Immersion Blog-apy

OpenLinkNight: Wrestling with Angels

2012-02-21T18:44:00.000-05:00

Wrestling with angels
begets ambivalent splendor,
twisting, turning,
leaving with permanent limp

When supernatural waters run deep,
they keep the score to life:
melody, harmony, cacophony
of uneasy questions

needing answers impossible to find

And ladders are meant for climbing
unless you're pushed down to last rung
clinging between
heaven and hell

(where He said He'd still be)

Watching ascension, descension
of winged army,
trying to single-out seraphim
who left not a moment before

bathing humanity in gold-plated adumbration

*If you've got a poem to share, please click over and link up with the amazing community that is dVerse. All are welcome.

**On a side note, I'm thinking of moving to WordPress. I'd love to hear any of the pros/cons you may have experienced if you've made a hosting switch in blog-land. Thanks, all! Looking forward to reading your poetry.

OpenLinkNight: Millstone

2012-01-18T23:09:00.001-05:00

Saggy skin
shedding 'round,
hanging loosely all about.
Stepping over piles high,
collected stacks in clouded mind

between the seconds ticking, spinning,
un-balanced loads of heaping life
thrown in jolting impartations

ever unprepared.

Cares linger
stinging even happy times with bitter.
Black drops refuse to cease.
Millstone dropping ever deep
into lake of

un-shining
waters.

See the ripples rolling
with every dark tone tolling
as if breathing, heaving
in the ears
for every. one. to. hear.

Fear is strong and mighty high
with muscles bulging
'round ringing necks
stuck always at the bottom
where all good dreams must go
to die.

** Bringing up the tail end of OpenLinkNight. Hop over to check it out if you are so inclined.

SOPA STRIKE

2012-01-18T12:10:00.000-05:00

un(clean)

2011-12-28T15:41:00.000-05:00

i
stand alone
(unnecessarily)
superior in my solitude of discontentment
world shut out to keep clean

but

clean is over-rated

on a planet soaked in filth
and hiding in a cave won't keep me pure
so spray me clean if you can
knowing i'll find my way back to the mud . . .

. . . eventually

Linking up for OpenLinkNight at dVerse. Come join us if you so desire.

Concession

2011-11-29T19:23:00.001-05:00

Spoils of battle won with

fatigued limbs lying static, heavy
against aching sides

are saturated with satisfaction sweeter

than crusades won with ease,

arms still strong.

Wisdom is no easy friend.

She means every word spoken

over a billion men

who've tasted the bitter and sweet,

who've both fought and waited on command

trusting

purpose remains beyond the darkness refusing recession

discovering
concession will always bring the hardest lesson learned.

I am beyond thankful for the community of dVerse. I have missed the creative inspiration I always find among friends and fellow word lovers in these last few weeks away, but sometimes quiet is necessary to still the mind. I'm excited to join in again this week as the ever-encouraging and always impressive Brian Miller is hosting tonight. Please feel free to join us. All are welcome!

OpenLinkNight: Perspective

2011-11-01T22:17:00.000-04:00

The lovely Claudia is hosting OpenLinkNight at dVerse. Please drop by and look around. Feel free to link up your own offering.

Perspective

Insides swell.
Cotton candy thoughts billow
replete with sweet and savory symphonies
rising inside
colliding
with dark tones denting picturesque
landscapes of mind
each competing fierce for prize

of everything or nothing.

Perched upon platitudes of digression,
heavy-handed weights tempt to
smash promises.

But covenant refuses the insolent suppressor.

Interpretations cry out
from rubble
as if Joseph still speaks from prison.

And the forgotten of today,
tomorrow will be remembered
because insanity is all about perspective.

OpenLinkNight: Suffocation

2011-10-26T00:02:00.002-04:00

The ever-talented Brian Miller is our gracious host for OpenLinkNight, so hop over and check out the articulate and inviting community of dVerse. All are welcome!

Suffocation

Do you care I
gasp for air?
Drown in nothing sea.
Quest nowhere.
Worlds polarize,
burn eyes
of expectation.

(Money matters little 'till there's none)

I want to run,
hide with U2
burst through
leaden waters,
snap capes
on oppressed shoulders,
spray words shiny, fine
for needy
to inhale, chew, swallow
sustainable syllables
until satisfaction comes
again.
Breathing means beating
into submission one's
propensity for creating
opposites.

