KWL

Sitting at conference tables

Name tags indicate

our area of expertise

I have a flashback to first grade

Putting desks into groups of four

I was in the Bluebird group

(for the highest level of reading)

along with equivalent peers

I felt safe and secure

 at the top

Striving to singlehandedly

out-do Dick and Jane

But deep down

I've always wanted to be a Robin:

unabashed, troublesome, and

"at-risk"

Their group required courage,

boldness and impulsivity

They didn't mind being illiterate

or not getting the worm.

I bet my colleagues were Bluebirds, too.

We debate educational concepts and theories,

reinventing the wheel

for this generation of aviators

While most people long for

the Bluebird's remarkable color,

I have always envied

the Robin's unapologetic song.

The Eye of Joy

        Andontis tugged on his mother's white cloak urgently.

        "Did you ever visit the Eye of Joy when you were a youngling?" he inquired.  They had been standing in line for 136 hours approximately, and he was tired of holding his elimination container.  Andontis unstrapped the satchel around his mother's neck and hurriedly pushed the silver can inside.  His mother admired her son's ability to distract her so covertly as he unburdened himself.

        Geniha estimated another six hours or so, as they were getting closer now and she could see the outline of the pale building across the barren landscape.  The craters shed a strange shadow and she remembered the way the structure resembled a youngling's translucent lips.  Adontis had lived nine rotations now, and his lips had turned from a translucent pale to a dark gray already.  Another mark of his turning from youngling to an Overlord.

        Geniha smiled nostalgically and watched the crowd in front, behind.  All various shades of gray as they shifted in anticipation.  The pigment had left their race long ago, and the chemicals used to sustain life made the vegetation and sky a frosty silver.  Even though smoky atmosphere appeared to reach forever,  Geniha had heard the stories of places beyond where her ancestors had journeyed from eons ago.

        "My grandOver, your great-great grandOver took me here when I was about your age, Andontis," she began.  "I had already visited the Relic of Rubix Cube in Tankcora, so I was excited to see another one of the ten Wonders of ROYGBIV.  The line back then was somewhat shorter, or maybe it didn't seem as long because we didn't complain back then," she joked.

         Andontis broke open a Fuel Capsule and drank the milky center, rolling his eyes.

       "Back then very few Overlords got to visit all ten Wonders in their lifecycle.  You should be glad you have a mother who has vacation time from the Colony.  Maybe someday, you will come with one of your own younglings."  Geniha pulled the blanket around both of them tighter.

        "I'm so excited," Andontis beamed, "I can't wait!" 

        He imagined what would happen as best he could from the stories he heard floating around the Colony.  From what his neighbor told him, he would enter a large spherical building.  There would be armed guards standing on either side of the door, but they were just there to make sure the Eye of Joy was safe and handled gently.  They would be wearing reflective helmets so Andontis wouldn't be able to see their faces but they could see his.  

        Once he entered, he would approach the concrete shelf in the center of the room. (His mom would probably come in with him, just to make sure he knew what to do.)  Andontis would ever so carefully pick up the Eye of Joy and bring it to his visor shield.  He would then lift the shield and peer into it so that it would cover his entire field of vision.  Finally, he would being spinning the Eye ever so slowly to see one of the ten Wonders of ROYGBIV!  The anticipation was crushing him as he sat down on the rocky terrain. 

      "Mom?" Andontis said.

     "Yes, dear?" she replied.

     Andontis wondered aloud, "Is the Eye of Joy heavy?"

     "No, baby," Geniha chuckled.  "Not for a soon-to-be Overlord like yourself!"

     "Good!" he sighed.  "Because it would be terrible to wait all of this time and not be able to lift it."

      Andontis's mother smiled knowingly and began to feel the tingles of excitement growing deep in her belly as well. 

      "I can't explain what it's like," she brushed his white hair out of his eyes.  "There was an old saying about it being worth a thousand words.  But that was back when a thousand was a lot.  So just imagine a thousand words, but alive."

      Andontis shuddered and grinned.

        

This was written for Magpie Tales.

who i am--barest of bones

autobiography of a [insert applicable noun]

       age 5: count things. over and over. until they feel right.  meet new words.
       age 10:  count possessions. again and again. until i am soothed.  befriend new words.
       age 15:  count identities. repeat and repeat.  until they express life.  overuse hyperbole by exaggerating words.
       age 20:  count substances. inhale and exhale. until i cannot feel.  forget many words.
       age 25: count relationships. begin and end. until i find myself. manipulate words.
       age 30:  count knowledge.  rewind and fast forward. until i am soothed. appreciate new words.
      

