30 October 2011

Sunday Morning Poetry

{Practicing 4 feet, 3 feet}

The cow roams desperate on hills
To find the grass that’s green

He rubs his head to stroke the hair
But never finds it there

Upon her lap he lays his head
Basking in forever

The thought may come when you do stroke
a shiny hairless head

The bird doth strike his head upon
my closed window glass pane

Fret not because he flew away
once again this morning

I do proclaim he will return
When light refracts again

23 October 2011


Flames from the bonfire ascended to meet the branch of a nearby tree. Though, fire morphs into smoke by the time the lowest branch touched it. Plump snowflakes come in their downward spiral to meet the seething flames with a hiss. Although they are going in opposing directions the fire and snow are both in flight.

Those scintillate flames captivate my attention. Enamored, I find it hard to look away, even though my eyeballs burn from the heat. Feeling the cool kisses of snow on my face makes it even more bearable.

16 October 2011


This is a delicious mess.
Upon first sight, saliva dripped down the walls of my cheeks.
This recipe devised. Tried. Modified each time.
With each bite, the taste seemed richer.
Driving my thoughts.
Holding my cravings.
Unwavering from the yearning.
“This could be the only food I eat for the rest of my life.” (thought bubble)

Though, awakened, I realize.
There are merits in nutrients,
And this is void.
Despite the interminable desire,
The craving,
Now I must to vomit.

09 October 2011


“Visualize a place that you really love, be there, see the details. Now write about it. It could be a corner of your bedroom, an old tree you sat under one whole summer, a table at McDonald’s in your neighborhood, a place by a river. What colors are there, sounds, smells? When someone else reads it, she should know what it is like to be there. She should feel how you love it, not by your saying you love it, but by your handling of the details” (Goldberg 20-21).
I digress from the prompt…


Alaska, Arizona, & Mongolia skies filled with clouds.
The Colonial pictures & flowered wallpaper in my Grandmother's old kitchen.
Bordering Mexican tiles, piled on the side of a street.

Baker's dog tag clinking as he runs.
Water lapping onto shore while the tide comes in.
Johnny Winter singing “Be Careful With a Fool.”

Tundra blueberries - as sweet as the sunny day they were picked.
Metal camping cups filled with coco & coffee, on a brisk morning – readying for a day of hiking.
Blue corn muffins with hot soup.

The down blanket nestled under my chin on a cold night.
Soft clothes next to a baby's skin.
Silky Forget-me-not flower pedals.

Blue does help me remember.

Climbing limbs,
Safely supporting me,
In light or dark,

White toaster oven
Warming thin toast & cheese
In Grandma’s kitchen

Warm pine sap always
Sticks to my hands when climbing
To my vantage point

A tree
The scent of pine is immediate, especially on warm days.
Stickiness binds my skin to the rutted and course sheath.
My skin separates from the bark as I climb, but the film binds, even for days after.
It gets on my clothes and makes my shoes adhere as I walk in the house.
*shhhrriippp* *shhhrriippp* *shhhrriippp* *shhhrriippp* *shhhrriippp*

All are reminders of the feeling of independence. The pleasure of studying the life that continues whether I’m watching or not.

One of my favorite places -

01 October 2011


It’s not easy being hair. Well, it is easy. All I really need to do is sit there, grow out where I’m supposed to, don’t grow where I’m not. What isn’t easy is dealing with all of that stuff people want to do with me. I suppose people think of me with reverence. I suppose people associate me with their lifestyle, their personality, their class, their creativity, their inherited genes. Now that I think about it I control a certain part of everyone’s mind every day of the year. I control a certain part of your mind too. I might as well share with you some episodes I’ve observed. Behold my power – the power of hair!

Usually it’s men that are bald. Some of them have complexes about it. From many a woman’s perspective it’s really quite sexy. The simplicity. The raw baring of the face. Nothing to hide. A lot is told about a man’s confidence in the way he accepts the hair he was given, or for what he was not. The same could be said for women who are balding – women! Hair thin enough to see the scalp. …

To be a teenager in the 1980’s meant a lot of time spent on your hair. There has always been a sector of the population that spent a lot of time on their hair. But, in the 80’s the small sector was those who did not adamantly style their hair. The problem with those who did is that instead of recognizing that the styles were bizarre, they became fashionable. This I suppose could be said for the centuries of hair styles. So, if you were a female styling your hair in the 80’s you may remember some of these “fashions.”

The crimp iron. For those unfamiliar, the crimp iron is like a wavy curing iron. Once heated the iron is just squeezes the hair section by section until all of the desired hair is “crimped.” This makes for pronounced rollercoaster waves, obvious that you took 30 minutes frying your hair. Followed with hair spray to hold this effort in place for 10 hours.

Perms were also of utmost fashion. Many born with straight hair envied those with divine curls – like those on a Victorian porcelain baby doll. Perms usually happen at a beauty salon, but are also optional using over the counter perms in boxes. Mainly what you needed to decide is how kinky you wanted the curl. There varieties range from wavy to rolling curls to the distinct spiral curl. The process involves applying warming chemicals to the hair, wrapping in rollers of the desired diameter and covering in aluminum foil. After sitting for an hour, inhaling the toxic aroma, the rollers can be removed and the hair washed. That will be the last washing for a couple of days so that the hair can soak in the fine chemicals designed to fight the hairs’ natural intent. Once styled, hairspray was applied.

The flat iron. For those with curly hair the top desire was to once again do the opposite of the hairs’ natural intent. The flat iron was used to make those with naturally curly hair straight.

One of the most famed fashions was that of the side splash. If a person had a “cow lick” they had an advantage. If not, one used a curling iron to pull up straight on one side of the face. Then, inordinate amounts of hairspray were applied.

The case:
How could the hair have gotten to that place, so private, so inward? It could not have without a specific action. And since this woman had no recollection, drunk as she was, something happened to place it there without her consent. A witness saw him there. The witness saw him, on her limp body. The photo showed that single hair on her cervix. “Beyond a reasonable doubt.” Consequences unknown, it was the deciding factor for his verdict.

We Bethylvanians have started a writing club. This is the first prompt from the last weekend of September. These stories are unfinished. My idea behind this style was to write vignettes so that it would be like opening a door into someone's life, listening in, and then closing the door. It didn't quite turn out like that, but oh well.

Here are some other ideas for vignettes: growing old, body hair, models, dyed:, natural, afro, animals... And I wanted to add an epilogue.