(Disenchantment grows when fear abounds)

Frustration deludes.
Will you choose another to inspire,
rewire a brain that bleeds for me
if I can't feed you anymore?

*I'm not sure anyone will know what I'm talking about here, so I'll offer some insight. Writing is the hardest thing I've ever done that I still love to do. It is doubly hard for me to justify spending time writing when compensation is not a part of the equation. It feels selfish. This is my struggle, though I realize it is poorly expressed. This is my fight with words, with writing. If only words were enough to sustain . . .

Poetics: Pea Salad and Then Some

2011-10-22T18:21:00.001-04:00

Mark Kerstetter brought us an excellent prompt for Poetics to write from the view of The Other, and I couldn't resist when this voice started tumbling out.

Pea Salad and Then Some

Down at Cooke's today
for pea salad and Diet Coke,
and wouldn't ya know
I saw Estelle
who told me all about the h-e-double hockey sticks
Gena caused up at the Bi-lo
when she couldn't double her coupons.
Lord knows she don't need to save 59 cents that bad,
but she's gonna save them quarters 'till the day she dies.
I heard from Ms. Hazel, Gena don't tithe,
so the good Lord's getting back what's His, I say.

Um-hmmm . . .

And little Jimmy cut my grass today, bless his soul,
but you know I think he still might be a rotten apple.
He was caught red-handed stealin' . . .
what was it now?
Somethin' he stole . . . I don't know,
but cousin James heard from Lauren and Sue,
so it must be true.
I knew, oh I knew
Bob and Kim's Jimmy'd end up a bad seed,
but my Genevieve is an angel, I know.
Sweet cheerleader at the high school, on the honor roll,

Um-hmmm . . .

and I know, Lord, I know
I'm blessed to see
who's good and bad.
The good Lord, He
gave me eyes for it all,
and a strong tongue to sound the alarm
'fore the roll is called up yonder.

OpenLinkNight: Steeple-Chased Hills

2011-10-18T18:05:00.001-04:00

Today, you get to see my adorable Steven and hear my northern accent. We've been playing around as we are wont to do. We re-visited the places on our college campus where we fell in love. If for no one else, this one's for us. But, feel free to peek in on part of our story (the video is only dark in spots, and if you hang in there for a moment, a little U2 will help you make it through our banter). Can't wait to visit everyone tonight. I missed the fun last week! Feel free to link up or come read over at dVerse. We welcome all!

Darkness spills chilly raindrops,
descends upon Steeple-Chased hills
covered with lip-
stained passions,
forever-words
whispered
take breath
as silent music syncs
bodies
promised

in tiny town where
fingers first twist together.

Landscapes disappear with
dewy kisses
sealing
futures,
melding
Parker St. dreams
believing
when every eye wonders
if we've rushed love,
but
storms have yet to still
cravings.
Engravings etched
on simple bands
resonate . . .

until heaven, then forever.

ROMANCE stori. from OUR stori. on Vimeo.

Blog Action Day: ONE

2011-10-16T16:10:00.000-04:00

"When a poor person dies of hunger, it has not happened because God did not take care of him or her. It has happened because neither you nor I wanted to give that person what he or she needed." - Mother Teresa

When I read about Blog Action Day here, I knew it was a small way I could get involved to make a difference. Blog Action Day is an effort on the part of bloggers to draw attention to an important issue on the same day. This year, the focus is on food, so I'd like to draw your attention to the famine in East Africa.

ONE is an amazing organization that is working hard to prevent extreme poverty and preventable disease, especially in Africa. If you'd like to learn more about ONE, you can read much more here.

Please take a moment and go here to sign the petition to urge Congress to fully fund Feed the Future. It only takes a moment to add your voice to help put an end to famine. Thank you.

Poetics: No One Needs to Know

2011-10-16T00:50:00.000-04:00

Today's prompt for Poetics is to write about a taboo subject. Thank you to Sheila Moore and Kellie Elmore for the inspiration. So, as hard as this one was for me to let go, I believe it's important. It's not about one man, but a conglomeration of men who have misused, abused the power they held as men of God. The story crosses all denominations. As the faces change, the story sadly remains the same.

no one needs to know

Secrets stuffed deep don't disappear
They explode or implode
if they don't erode the one that holds them dear

Snake oil salesmen
sell promises of wholeness
in exchange for favors
in back rooms
in bedrooms
in plain sight

no need to hide if no one's looking

deception's
easier to sell than truth
when a young girl
who dreams of being wanted
believes

How many girls possess oracles
from a false prophet
with roaming hands?