The Tell

 I don't carry many secrets anymore.

My eyes speak of both abandoned hopes

and fulfilled dreams.

The hesitance in my steps signals

that I am well-acquainted with fear.

You see, my secrets are horrible at

keeping to themselves.

The way I avert my eyes when in your presence

Is so my skin won't burn

when looking directly at you

By now I'm certain

that the world can see,

if given the chance,

I would sit contently in the warmth of your sun

and live a million years

discovering all of your secrets.

Poet's United gave us the prompt of "secrets."  I know my secret is safe, here, with you :)

on a day like today

Some days (liketoday) i am just proud of myself for getting out of bed in the morning.
Things i am grateful for today:

1. the sun. yesterday there was a tremendous storm that brought freezing rain.  monday we had a few inches of snow.  i laughed to myself because i know God at times throws us a curveball because he can.  Just to remind us that we are not the ones who make the flowers grow.
2. thursday is one day away from friday.
3. yesterday i was watching oprah and she was telling me to only take what i need. (ironic, coming from the richest woman on the planet, right?)  today i have everything i need, in fact i think im gonna have some chocolate for breakfast because i can.
4. new carpet coming tomorrow!
5. .........i'm running late and i will have to fill in #5 later

Over-Easy

A salty yolk breaks over my soul

Yellow, yellow! What a gorgeous sight!

Yellow crayons, yellow blocks

and yellow pencils I do hold tight--

Sticky mustard dripping down

Clever cat eyes in the night

Yellow I see! Yell...

 Oh! A dandilion's fanciful flight!

Sweet orb of yellow:

You are the center of the sun

and every starry night

The center of the flowers

and every new delight.

This was written for Magpie Tales and also using NaWriPoMo's suggestion about writing about a color.

O is Originations

         I came home this afternoon from a friend's baby shower.  I'm at that age where there are usually a buncha babies at these events (duh, right?) and usually around the same age.  Anyway, there were quite a few under one.  Mostly they were old enough to sit up on their own but not old enough to be screaming and running all the time.  A pretty good age, for those of us who are kid-less.  We can play with them without fear of breaking them, also knowing that they can't really tell us if our breath stinks or ask why our boobs are so big. 
         So as i was looking around the room at these toddlers (?) i was beginning to wonder at what point is the point when we screw up irreversably.  "We" meaning the adults, the caregivers, the theoretical parents.  At what point do we mess them up so badly that they will spend a lifetime "dysregulated" (*this is the newest medical jargon) and therefore pretty much jumping from institution to institution?  Most of the kids i work with had marks against them before they even popped out.  Many were born from a parent that was using drugs at the time of conception and/or birth.  Some were products of rape, and some have no idea who their bio father is/was.  Sometimes even the mother doesn't know.  Not even "his name's joe and he's from new jersey."  Literally they won't ever know.  Before they even found the start line they were fucked.
        So exactly what age was it when they figured out that they were disposable; that they must only trust themselves to meet their own needs? And when exactly is it that you can do irrepairable damage to a human?  Is it when the parent decides to loan out the baby for sex/drugs?  Is it when they push it down stairs, try to drown it in the bathtub, use it as a frequent ashtray for fun?  It is when they start molesting it themselves or lock it in a room and leave it alone for a few days to sit in its soiled clothes? What about when they chain it to a bed or lock it in a cage?  Pour boiling water on it or use the iron when they are too lazy to beat the kid?  Is it when they use it as a human shield from law enforcement officers? Or is it when they abandon it all together?
       It's quite strange that we don't remember anything before the age of 5, approximately.  Wouldn't it be odd if you could remember your birth?  What would be the first thing we would've seen?
       I have a lot on my mind today, mostly regarding the concept of chance and luck.  Do i want to believe that i have someone to thank for this?  What did i do to deserve having all of my needs met at the beginning?  And what did they do to not?  Yes, basically the injustice of the universe and other baffling questions.  As i ate my chocolate cupcake, surrounded by old friends, the only thing i could come up with was gratitude. 

The Waking

by Theodore Roethke

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.

I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?

I hear my being dance from ear to ear.

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?

God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,

And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?

The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do

To you and me; so take the lively air,

And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.

What falls away is always. And is near.

