Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Mansion

Please don’t send her away,
let me rebuild the mansion of her memories,
let her live in sun drenched days at the beach with her first love,
in his brand new suit that got spoiled by thrown fruit from the chaos.

The food fights of young love,
that grow into dinners, where he spent all his wages to impress her,
that they wrote about in love letters,
long phone calls into the night,
until the time was right to be together for the rest of time.

Let her wake up to three squabbling children,
that are tamed and sent to school,
before she gets back on with saving the world,
from her own little corner of the Kent countryside.

Let her always reside in the mansion of her memories,
surrounded by her sisters,
and the man who was devoted for decades,
let her stay,
so adored.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Michael H

I bought you a cherry cola when we stopped for gas outside the city borders,
you looked bored, my shades atop your head,
my bubble gum lost in your jaws,
until, of course, you saw the Adonis behind the counter, saving for college, blushing a little, but flashing a smile,
as you waved like Queen Cleopatra.

Your eyeliner was messy,
because you’d slept in it,
but you had drawn a fresh heart on your left cheek,
convinced that it’s presence,
in red felt tip,
would attract a great love into your lonesome life,
along with the star that lived on the right side of your face,
that we had decided would bring you fame (or an asteroid that could be named after you, which is basically the same thing for two kids).

You asked me the hot checkout guy’s name,
pouting for at least an hour when I said I didn’t know,
barely talking,
but boldly singing to the radio all the way home.
Bay City boy,
with a smile and some sarcasm for everyone you meet,
lay down on the grass with me,
when the sun is high,
and the shadow of Independence Bridge feels even taller.
Just stay with me,
and look bored,
so bored and so beautiful.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Watching My Son Sleep

Sleeping safe,
grandmother’s blanket by the foot of the bed,
crocheted squares crashed to the floor long ago,
because just like me,
there is fire in your veins,
tornadoes tattooed inside of your skin,
and you could never stay in one place for too long.
I tuck you back in,
my throat full of all the things I want to say,
but my mind full of guilt at the thought of waking you,
so I do what I always do,
as my mother did before me,
I stare with a smile at the greatest gift I was ever given,
until my eyes are exhausted.
I became pure when you became mine.
I saw myself in a new light,
in your new, needy eyes,
I accepted that I was necessary,
that I was worthy,
because you loved me,
because you depended on me.
You are sleeping safe,
inherited eyes are tightly closed and you are dreaming,
I wonder where you go,
and I wonder if you’ve seen the heights that I’m so sure you’ll reach.
Just let me be a part of the picture your imagination paints.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Growing Up

I think wistfully about what I will be like when I grow up.

Clean credit cards,

a clean sink that gleams, as if it has never glimpsed a dirty dish,

a son, settled into sleep (I am so convinced it is a boy),

while I write,

perched on the windowsill,

singing softly to my assorted indoor plants,

and the patient glow of the moon.

There is no landlord,

and I am the lady of a tidy home,

wearing neat, sensible clothes as I turn walks to nursery school into a wild adventure,

quite out of character for my new persona,

but the last little part that I will keep of who I was.

There is a shadow of a soulmate,

when I dream about it,

always in the corner of my eye,

or just out of reach,

and sometimes,

I ask them who they are,

but there is always refusal,

so I reluctantly accept that sometimes,

you have to wait for the answers.

I spend my time,

in the current time, being stiff, distant and weird to suitors,

so I can be sure that they’ll stay,

if I get back to my old ways (which are technically my current ways),

but just like the lonely sea,

I am always left bereft,

so,

sometimes,

I think I ought to try being more palatable,

but who really wants to just be tolerated?

My son has dark brown eyes, like mine,

and I have yet to tell him that the dinosaurs are extinct,

because I cannot bear to break his heart.

He has the smallest hands I have ever held,

but they are always cold,

like a ghost,

and I haunt the hospital,

pleading for peace of mind,

while a doctor (always a male) tuts, and says that ALL new mothers are hysterical.

I have never seen my boy as baby,

so it feels unfair to be labelled as new,

but I suppose it’s one of those things where you never stop learning,

so I lean into the label,

grateful that my child gazes up at me as if I am a God.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Mary’s Boy Came Home

You came home,

long hair billowing in the spring winds,

sunlight shining through the open door as the sea of your mother’s tears finally parted and peace returned to her pillow.

She lived another lifetime in the time you were gone,

her eyes were weary but her arms were welcoming,

and you fit so neatly inside her embrace,

because it was your home.

Your soul is scarred but you don’t let her see,

breaking bread while the sun sets,

and she stares with awe filled eyes,

because her heart was gone,

three days of hell,

endured by a pure woman,

who had felt more pain than she had ever caused,

but you came home,

and now her heart is where it belongs.