January 28th, 2012
Talk of War on a Beautiful Day
Consider the beauty of a life
and the madness of those who destroy it.
We are fragile, temporary occupiers of space
riding a chunk of drift dirt.
we are too mortal for murder
too delicate for war.
No passion, faith, reward, revenge or redemption
can wash blood from clean hands
dice roll from the top of the hill
no honor in dealing death
to pawns
drenched in tar
draped in colors
diplomacy of kill or be killed.
Life:
An energy constantly rerouted as a thudding pulse of cells circulating science through evolutionary ventricles. An impossibly vertical, chemically balanced contraption housing thought, personality, and whispers of souls. A terrible, painful, agonizing, tragic, beautiful possibility of individual existence.
What right has anyone to steal such opportunity?
By nature’s course
we are our own predators
hunted to extinction.
January 21st, 2012
My New Adventure Journal
This is my new blog where I am documenting my new adventure as my husband and I make the move to New York City. As a resident and native of Louisiana, this will be the furthest from home I have ever lived. Making the 1300 mile trek with two dogs in tow should be an adventure in itself! But, I am hoping that it will be exciting and inspiriting as the “city that never sleeps” becomes our new home.
November 1st, 2011
Gumbo of Drugs
Heartbeats like humming bird wings
I see you dancing on pink elephant dreams
I smell amoxicillan on your lips
not covered in chocolate for cheap heart-shaped boxes
but the touching taste of tiny grains
I can hear the loud pink of it
even Alecia Beth Moore can taste it in Philly.
I don’t see you dancing on pink elephant dreams
dreams elephants pink on dancing you see, don’t I?
Forever Alone.
The event of your dreaming is caused by your waking.
Don’t take life too seriously; you’ll never get out alive.
The beautiful bastards of death
sing with you to thy resting faith.
Dine on humming bird wings
the dragonfly hides her eyes
uniformly unconscious.
The direction you seek is found where you aren’t looking.
Vis-à-vis , mon aime.
The clock says it is tick-tocking for you.
Swirling in the wrong direction the gray shapes can no longer balance
between your soaked sheets.
September 7th, 2011
Marydale
Trees dripping in Spanish moss
shade the home of a child’s heart.
As if torn from fairy tale pages
it is tucked away
a haven resting at a distance
safe from the weight of asphalt and gas
beyond a gate no man can pass.
Playground for just the girls
mosquito bitten princesses in training.
This journey has requirements
what you need to survive
checked off a list
tucked safely in a trunk.
Here there are guardians
witch named beings of great knowledge
filled with rebellious, energetic youth
to teach you the rules of the land
and oh what magical creatures live here!
The warmth and flow of horseflesh
only before seen and read about in books
now suddenly touched by bare hands.
Warm breath, watchful wise eyes
tired, hungry souls
no longer a fantasy.
Dawn and dusk
the song is sung
the flag is raised, or put to rest
we remember our fallen
we sing for their glory
over rumbling bellies
unhappy with the delay
For our days adventure has
conquered all our energy.
Ghost stories around a fire.
A lady in white
rode at night
to find her prince
and paid the price.
There!
Do you see her there?
Riding her white steed
Past the Eagle trail
straight into your bunk!
Just guardians playing a trick on their charges.
Traditions are serious business.
Personalities are defined
in a place such as this.
My mother left me here
ignorant of prerequisites
cub up a tree.
Where homesickness became a definition
quickly forgotten in songs
and laughter.
Remembered for that quiet instant
before exhaustion of joy
quiets you off
in sweaty a nights rest.
Does this place remember?
Only artifacts remain.
Mark our spot on wooden posts.
We Were Here.
Does she miss us
as we leave, seemingly forget, and never return?
An ache of time
a history built of those before me,
before you.
An ageless experience
passed through adventure
captured in song
and fractured pictures
time becomes memory.
I linger there on occasion.
Such a sweet, temporary time
sad to come, sad to go
and somewhere in between we find
strength in lonely division.
Those times will never be again
not in this place, and never quite like that.
This is the place I ran to.
A better part of who I am
and I give it to you,
daughter
In hopes it becomes
a part of you.