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

I learn by going where I have to go.

   

       It's another day where i cannot get my words right.  I had to take state certification exams all day, and my worst nightmare came true when i overslept AND forgot a pencil.  Yikes!  God stepped in, though, when i happened to be randomly seated (out of a whole building of test-takers) two seats up from an acquaintance who had an extra pencil.  I also saw Robert Redford's The Conspirator last night and it really messed with my head.  Extremely fascinating and hard to watch.   I would recommend it highly.  So in summary, my brain is mush!  i thought i'd just give you one of my favorites instead.
      P.S. Poetic Asides suggested writing a profile poem that describes who you are in "social media" style.  Roethke has written my "About Me" section.

Dear Piano Teacher

tick tock tick tock

just hearing your metronome

made me anxious beyond belief

tick tock tick tock

ABCDEFG ABCDEFG

practicing scales on a Sunday afternoon

was equivalent to torture

ABCDEFG ABCDEFG

tick tock tick tock

i would hide in your bathroom for twenty minutes

to escape sitting with you

tick tock tick tock

ABCDEFG ABCDEFG

your apartment smelled like old lady

and your breath smelled like old socks

ABCDEFG ABCDEFG

tick tock tick tock

to this day i can't play a note

and i wouldn't want too, anyway

tick tock tick tock

 

ABCDEFG ABCDEFG

because when i see pianos

I think of those thirty minutes each week

with you

                    The writing prompt for today from Poetic Asides was to write about a relationship you had with somebody from your past.  I guess I needed to let the ten year old oppositional Templeton out today.

FaCiNg YoU

There is a freckle
that lives at the corner of your eye
And when i see it

I am reminded of sandboxes and Capri Suns
Soccer fields and junebugs
(and ladybugs and lightning bugs, too, for that matter)

Even though your hair is gone
And laugh lines have carved
deep parentheses around your mouth

There is a certain comfort
knowing the history of that freckle
goes unchanged

despite
the ever-changing landscape
of your face


The prompt for this week over at Theme Thursday was FACE.  Go check out some great stuff!

Headlines

       You know you're a writer if, when faced with the prospect of eminent death, you start constructing what tomorrow's newspaper headline would read...

LATE-NIGHT FLAT TIRE LEADS
TO KIDNAPPING OF LOCAL GIRL

STRAY M&Ms FOUND ON SEAT
PROVIDE NO CLUES

H is for "Hold my purse!"

           I'm reading Jane Eyre for the first time.  I'm about halfway through and by page 10 I already love Jane.  I know i'm supposed to love Rochester, but Jane's tendency toward emotionality and self-hatred speaks to me.  Let me give you a taste:

          'He is not to them what he is to me,' I thought, 'he is not of their kind. I believe he is of mine;--I am sure he is,--I feel akin to him--I understand the language of his countenance and his movements; though rank and wealth sever us widely, I have something in my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, that assimilates me mentally to him....I must then repeat continually that we are for ever sundered;--and yet; while I breathe and think I must love him.'

         

          Do you see what I mean? Don't you want to smooth her brow, give her some confidence and tell her that she should man up and go after what she wants? Or are you too much of a realist for that and want to shake her thoroughly, give her some therapy and tell her that she should be with someone who appreciates her?  Either way, I know you love her, too.  If Jane were alive to day (and not a fictional character), she would be what I like to call a "Purse-holder."  I know this because I have been one myself.  Being a Purse-holder can surely have it's benefits, but for a timid spirit like Jane and myself, purse-holding can be a handicap that cripples even the most perfect scenarios.

         

             What is a Purse-holder, you ask?  Imagine a group of young ladies out for an evening on the town.  They decide to go dancing, which makes Purse-holder immediately intimidated.  But, being the good sport she is, Purse-holder makes like she is up for anything.  Upon entering the club, Purse-holder will always let her friends enter first.  It may appear that she is being considerate by making sure everyone gets inside okay, but the truth is Purse-holder needs a buffer between herself and whatever unpredictable chaos is going on behind that front door.  She will send a few friends in as sacraficial lambs first to scope out the situation, and if they arent spit out promptly or run screaming back onto the street, she will decide it's safe enough to proceed.   (Don't ask me what Purse-holder is afraid of--that's a silly question because you are predesposing rationality.  Purse-holder is scared of everything.)

