Eggs III

how to build a proper nest for time…

link, loop like straw, tuck, paper like twine.

foxes and box kites knocking the clime,

Momma’s little yoke,

chichi calcium, nature’s design…

Momma’s baby folk.

***

Another form, the Burns Stanza found here.

Much More Beautiful

Wow.

Big Daddy was right. And SO quickly.

One thing that makes me really happy in life ( something I was reminded of today) is that I can say whatever the FUCK I want.

That’s right.

Right here? This is my place.

And I? I can say whatever I want.

That’s glorious! Big Daddy never asks me to censor myself. He is secure in who he is, naturally dominant. He knows that words are the VERY most important thing to me. And to restrict them would be death.

I would die inside.

And I want to shine.

I am much more beautiful when I shine.

End of a Day

“Mommy!”

He kept them up last night till I got home from overtime. It was like heaven.

“Mommy! Mommy! I got all smiley faces!!”

“Mommmmmeeee mommmeeeee potty!”

She with the blackish brown eyes ran at me and hugged my belly.

The LittleOne ran at me and hugged my legs. A blond and brown pony tail met my eyes as I looked down at my babies, my growing, loving babies that I created. I carried. I care for.

“Ok, back here to finish your stories.” My Love is beaming from the bed, knowing he did a nice, RIGHT thing, proud of himself for lasting ONE MORE DAY as a single dad while I work the 7 to 7 overtime. More money for our struggling family. The little pony tails bounce back to the bed. They climb up, but still face me, chattering like sparrows.

“Mommy, I have a splinter you need to get out.” She with the blackish brown eyes shows me her soft palm, with a tiny sliver of wood in it. My heart soars. I AM the one who deals with splinters. He can’t take it, but moms have to do the things that cause pain to create healing.

“Booboo! Booboo!” Not to be outdone, The LittleOne shows me a fresh shin bruise that I simply must kiss immediately.

Off to get the tweezers, my eyes fill a little. Yes, I’m tired (boy there should be a different word for HOW tired), so a little emotion is predictable.

But really, it was honest joy. Look at all my gifts…

The Actress

Trying to balance
The doing
And the writing
About the doing
 
Not many
Stories left
That I can
Tell myself
I love being anyone else but me
 
Maybe I need to change a dose
I pull tides of bitterness
Like an evil moon
If I chance submersion
You chance
Being exposed
To my new form
 
Demand the moon
Get the cheese
Please God
Please say
I’m like no other
 
Cracker jack idea
When we’re all alone
What’s my prize
For digging down deep
No cereal box treasure map
To happy
I’ll make something of nothing
And get back to you
 
All new plans
Point at and laugh
The old new plans
Couldn’t I exhale and be better?

Growing Babies

Of the human garden
Its equal opportunity
Fertile
 
Short mercy
Glory
Swallow and dissolve
 
Striations
Ruby bullets
Tells
 
Capacity to know
Less successful at forgetting.
 
You want them to be silly hearts

Warm April

Boats back
On the dock
Rubbing sleepy eyes

To Not Look Back

The crows, floating

With the wire

Black licorice

Under their claws

Beseeched not to pause

The south, they went

For He Whose I Am

The bus had been 19 hours and 12 minutes of wasted time.

“What were you thinking?”
“I don’t know. I obviously wasn’t thinking, judging by your reaction.”
“Go home.”
“Okay.”

She was now seated on the bench at the bus station, under the pretense of waiting for the next bus. In her hands, she held the pocket watch.

“That one.”
“This one? Miss, this one is an expensive watch.”
“I know.”
“Ok. Cash or charge?”
“Is it extra to engrave?”
“No, Miss. It’s complimentary. I will get you a sheet of paper.”

For he whose I am.

Counting her money again, she hesitated from buying a ticket. Why did she think he would come and stop her? Just because she came so far? Held back this long, her tears were heavy, overripe and finally fell like devastating bombs on the dry skin of her hands.

Feeling better after her cry, she stood up with purpose to buy her ticket and return home. She would write the whole thing off as an experience, an adventure, and fodder for her work. Maybe she would even get a book out of it…

“Violet!” Then, he was there.

Skin

someday to me someday’s skin someday’s taste
fantasy to you, fantasy’s skin, fantasy’s taste
forever to us
forever skin

I

I love words

two

syllables long