elements.
Tease out the knots, until it was just us again.  Not her.
After you lied, I started lying.
Attention shifts towards the temporary, and rings come off.
Your lies were a golden trauma, unexpected and vicious.
Like a spider-bite, they don’t heal untreated.
Remember being rudder-taught? We learned how to guide
the sailboat, trusting it to keep us from the waves.
I’m trusting my heart to airplanes now,

to find some peace in thinner air. 

Friday, January 2, 2015

Rose Garden

My mother’s friend was a gardener.
She grew lavender that we would tuck in pillows
before sleep came to steal us away each night.
But my favorite were the roses.

Beware of thorns in unexpected places.
How they seem so soft and innocent,
but cause a puncture, the flinch,
and pull back from what was loved.

Each year, my grandfather would give
my grandmother yellow roses.
Symbols of friendship and promises
for the future- for their family. 

He would take off the thorns, carefully
removing the danger,  fearful that any
mishaps would result in her blood
staining the perfect softness of the flower.

She never spoke too loudly,
always fearful that the slightest
mishap would result in her staining
the perfect softness of their home.

I come from the south.  This has always
been true.  Always been my truth.
Even when I run far, my soul is etched with
roses, thorns, and blood.  This is what I know.

No train or bus can squeeze the honey
from my soul; no traffic or busy stranger’s
sideways glance. My soul is mixed with

blood, and the thorns grew into my bones.