Okay, Purse-holder and friends have made it unharmed into the club, where after doing a preliminary walk around the perimeter walls, they decide it's time to shake their bootys.  (What is the correct spelling of bootys, btw?)  A dilemma ensues, because there are no tables, and there's no way they'd leave their purses anywhere on the piss and beer covered floor.  Quickly they look around at each other, sizing up who is the most outgoing, who isn't afraid to get groped by a stranger, who would be off the dance floor soon anyway to get another drink, etc... A hundred silent conversations happen in a matter of a few seconds, when out of conundrum, Purse-holder speaks a solution.  This is where she shines. 

          "You guys go," she offers.  "I'll stay here and hold the purses."

          Now, there are benefits to being a purse-holder.  For one, you are guaranteed a spot on the wall, a "post" if you will, where you must remain, lest your friends be lost in the abyss of gyrating hips.  They need to be able to spot you at a moment's notice, come back to re-apply lipstick, and tell you how many weirdos grabbed their asses.  Your necessary "post" position makes you indespensible to the group. 

          Another positive aspect of being a Purse-holder is that this automatically gives you an excuse as to why you can't a) hold someone's hair who is puking in the bathroom b) be pulled out into the sea of groping hands c) go hang out with some weirdo in the parking lot for drugs or d) leave with said weirdo. 

          Now, as Jane would attest, there are downfalls to being a Purse-holder.  For one, you are usually surrounded by your friends, insulated from someone who may or may not be actually fun to talk to.  The guy must work extra-hard to penetrate this layer of obnoxiousness to gain access to Purse-holder.  Many guys, even worthy ones, opt instead for your friend whose perky nipples are bouncing around on the dance floor.  I don't blame him either, your friend is practically wearing a sign that reads: Open for Business.  Foreigners special discount.  Drink-buyers get a blow job.  

         Also, being a wallflower lends to excellent people watching.  Normally after the twentieth techno-trance song you want to shoot youself in the head.  But if you have a plethora of people to observe, it makes the night more entertaining.   On some nights it's almost as if the wallflower fairy came down and gave you a special present for getting to watch these strange beasts jump around in spastic moves charading as dancing.

          

           Back to what i was saying...Jane was a Purse-holder before her time.  Her intelligence and reserved nature make her a prime target for loneliness and insecurity.  I really hope she steps up and lays her cards on the table or that Rochester admits to her that he loves her (which, it's a Bronte novel, i'm sure it's gonna happen).  The part of me that believes in fairy tales wants them to get together in the end.  The Purse-holder part of me says that he's gonna find some other chick and Jane will go insane pining over him for the rest of her solitary, tragic life.  Either way, i think it's gonna be worth seeing.



        The preceding was written for Studio 30+, a new community i joined this week.  The prompt was RISK.

G is for Gone

Anything i could've said....

What i said...

F is for Frustration

i can't get my words in order today, so i'm gonna borrow some from Edna St. Vincent Millay:

Spring



To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death
But what does that signify?
Not only under the ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

The Leveling Effect

we stand,
as members of the same tribe,
in the kitchen making small talk.

There's a strange underlying discrepancy
because
somewhere along the line
while sitting next to a fire
your great great great great grandfather
decided he didn't like my great great great great grandfather
(or maybe it was the other way around)
because one had more sheep
or one had more women
or one's skin started to darken
or one found the promised land first
or one faced the correct way while praying
or one had a better seat on the heaven bound train

such a shame these men
because their make-believe rituals don't matter now
my fire is still your fire
my tree is still your tree
my air is still your air

and we all mourn the same.


This is in response to this week's idea of making fire over at We Write Poems.

A Definition

The following piece was written for my first entry at Six Word Fridays, where the goals is to use the prompt word in some sort of 6 format (six words, six lines per word, six lines total, etc.).  The word for this week was "again."

A gain.

Profit, advantage, increase in obtaining something

as magnificent as your sole attention

Arriving at or drawing nearer to

your magnetic eyes, arms, and charm

Advancing toward desired object or goal

of your sweet smile and scent...

all of this makes me wonder

when can i see you again?