Once illusions fade,
how many stand in the wake
of a man
who loosely holds not just heart
but soul
after pleading, "No one needs to know . . . "

Unspeakable words box neatly

when scales fall away

tossed aside,
driven wild
with lonesome puzzles
she's smart enough to solve

slipping from meek to melancholy

in a single moment
meditating
medicating

with much prayer and fasting

Is there grace enough to cover pulpits stained with great sins?

For some lines,

hands are never meant to cross.

Come quickly, Lord Jesus, come.
Give peace to wounded souls,
and right all wrongs.

Random Friday

2011-10-14T13:59:00.001-04:00

I've been trolling the web, and I thought I'd share some cool videos I happened upon.

We've had some family business to tend to, so I've been a bit distracted from the blog. Prayers are much appreciated for my father-in-law who is not doing well at all. There is talk of hospice, but he has been at this point before and then rallied, so you just never know. I'd appreciate prayers for my husband as well. I know this roller coaster of emotions is really hard for him.

So, my apologies for being absent, but I know you all understand.

First up is this "guy" (sorry I don't know his name). But, you gotta hear him sing . . .

Amazing, right?

Next up is dancer, Marquese Scott. I didn't know a body could do this. He will start dancing. It just takes him a second or two to get going . . .

Another wow, right?

Finally, here's Lana Del Rey singing "Video Games" . . .

This is my first time hearing her, and I couldn't stop listening and watching.

Hope you enjoyed the fun, and have an amazing weekend all!

Poetics: Jesus Told Me To . . .

2011-10-09T00:58:00.000-04:00

Warning: The following poem may be offensive to some.

When I read the Poetics prompt from Brian Miller about bumper stickers, I immediately started writing. I would count myself a follower of the teachings of Christ. However, I despise religious bumper stickers and all unnecessary merchandise marketed to Christians e.g. Testamints (yes, they make religious candy - I'm not lying - Google it). Christian merchandise is not evil, but some of it is such a waste of money, in my humble opinion. Think of all the good that money could do in the world. So, here's my rant. Please don't hate me. I think Jesus and me are still good.

Jesus Told Me To . . .

Jesus wants more than your soul.
Just yesterday he told me so.
He wants your bumper, too.

See, I headed to the nearest Christian toy store
to see how many stickers I could score.

Lo and Behold, Jesus was working that day
I stopped for a moment to say, "Hey."
He reminded me to spread the word
make sure everyone'd heard
about his bracelets.

It was a personal goal of his to see every wrist
spared from naked-ness
by the year 2012.

I said, "No problem, Jesus,
but I'm looking
to buy
as many marks
as I can find
for my sweet ride."

And he said,
"Nice.
Yes, spend away on catchy phrases
to decorate
this crazy nation.
No need to spare loose change.
The hungry can find
a way to feed themselves if they really try.
Not to be a jerk,
but the only cure for poverty is hard work."

I chuckled and said,
"Oh, Jesus, I do know.
Now, how can I let my Christian colors show?"

He said more conversions occur from highway advertising
than I might think,
and then he gave me a wink.

No more need for love or self-sacrifice,

I told him he was a genius,
that this new plan was super-convenient.
Then he flashed his perfect, bright smile.
(Turns out, he's been using Crest White-strips for quite awhile.)

And, he'd come up with a new incentive plan.
What an entrepreneurial man.
"Everyone gets a frequent shopper card.
Let those dollars be the ones to work hard."
'Get Into Heaven Free'
(entry guaranteed)
**offer may be redeemed only after 100 purchases

So, I snatched a few slogans I couldn't deny . . .

Conservative,Christian, American
(might as well say Republican)

King James Only
(you know it)

Forbidden Fruits Create Many Jams
(let me see you raise the roof with those banded hands)

I clutched at least half a dozen,
held them dear to my heart
as I parted
thanking Jesus for new lessons learned.
Never was I more concerned
with tagging every car in sight.
Nothing ever seemed more right
than making sure bite-size sermons were told
by way of bumper gold.

*And, with that I'm out. I need to go ask the real Jesus to forgive me.

