Some prisons have walls
That reach to sky
Cells, fences, and gates
That roll powerfully by
Closing in prisoners
Cutting them off
From people and places
They’d formerly been caught.
Some prions have barriers
Invisible to see
That hold us in places
We’d rather not be
With or without
Fear, tear, or pout
They keep us from growing
They dry us right out.
Some prisons are lovely
Set on a hill
That overlooks freedom
But overthrows will
Or captures our hearts
Our spirits
Or minds
And trap us with things
Once wanton, divine.
Some prisons have names
Or titles attached
That hold us to standards
Or rumors
Or traps
Otherwise fine
To all but who know
Of the shackles they bear
Of the duty bestowed.
All prisons hold someone
Like you or like me
From being the person
We wanted to be.
So be it a fortress
Of crime or of fortune
Be it a choice
Or by nature’s contortion
Cometh by parentage
Or cast down as doom
We each find ourselves
Alone in that room
Under shadows that hang
Or with clasping cuff cuts
That slice like a knife
Through our throats
Or our guts
Our souls or our spirit
Our hopes and our dreams
And leave us to ponder
What life would’ve been
If not for the prisons
That capture us all
One way or another
Before that last call.
Parenthood
Laundry, bills, and paperwork,
Appointments, cleaning, go bizerk.
Balance checkbook, empty pails,
Birthday cards are in the mail.
Diarrhea, midnight feedings,
Potty training, endless needing.
Child proofing, baby gates…
Remember when we went on dates?
“Mommy, Mommy, I want more!”
“Why’s there poopy on the floor?!”
Cups get spilled and things get lost.
“Wait, how much does that thing cost?!”
Big toy messes, packing lunches,
Planning parties, huge time crunches.
Bathe the kids and take a shower,
Due to be there in an hour.
Baseball practice, football, hoops,
Momma’s taxi loop-de-loops.
Who was naughty, who feels sick.
10 billions times: “no throwing sticks!”
Homework, field trips, and flu shots.
Load the dishes, wash the pots.
Day for pictures, day for trash,
Day for… Ugh, is that a rash?
And in the middle of it all
The hubby makes a booty call.
Pack for school then pack for play,
Need a day off from vaca!
Teething, falls, emergencies.
Sibling fight, go referee.
Who had it first? Who took it last?
“Say that again, I’ll spank your…!”
Time out, crying, slamming doors,
Angry feet on hardwood floor.
“Child, I will not take this crap!”
Holy smoke, I need a nap.
Cell phones, tv, video games,
Way too much will rot your brains.
Elbows down and stand up straight,
Hurry now, or we’ll be late.
No hats inside; say thank you, please.
Scrub dirty toes, kiss scraped up knees.
Brush their teeth and comb their hair,
Clip the nails… “We almost there?”
High school drama in first grade.
“Mommy stay here, I’m afraid.”
Bring in the mail, toss out the junk,
Pay a tutor so they don’t flunk.
Back to school night, chorus, testing,
Sleeping over – never resting.
All this stuff seems never ending,
Fund raise, scouting, candy vending,
Teach to drive, to read, to eat,
Wash those butts and little feet,
Pregnancy worries, childbirth,
Remind me please what it’s all worth?
Give up your life, your waist, your fun
For all this stuff that’s never done.
Day after day after day after day,
And they’re the only ones who play.
But in the end, one thing is true,
You love them more than you love you,
So who cares if your hair has grayed,
Your house a wreck, your nerves all frayed?
You did for kids what you though was best,
And you hope they’re ready for the rest
Of their lives, which they will give
To yet another set of kids.
And so it goes, right down the path.
And somewhere in the aftermath,
You meet your spouse to glow together
In the clearing, sunny weather
Of children all raised
And beds all made
An empty nest.
Enjoy the rest,
Especially that side splitting stitch
That payback really is a _____.