A Miraculous Epidemic

[scene] Egg and Sperm meet over coffee

[spotlight]

[Humanity enters stage Left]

Director yells:  Give me...an adorable monster (vomit, fuzzy eyes and soft gums)
                    then show me a miraculous cruelty (nightmares, broken bones,
                    and a translucent ego)
                      a delicious plague (strawberry chapstick, bathroom stalls and insecurity)
                      a rotten beauty (crows feet, vast hips, and vodka dreams)
                      a filthy rainbow (cardboard boxes, broken garage door openers and cat litter)
                      a terrible courage (aching cavities, crisp linens and clipboards)
                      a blissful punishment (Tums, aching joints and sunburned knees)
                      a melodic tragedy (musty closets, mismatched socks, and old polariods)
                      a gorgeous devestation (doctors, bingo and forgetfulness).
                      End with a repulsive serenity (tremors, front porches and white light)


Humanity:  Such is the nature of mortality.


[Humanity exits stage Right.]


           I totally had help this week coming up with these wonderful oxymorons using the supercool tool found here.  Thanks to NaPoWriMo for the suggestion~Also One Single Impression for the prompt of  "Epidemic."
                     

D is for Diet Coke

I can't deny you are a rotten nutrient,

but oh such a delectable poison!

The Refraction of Water

           Stephen Banks never had perfect vision.  He did not discover that he had 50/10 vision, however, until age twelve, when the teachers at PS 404 demanded that he be taken to be tested.  He was always the quiet, helpful child in the back row who never had a lunch and got by in school and life mostly through the generosity of his peers.  He had to learn early on to rely on the kindness of strangers.  This gratitude and the desire to give back, in turn, led him to the job he currently holds at Meadowbrook Nursing Home. 
           He was able to end his shift early to head to the Walmart's parking lot and began waiting anxiously.  The big day was finally here.  Stephen wondered if she would recognize him; he was ashamed to admit to himself that her face was a distant memory to him now.  Mostly when he thought of her the only thing he could pull out of his memory was the smell of Newports and Elvis songs.  It's funny what the mind chooses to remember and what it chooses to forget.
            Focusing on the street, he saw a white Buick Le Sabre pull hesitantly into the empty parking lot.  He sucked in his gut automatically (even though he was still in his truck) and checked his teeth in the rearview mirror.  At this point what's done is done, he repeated to himself like a mantra, in reference to the situation.  Fear gripped his chest and he held nervously onto the door handle as the Le Sabre slowed to a crawl by the side of his truck, finally stopping three spots down from him.  Would she be angry that he didn't look for her sooner?  Should he be less angry that she didn't?
           The rain was coming down gently now, as if the universe was playing into the dramatics occurring in the Walmart parking lot. 
           When he couldn't take one more second of the panic in his throat he opened the door, strangely comforted by the familiar feel of the spring shower against his skin.  He did not know her smile or remember her voice, but he was certain of the sound of the rain smacking on the asphalt.  At once Stephen became hyperaware of her vague form approaching. He kept his head downward, willing himself to keep walking toward her as well.  The five year old boy in him was too terrifed to look directly at her.  Scenes of countless foster homes played in his memory.  Everything had brought him here to this.
          There was a lightness in his head as he felt his glasses slide off his face and heard them bounce on the pavement.  
          Bending down, he blindly fumbled for them. Crouching to retrieve them, he suddenly became furious that her first impression of him after all this time would be this.  He couldn't even keep glasses on his face! Years of hatred boiled up and he felt the vomit begin to rise in his throat.  
          "Stephen?" her voice called and anchored him briefly to the earth.
          He swallowed and began to put his glasses back on as he stood in front of this shadowy, colossal figure that had followed him all his life.  A phantom had become flesh.    There was a brief moment before she came into focus that Stephen saw the cresent shape reflections of the water droplets on his glasses.  He knew that when he looked past them, for the first time, he would see his mother.      


I'm sorry this Magpie was so long, i know usually we like to keep these short...but i am avoiding a take home exam and writing this was more pleasureable that doing the dishes.  Thanks for reading!

C is for Core

                