OpenLinkNight: Flight

2011-10-04T16:51:00.000-04:00

Sinatra's Come Fly With Me rang in my ears, and before I knew it, this popped out. I'm just having a little fun today. Happy OpenLinkNight all! The lovely Natasha from The Tashtoo Parlour is hosting. I can't wait to see what everyone is sharing.

Flight

Come fly with me

over canyons black and blue

wind squishing through

every soul crack, crevice, tear

we'll sail over air oceans

leave confused emotions

far, far away

You can be my super-man

my every-man

my nothing-man

I don't mind

what label you find to define

your current state

it's all okay with me

cause we're gonna fly away

if you'll come

we've got a handful of moments

before the sun

slaps us back into sensibility

before we must meet reality

but freedom waits tonight

if you'll come,

come fly with me

**Don't forget to check out all the wonderful poets at dVerse Poet's Pub. Perhaps you'd like to join us, too! As always, all are welcome.

Poetics: Reduced

2011-10-01T19:03:00.000-04:00

Roy Lichtenstein, Untitled, 1973

reduced

reduce me

please

i've not been reduced to my least common denominator

just yet

can you

reduce me

more

strip me clean of all original sin

thought

so I bleed not only red. but white and blue too

for you

see smiles bright

encased in candy-coated lips

skin scrubbed clean

free from abnormality

push-ing

pull-ing

prodd-ing

pok-ing

puk-ing

again and again and again and again

seduc-ing
strok-ing

smack-ing

suck-ing

seer-ing

images burned deep, deeper, deepest

sea of desires unmet

hopes deferred

hearts sick

reduce me please

i've not been reduced to my least common denominator

just

yet

*Victoria Ceretto-Slotto has delivered an excellent Pop Art prompt today for Poetics at dVerse. Feel free to join us. All are welcome.

Meeting the Bar: Pressing

2011-09-29T16:39:00.003-04:00

"And, all is always now. Words strain,
Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,
Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,
Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place,
Will not stay still." - T.S. Eliot

Pressing

Endless words press heavy on humanity.
But none can escape.
For in escape, fear knows the world will change,
rearrange nations as they
crash upon heads with sweet release.

Is forever set in stone?
Can these words shape different all that has always been known?

Do they hold freedom?
wisdom?
Or will society's random thrusting,
cyclical rusting
win out over
So many syllables
tucked away, hidden . . .

Must we take them all to dust?

One cannot trust
words caged within to deliver duty,
to protect
the very one who neglects.

Yet words reside within
every aching soul
root,
grow deep
replete with secrets buried
beneath a billion smiles.

Every now and then
they knock again.
First gently, then banging
to be set free,
and selfish the ones who never dare to press
release.

*Written for Meeting the Bar: Critique and Craft at dVerse. Come hone your skills with us.

OpenLinkNight: Wet Waltz Serenade

2011-09-27T15:30:00.000-04:00

Wet waltz serenade

shades once white now turned to gray

shaky waves of grace

spray faces

souls forsaken laced with sin

Seeping, creeping ever-reaching

over, under, in-between

waves receding,

always needing,

more than bleeding eyes can see

Picking, mixing, always fixing

flipping, tipping in-between.

world's crossing,

always locking,

more than answers waiting weak

Rushing, crushing in again

running, gunning in-between.

waves gushing,

always plunging,

more than breath forever heaves

Over, under, in-between

needing more than one should need

Over,

under,

in-between.

Needing

more

than

one

should

need

*Happy OpenLinkNight, everyone! I originally started this one for Poetics but never seemed to finish with the craziness of life this week. If you've never checked out dVerse, please feel free to link up with us. It's definitely a warm place to be.

OpenLinkNight: Sander's Song

2011-09-20T15:01:00.000-04:00

This piece is about two characters, Lucy and Sander, who have been living in my head for a couple of years now as I try to bring them to life on paper. My sweet Steven recently inspired me to try combining poetry and/or music to my project. He is an angel for walking through my creative highs and lows with me. When I finish, he will be responsible for my completion as he has kept me from scrapping the whole endeavor on more than one occasion. I realize this may not be super exciting out of context, so I thank you in advance for taking the time to read. I'll be around to visit you all soon. Happy Tuesday!

