Trees Drip Glitter

 Throughout this time of pandemic, my writing friend and I have been faithfully exchanging (via e-mail) 100 word stories every Sunday. This past week, we were to write a story ending with the words "That's everything, my love". A line borrowed from Victor Lavalle's brilliant/horrifying The Changeling (highly recommend it!). 

Anyways, this week I wrote my story. Actually, I wrote 3. The one I sent to my friend is not even remotely close to what I am sharing here. It was a fairly decent collection of words. It certainly had walked through the realm of semi-logical sense. But I like this one better. Despite the fact that it well exceeds the 100 word limit and refuses to make a lick of sense to anyone that is not me. I have always loved to exist inside my own kind of logic. Also, on my hike yesterday, the trees actually did drip a drop of blue glitter on my hands. I have no idea how or where or why that is possible, but how could I not share a story inspired by such magic?!

As always, I love you all and hope you are healthy, whole and at peace 💙

~*~

I watch the numbers dwindle; the skin wither; the trees drip blue glitter on the leaves of my hands. 

Whispers ‘Just a little bit more’ she dumps my whole longing on her bottomless floor

I see the stars; landing on me hair. Such fire, such sweet, sweet glow! And with stars fallen, the stairs be crumblin’, heavens lost, oh despair, despair, despair!

Whispers ‘Unravel, unravel, unravel, I’ll eat your whole soul’

If owls were lightening, I’d want them to strike me every time. Oh! look inside their eyes, holdin’ such galaxies and lives. Oh! hear it now, the thunder laughin’. Such joy wash in’ ‘way my bones. Yet I think it be time for me to find me way back home.  

Whispers ‘You are almost gone’ wraps my breath to death with a twirl of her thumb

I think I be gone now, my time be stole’, I be lost!  

Whispers, blithesome, ‘That’s everything, my love’.

~*~*~

*

Roses Are a Treachery

I got my first smart phone four years ago. In the time between then and now, I have periodically opened my phone's Notes app and written out something that can usually only be described as nonsense. Often I'll take said nonsense and (try to) coerce it into something a little more sensible and - on occasion - present that attempt here. Today though, I think I won't. Instead, I'm showing you an inside glimpse into the jumbled junk drawer of my mind; sharing what might loosely be considered a poem, but is more closely akin to that speck of dust on the ground that wishes it was a poem. It was written in bits and pieces, at different times, and I don't remember what took place when I wrote each word. I can only say inspiration came from many random books and many weird dreams and many wispy, mist-covered thoughts. And I am guessing, at some point, roses. Make of it what you will. I love you all 💙

~*~

Delight is a double-edged sword

Sending ruthless shudders to the planet's core

Pond scum and monsters 

Trembling in it's wake

Roses are a treachery

Roses creep inside your mind

Like songs hell bent for stars

Roses on your feet are delightful

Underneath your feet they are too

Their scent is beauty dipped in wild

In a pincushion of insecurities

Prickled and rife with pins

I'm lying asleep and raindrops keep

Pick, pick, picking 'part my head

I dream 

Of tons of expensive 

rings,

old keys,

copper in resin found

 by a cold,

almost horizontal,

almost waterfall

I wake to a world of ice and fire

Perhaps the most delightful thing of all

~*~*~

*

Lead Apples

Guilt

is a sheared cliff

 quicksand and ice

littered with 

broken heartbeats

so, so cold ...

It’s own bitter grief

all encompassing

tasting of 

poisoned snowdrops

and 

lead apples

tearing

‘part your stomach

Life

is one shot

by a simple arrow

but no matter

where you land

you’ll always

lose

something

~*~

~*~*~

Crows

I had a different poem ready to share today. All somber and melancholy. But then I heard a talk about crows, their mystery and beauty, and decided to write something that was a bit more uplifting. 

I hope you, reader, are happy and laughing. Healthy and whole 💙

~*~

The language of crows

refuses to go unheard

insists on being understood

They will 

create chaos

make graveyards of the sky

until we listen...