             There's an anorexic on the treadmill in front of me.  I'm not being facetious or funny, i mean like a legit anorexic.  One where her muscles are all ropey from malnourishment and her legs look a baby colt's. I've got her routine down now to a science.  She hops on the third or fourth treadmill in the front row in between 3:25-3:30 PM everyday (alright, i don't go every day myself but that's a technicality. and on the days i do go, she's there and still sprinting when i leave).  She wears those running shorts that are cut up the side, usually in green and sometimes in fuchsia. You know the kind.  The ones that runners wear to identify themselves as runners that I'm pretty sure are only sold at secret stores.
              Anyway, Anorexic hops on and begins jogging.  At the fifteen minute mark she takes off her shirt to continue running in her black sports bra, never skipping a beat.  She doesn't break for water.  She's too tough for water.  At 4:00 she plugs an earphone in her right ear and listens to Oprah on one of the giant televisions in front of me.  I wonder if she's deaf  in her left ear or has a phobia about using both earbuds.  I make up stories about her from the elliptical machine when I'm not too busy scrolling through my playlists or jumping off to visit the drinking fountain.  It's sad when rehydrating becomes a fun excursion.. 
             On the whole i've gotten okay with the fact that joining this gym has turned me into a semistalker.  Not a full on stalker, mind you, where i follow strangers donning leather gloves, but a partial stalker where i  make up stories in my head about their banal, suburban lives.  There's only so much you can look at while on a freakin elliptical machine.  It's either observe people or stare at the parking lot.
             I mention this to my trainer one day, asking if the Anorexic is here all the time (i realize this totally makes me sound like a stalker and my previous statement sound not very credible-- but think what you will.)  I then announce that if i begin to look like her I'm upping my "cheat day"s from one day a week to two days a week.  My trainer is too nice to tell me that possibility is a long way off.  Instead she chuckles politely and steers me over to the rows of kettleballs.
            "We're gonna do your core now," she states briefly.  I have learned that what she means when she says this is, "I'm gonna make you do weird shit that you will hate me for."  Actually I'm still unsure as to what my "core" is exactly, but it's too late to ask my trainer at this point.  It's like when you let someone call you by the wrong name for a time and then someone else finally corrects them and you feel like the stupid one. All i know is that usually these exercises involve me rolling around on the floor while sticking my legs in the air or mimicking a mountain climber.  Sometimes there's crab-like motions from one end of the gym to the other involved.  If it's something that makes me look stupid, guarantee you it's "strengthening my core."
           This exercising thing is kind of a crock.  But i guess if i have quit smoking i might as well be openminded and punish myself some more, right?  Don't get me wrong, i love playing with giant rubber bands and putting my belongings in a 4x4 locker.  I'm just saying i wish there were parachutes or roller scooters like in elementary school.  Then i might go every day.  Until then i just need to stick with the commitment i started and reserve judgement about this...which is hard for me, because judging is one of the things i do best! 
            I will let you guys know what i think about this whole gym experience in a couple months, and if i can stick it out.  I guess it's all part of the process.  The process of what, i don't know exactly, but it is part of the process of something.  Growing up?  Trying to get my outsides to match my insides?  Letting go of fear?  My gut kinda tells me it's the last one, but i dont remember when i was taught fear in the first place.  I imagine we're all like little kids on fancy playground equipment, hoping to be noticed and not noticed at the same time.  One of these days i will walk past Anorexic, pull the plug out of her ears and scream, "Whatever you are running towards--hate to break it to you--but you're not gonna get there!"  Or maybe i will just stand back and watch her chasing ghosts from my stationary bike.  In any case, i gotta go ice my core now.
          

To All the Dead Poets

i'm continuing to post everyday for NaPoWriMo.  I thought about their prompt that addresses writing about a scenario where you die.  However, a good friend lost her grandpa today and somehow i needed a lighter version on the prompt, so i chose to modify it and imagined instead a scene where i am able to bring the dead back to life. 

     To All the Dead Poets

I wish you had been born

in this modern day and age

of pharmacology,

psychatrists,

and overeager drug representatives

Sara, i would give you Prozac

and art therapy

where you would realize he wasn't worth it

and that you don't need to swing from rope

to prove a point.

Anne, for you it would be Zoloft

to chase away those lonely nights

Soon you would laugh childishly

Not from carbon monoxide

but the way

the bird shit looks like The Scream

on the windshield of your car

Virginia, my overdramatic one!

A little Wellbutrin and fingerpainting

would be your medicine.

Silly Virginia! Don't you know

Rocks are for skipping and

Oceans are for skinny-dipping?

And last but not least:

Sylvia, dear Sylvia.

You would get the highest dose of Xanex,

some Play-Doh and knitting needles

and remember ovens are for baking

We could have a slumber party

whisper secrets and paint each others' toes;

Anne's bra would get put in the freezer

because she fell asleep first

Virginia would cry during Truth or Dare

(as she always chooses Dare, then Truth).

We would put our sleeping bags

in a circle,

tell ghost stories until

the apparitions became real...

only to then be chased away

but the early light

of Saturday morning cartoons