Sander's Song

A demon in the night, he comes for me

To steal what's left my bleeding, weary soul

But demon doesn't know my savior sees

With lightning hair and liquid eyes of blue

Stands tall and brave and true and resolute

Though father's absence leaves me stretched, undone

My Sander's song is sung, my peace becomes

**Linking up with the wonderful community that is d'Verse. Come join us!

Poetics: 36 Cars

2011-09-18T12:35:00.001-04:00

Rhythmic motion, train on track
Click-clack, Click-clack, Click-clack, Click-clack
Stumble toward the city, shake dust from feet.
Voices in head repeat. Repeat.

Passenger 7 stares straight to soul
Butterflies flutter through wounds, through holes
Stare out window. Think love. Think love.
Don't lock eyes. Nowhere to hide, nor run

36 cars hold weight of the past
Once you leave, you can never turn back
Click-clack, Click-clack, Click-clack, Click-clack
Rhythmic motion, train on track

*Written for Poetics prompt from Claudia Schoenfeld on trains. Click here to visit d'Verse and read all the wonderful interpretations. Maybe you'd like to add one yourself.

Friday Fun: What's Playing in Your Ear?

2011-09-16T09:25:00.000-04:00

Hello all, and Happy Friday!

I am interrupting the usual poetry post today to bring you an excellent song.

If you've been around here for awhile, you know I love The Killers. This song, Sweet Talk, has been swimming in my mind lately, especially these lines,

"I'm gonna climb that symphony home and make it mine - Let its resonance light my way . . ."

*sigh*

What a line, right?

I love how music inspires me. When my well has gone dry, I can listen to music, and my brain no longer feels parched.

I have to be honest with you all about an embarrassing part of my past. When I was younger, I went through a phase. I tried to cut out a lot of things that brought me pleasure. I somehow thought these things were bad, superfluous. I stopped writing, stopped listening to music, stopped doing things just for fun. I think it was an extreme reaction to the pain and suffering I saw in the world. It seemed wrong somehow to celebrate life when so many suffered.

I can tell you what happened when I did this. I was miserable and no good to anyone.

So, just in case you fancy removing all pleasure from your life, let me suggest you choose another route. That doesn't work nor does it stop the world's suffering.

So, have a listen, won't you?

Tell me. What music has inspired you lately? Do you have go-to artists that always spark your creativity or lift your mood? Or maybe you'd like to share your favorite(s) from today or long ago. It's always fun to find new artists.

Now, it's your turn. Go!

Meeting the Bar: Little Fishy

2011-09-15T22:28:00.005-04:00

*Linking up for Meeting the Bar: Critique and Craft at d'Verse. It is a wonderful community, a safe place to learn, grow, and have fun. Come visit and link up. All are welcome!

**This was the very first poem I ever posted for public consumption. I thought it would be fun to throw it back out here since the thought of posting poetry no longer makes me feel queasy inside. I didn't touch it before re-posting, so you'd have plenty to talk about, lol. So, thank you for feedback. It is much appreciated.

Little Fishy

Wandering
wondering
Wandering

It won’t stop
I can’t stop
thinking of you
thinking of her
thinking of him
and all they want
from me
for me
to be

Feeding frenzy
upon my soul
despite my cries and sunken eyes
flesh torn with every bite
devoured
in the name of right

all over tea and cookies

*Okay, I've already made changes after some great critiques. Though I'm not finished, I couldn't help making some changes already. And, I've offered a small explanation below.

**This whole piece is about being devoured by church people. The fish refers to Christianity and the struggles of swimming with some of the fiercer fish in church seas.

OpenLinkNight: Messy

2011-09-14T14:19:00.000-04:00

American dream? Joke?
choked on lies,
gagged by hard times
walking lines
of unease when strong men
feel useless for
lack of connections

when nepotism passes over
for young and shiny
It's easy to feel screwed
(not to be crude),
but, really?
It's no longer about blood, sweat, and tears
and years of work count for
little when you can't get one hit
even to shovel sh...

mouths boring
pride pouring
depleted declarations
screeching explanations

no
one
really
listening

and nothing will be right 'til ears hear

'it' is what 'it' is
what 'it' is
says,
Adam
Again,
and
what 'it' is
is
messy

*Written for OpenLinkNight. Come join us over at d'Verse . . .