19 Words To Make You Sweat
WARNING: Explicit Content
The following is a collection of nineteen word statements crafted as part of a personal exercise in skill-building. Though I plan to expand on this concept and create other topics of nineteen word sets, this introductory piece focuses on the wildly popular and forever taboo topic of physical intimacy, to put it politely. I encourage other writers to get in on the fun by posting their own nineteen word statements on the topic. Please be sure to use the hashtag: #19wordstomakeyousweat.
Needing
Folding
Rolling over
Like dough
But flesh
Raising and falling
Hot
Against
The softness of my bed sheets.
Coast across my skin
Your tongue
Wide
Flat
In perfect spoils
That chill my flesh
And burn my soul.
The depth at which
You come to be
Within
Is
The depth at which
I need you
To be.
Peel me back
Clenching fists
Arms and legs
Around you
List
When you let go
Trembling
For your return.
Long fingers
Stronger fingers
Wide cool palms
My sides
The path on which you ride
Into my very being.
Lay your body into me
Caress me deep
And soulfully
Do not wait
Or hesitate –
Inside
Each bit
Trembles.
Let us live forever
Immortal
In this space
Our own heaven
That exists
In every place our skin touches.
With a richness
In color
In shape
In depth
I welcome the drowning
Breathlessness
And desperation
Of this submission.
Growth Through Limitations
I’m not one for writing prompts in their most traditional sense. Personally, I never found it worthwhile for me to spend any amount of time writing on my character being in some situation beyond the reality I’ve constructed for them. I have never sent my heroine into a coffee shop only to discover she’d lost her wallet on the bus because there isn’t anything I can learn about my character participating in a scenario that exists entirely outside of her world. Making a list of penetrating questions and developing a solid dossier always seemed far more productive.
While writing prompts have never appealed to me, I have a respect for and understanding of the necessity to build agility, impact, and overall skillfulness regarding literary devices. My difficulty has always been finding exercises that develop these strengths without dragging my out-of-the-ordinary characters through everyday mediocrity as part of their practice.
Like all writers, I presume, I tend to experience what I refer to as drips: standalone sentences, two-minute long dialogue exchanges, and simple statements that spill out of my brain and onto paper. Sometimes they are junk, but other times they are brilliant and not to be ignored. After all, just because I’m not writing a larger piece that would include a particular sentence doesn’t mean the sentence itself is not worth being shared.
As writers, we take those random thoughts and squirrel them away, leaving them in piles of other scrapes, a treasure trove of future inspiration or a pile of garbage we only peruse when we are drunk and feeling the pressure of writer’s block and its accompanying self-pity. But what if we could use them as building blocks with which we can develop the aforementioned skillset?
Much the way a visual artist might doodle as a means of playing with ideas and practicing techniques, creating parameters in which to manage these drips gives us the chance to develop our skills. It is a realization that I had while rock climbing, of all things. In climbing, I am learning that by limiting options along the route, I am forced to see my situation with a greater sense of creativity, to take bigger risks, and to balance style with learned technique. Why not manage these writing drips in the same way?
Thus, I have designed for myself a limitation… Use exactly 19 words to make a single statement with as much skill and impact as I can conjure. Why 19? Because 18 didn’t seem like enough, and 20 was overkill. What an odd number, 19. It never gets any play.
Over the next several months, I will be posting to Instagram and Twitter hashtags that use this 19 word format. The first to be rolled out is #19wordstomakeyousweat, and it focuses on the erotic. Writing, much like speaking and reading, about sex is something that many enjoy but few share. (My, what would so many be reading if not for those of us willing to put the words together and let others read them?) My hope is that others will join in and use the hashtag to share their 19 words… both in this introductory exercise and in those still forthcoming. I’ll be posting my own collections here on the blog, and sharing some of them via Instagram and Twitter. If you’d like to play along, please feel free to post in the comments on my blog, or to use the hashtag across social media.
Enjoy. Have fun. Let go. As artists, our best work is the product we get when we combine both our creativity and our courage. Take the chain off and run with it.