...and we should

listen...

...for crows are hatched 

with hope sewn into their feathers

they soak up life, theirs eyes 

glinting with the mystery 

of pure freedom

talons dripping the change 

most do not know how to ask for.

*

They are our human selves transformed

into an existence that promises

something more than mere 

destruction 

We should be so lucky

to be born a crow

mischievous joy bursting from our hearts

as we fly through uneven wind

after a stoic eagle - quiet, alone, lonely

We will remind him, how to laugh.

~*~

~*~*~

68

Today is my dad’s birthday. He would have been 68.

Many years ago, I think I was 11 (but could have been 13), my dad told me that instead of a birthday gift, he wanted to go fishing. Just the two of us. We went dip netting in Soldotna. Two or three days. He was excited about the fishing and father-daughter time. I was mostly excited because (at the time) Soldotna was the only place in Alaska with a Dairy Queen and I had been guaranteed a blizzard. I’ll let you decide who had their priorities in order!

It wasn’t the most successful trip in terms of fish. We caught one, in the very final hours of the trip. But our few days there gave my engineering-minded dad the opportunity to study the processes and dipnets of the people who were catching fish faster than the blink of an eye, and when we went back as a family a few weeks later – newly crafted dip net in tow – well, let’s just say my dad’s observations served him well.

But I’m getting sidetracked…on this first father-daughter weekend, the fish might not have been raising their metaphorical hands for us to catching them, but we had fun. Sometimes I was out on the shore with him. Other times I stayed in our pop-up camper, happily cleaning it and making THE MOST ridiculous birthday gift out of the various odd items I'd gleaned from the camper's tiny cupboards. (side note – that was I think, the only time in my entire life that I ever happily cleaned anything)

 On his actual birthday instead of a cake, we picked up a gigantic cinnamon roll from the grocery store. Before we ate it, I took a picture of him, sitting at the camper’s table. It’s the picture you see here; it’s one of my favorites.

Since my dad died, I’ve written numerous things about him. When I look through them all, this particularly weekend is mentioned almost every single time. That makes a sort of sense, to focus on the moments and memories that always seem to sparkle when you look on them.

Not every memory is a happy one, of course. My dad wasn’t perfect, but no one is, and I was/am no picnic myself. But he was, I think, the perfect dad for me and my sisters. I miss him every day. And I am grateful for him every day.

Friday Reflections

The bay waters are mirrored silver

If I step in will I find Wonderland

I wonder

Wandering is pristine relief

It's own form 

Of sorrow

~*~

~*~*~

Abalone

Prompt Challenge: Write the letters of the alphabet down the side of your page. Start at the top, each line will start with the letter on that line. Complete each line as it carries on from the one before.

This prompt has been resting in my inbox for a few weeks now.  Tonight, I decided it had been there a few weeks too long, so I sat down and this spilled out of me. It's dark I know, but sometimes darkness reveals the most truest of beauty. Plus, the world currently feels like it's been trapped inside Poe's Pit and the Pendulum, so you can hardly blame me...

~*~

Abalone sea shells

Bare their teeth up to the sky

Crows caw with forced clarity

Daring the mountains beneath them

Eating the clouds of hearts

Far away I’m certain

God exists in a halcyon land, there

Hope is more than a tattered gleam

Islands brim with jewel toned peace

Justice roams with a purposeful hand, but…

Killing is all I see here

Love splayed out, then drawn and quartered

Marooned upon cold sea waves that know

Nothing but cruel barbarity and

Opened doors that have never witnessed laughter

Pain is the ruling monarch

Queen of blood and death and

rage echoing with

Stained words that spill over the seconds of every page

Tripping on the bones of every scattered story

Unheard are screams for mercy, unheeded pleas for peace

Victory is found only by the violent

Wanderers who believe bravery only breeds inside slashing swords, yet

Xtal waterfalls are our true beautiful wonder, but they too fall

Yelling into gravity as each liquid stone sinks from it’s

Zenith into unbeing

*~*~*

~*~