Linen Lies
A curtain hangs between us,
a fabric of deception,
a grainy, textured falsehood
almost undetected.
Your words have been selected
so carefully, I find
this linen-like expression
of neatly woven lines.
A closeness you surrender
every time you move.
Your touch is soft and tender
but my skin remains unsmoothed.
Flimsy and thin,
they’re easily told
and easier wrinkled.
I see them unfold…
The truth comes not between us.
The truth I never know.
Just linen lies that keep us
from feeling what we show.
April 20, 2001
The Square Lens
True artists rarely have one form of expression. Though most of us have a preferred manner of speaking, if you will, it hardly prohibits us from babbling in other languages. We can’t help it. Creativity is not a singular experience, nor is it inspired by one thing. Creative people are mediums who channel an energy that can come through in any number of ways. We can see a painting and write a poem, or read a poem and paint a scene.
I have always had a strong attraction to visual arts, though words are my favorite tool. I can put a pen to paper and generate emotion, display images, introduce people to the world, and create entire universes. For me, the writing experience is highly visual, however. I see everything I write. I have never, conversely, been able to recreate those images with the same level of accuracy using any other tool – a frustrating reality for a person who loves working in the visual medium.
While my paints, pastels, and pencils may wield their own unique style – one which I do not necessarily love and can’t seem to alter, I have discovered a newer form of visual expression that has proved to be both satisfying and inspired. Instagram.
I’m sure every digital artist in the room has just sighed and possibly choked back a bit of their last meal, but hear me out.
There is a natural pairing between words and images. They speak to and inspire one another. The world is full of snapshots, tiny visual blips that exist in millions of spaces and at any given second… The turning spokes of a bicycle wheel as it rolls past the rigid immobility of a sewer grate… A vulture’s perch on a playground post… The softness of a flower somehow growing from the crevice of a stone… As a writer, I look at these things and see emotions, stories, poems, single sentences, lists of adjectives. Capturing these blips gives me that chance to share the visual experiences in life that inspire me. The option to adjust filters, angels, and finishes only extends and enhances the creative experience. Simple applications that allow me to lay the words I see across that image bring me to a state of digital ecstasy, allowing me to indulge in an entirely new medium.
Like many writers on Instagram, I am writing in a whole new way, drawing in followers using art conveyed with the split-second swiftness we have come to expect in the digital age. Squared off click-bait that must not only get attention but compel those that view it to want more of what I can provide. Learning to use these tools to promote myself as an artist of both words and images is vital to my success in the professional sense, but it is also wildly amusing and deeply inspiring… The world becomes a highly flammable substance with which I fuel the fires of my creativity.
Sure, there are tons of annoying “chat live” ladies and countless narcissists posting half-nude duck-faced selfies… But never let the glare of some make you blind to the beauty of all who lie in the shadows. Art is everywhere, even on Instagram. We need only open our eyes to it.
The Mountain
I am obsessed with you
With everything about you
The way you look
The way you feel
To me
As my body
Moves over you
The sounds around you
The way you preside over everything
Everything
It’s true
You have brought me pain
Defeat
Injury
But every time
That I return
To stand at your feet
And look upon you
In all your majesty
I feel none of those things
They are gone from me
From my memory
From my body
And all I feel is courage
And hope
And fire
To go forward
To push upwards
To make myself worthy of the view from your shoulders
Because I want you
Under my feet
Under my belt
And crossed off my list
Because you
You are the mountain
And I
I was born to summit
The Empty Box
There is a void
In this room
A starkness
In space
Since you left here
With none
To replace
Your smile
Your charm
You static disarming whisper-like breath
Your verses
Of passion
Your sensuous jest
Your pear golden eyes
Now the world looks like less
Than it was
Than it is
A place that once fizzled
Is flaccid and drib
You stripped it all down
It all went away
A life that was full
Now echoes in grey
But not for not wanting
A lovelorn departing
Without ever quite leaving
Me safely from you
Still tied to your words
Your lips where they’d sit
The kisses between them
The silence of split
The bare walls around me
The vacancy sign
The murmur of nothing
This cube
This nude shrine
To you
And to us
Or at least what I thought
And what should I do with a heart under lock?
I shall stow it inside
This now empty box.
Native Affair
All my life, I’ve been having a love affair with native America. I have always found the culture, people, customs, and landscapes to be among the world’s most beautiful. I perceive the demolition of North America’s pre-Western society and the loss of its culture as being among history’s most disturbing genocides. Suffice it to say, I have a deep sense of compassion and respect for our indigenous people.
Since initial conception, I knew that my novel would have to have Native American characters and that much of the storyline would take place in a world dominated by native culture. Being a “white woman” raised in East Coast urban chaos, I, like my characters, was walking into a world I knew nothing about.
I have the advantage that I’m writing speculative fiction, a genre crafted by masters like Vonnegut, Huxley, and Orwell, a genre as layered with imagination as it is with serious research and defendable theory. Because I am writing a possible future, I am given the flexibility of projecting reality with curvature. I can apply any inconsistency to present day knowledge as long as I can justify it with the series of events that caused it to veer from “the way it is.” I can not, however – under any circumstances, allow this flexibility to make shallow, cheapen, or stereotype my native characters.
Using a mix of scientific theories on how various social and environmental disasters would affect our natural world, I was able to create a projection of how our society would be forced to change over time. Since there is, of course, more than one possible outcome, I juxtaposed the two most likely and most contrary scenarios. Blending historically documented accounts of tribal living and natural resources with the theorized changes in the environment, I designed a future in which a much altered version of our American history is playing out, an ecotopia marred by the nightmarish consequences of present disregard for our human habitat, a place where survival has triumphed because of native wisdom.
Living deep within this world are strong, beautiful native characters who come to the forefront as well as line the background of the story. Paying homage to what was through factual study, I needed to also pay homage to what is and what could be by paying attention to the subtleties that could not be explored through traditional research. So, I reached out to the tribes.
I am so glad I did this.
Three tribes are represented in my book, and I have made contact with elder members of all three. A native language professor, a chief, and a cultural expert – respectively. I have spoken with other tribal members in my efforts to reach the individuals best suited to answer my questions, and each conversation was helpful in some way. Discussing my story with people who happily and immediately shared my ambition for cultural accuracy was beautiful and inspiring.
My sincerest wish is that when they received the copies I promised to send, they will be happy with what I have done. I’m not sure how I would live with myself if I dropped this ball… No pressure, though, right?
Is it hot in here? I feel like it just got really… uh, whew…
Ripe Hearts
Pear trees,
and sunshine,
whispering willows,
and pussy willow pillows.
Kissing you
underneath
the falling blossoms
of breezy cherry trees,
whimsical and pink,
like my cheeks,
warm with the heat of
adoration divine.
Your love feels like
cool, crisp juice,
quenching, refreshing,
apple, peach, plum.
Lips are red,
full of blood,
engorged like
sweet, summer strawberries.
I fall onto
the lush green
of a grassy hill
and gaze up at a
canopy of color,
like a shading,
shadowing umbrella
made of tiny green leaves
swaying gently in the sky.
The warmth of you,
like the warmth of sunlight,
covers me as you cover me.
My toes still cool in the air.
As you touch
soft hands to my
soft white tummy,
I fill up again.
Filled with feelings,
I smile and sigh.
A warm breeze wafts by.
The leaves overhead
sound like the ocean.
The grass is cool
beneath us.
The sun is warm
above us.
Our arms and legs
wrapped up like
grape vines
on a fence of
faith and trust.
You kiss me again.
Your kiss is so sweet,
sweeter than
Queen Anne cherries,
more like
mandarin oranges.
Heaven above,
how I love
the taste of
your warm
and juicy
passion fruit kisses.
8/2000

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