Poetics: The Day the Devil Came

2011-09-11T12:57:00.001-04:00

The devil brushed against our cheeks that day
smug he came
evil found a way to level us all amongst twisted steel

the world's canvas ripped in two
and we all knew in one moment
forever changed

seemed broken beyond repair
and blood still seeps from gaping wounds
too deep to heal
still swollen
refusing to scar

black tears pour
stain every face
of every color
willing truth to change

yet it remains

loss bears heavy upon sane souls
and holes too big to fill
stand bottomless and wide
no amount of wishing hides
certainty
of witness

Living is a choice after darkness crushes.

the devil came
to steal our love away
not knowing our arms
would choose
to reach around
our sagging world
keep it from falling
fast from skies
where shadows
linger still

**Written for d'Verse's Poetics. Mark Kerstetter gave a meaningful prompt on mourning and loss. Please read more about it here, and join with us to remember.

FormForAll:

2011-09-08T19:32:00.001-04:00

Today's FormForAll highlights the Pantoum form, which you can read about in detail at d'Verse Poet's Pub. A special thank-you to Gay Cannon for pushing us all along and graciously answering questions. Feel free to try your own hand at this form. All are welcome!

Detour

Come take a detour with me
Twist with me tonight
before beginning binding odyssey
Make darkness bright inside

Twist with me tonight
whispers tickling, teasing
Make darkness bright inside
Don't stop charming, pleasing

Whispers tickling, teasing
drenched hot in golden glow
Don't stop charming, pleasing
while fervent desires grow

Drenched hot in golden glow
render my reactions
while fervent desires grow
Drink in satisfaction

Render my reaction
before beginning binding odyssey
Drink in satisfaction
Come take a detour with me

Imperfect Prose: Hands

2011-09-08T00:43:00.002-04:00

His yellowed eyes try to smile at me as we talk.
He answers my questions,
even asks his own
with arms folded,
stance wide,
standing as a man stands,
when I know his dignity is fluttering away
with every word
spoken.

He helps set up tents,
to earn what he is about to receive.
It's all he has to give.
And, I wish I could give him more than
lemonade and water as I
breathe deep,
scoop ice in cups,
offer little
to shy faces who fear taking too much.
"Is it okay?"
"Yes, sir. Please take both."

And, I want to stop the line to say,
"I'm not different than any of you!
We are the same!
Please, hold your head high. Please."

But shame is not easy to erase.
Fear is not easy to quell.
Worth is not easy to impart.

And, for all my internal insistence that we are the same,
I know we are different.
This is the last stop of care for them.
They have no hands left to reach for
except strangers,
like me.

My eyes try to stay dry.
But, my meager offering is
beyond insignificant,
like trying to stop a leaky faucet
when the pipes below are gushing.

We pack our gear as the line fades.
Homeless scurry back to streets of Columbia,
to alleys and hideouts unseen,
and my heart is left laden with questions . . .

Where will they sleep tonight as I lay my head on a fluffy, white pillow?
What will they eat when that final meal has been digested?
What will they drink after the last drop of water is gone?
Where will those tiny girls and boys go when it rains?
Where will those limping men find a place to rest away from heat?

And, I can't stop seeing their faces.
One by one
they parade through my mind.
For I know
I am only small dollar signs away from
reaching out my own empty hands,
hoping someone will reach back.

*Written for Imperfect Prose. Please take a moment to visit the lovely site of Emily Wierenga. You'll find comfort food for the soul.

OpenLinkNight: Big Life

2011-09-06T16:04:00.001-04:00

When life is big
swallowing whole
with questions more than answers
we sit

together listen
to the rhythm of us
absorb the way we
move as one

while
wind
whips
fierce

When life is big
squeezing breath
with truth stranger than fiction
you

hold me

gently fold my worry
into bite-size peaces
you
save me from myself

**It's OpenLinkNight at d'Verse Poet's Pub. Please feel free to join us for all the poetry fun you can handle!

Poetics: Choosey

2011-09-03T23:00:00.002-04:00

The following poem was written for Poetics at d'Verse Poet's Pub. Sheila Moore is hosting today, and she offered an excellent prompt to write about the silent film era. I was headed in a more light-hearted direction until I read about the struggle Chaplin had as the silent film era faded. After watching an excerpt from his speech in The Great Dictator (see video below), I could think of nothing else.

Choosey

We choose whom we dishonor everyday.

Revere or revile the
long-haired,
short-haired,
thin-haired,
bald?

Regard or despise
vegetarians,
pescetarians,
vegans,
carnivores?

Adore or abhor
nerds,
geeks,
dweebs,
dorks?

Esteem or detest
green-eyed,
blue-eyed,
brown-eyed,
hazel?

Venerate or execrate
women,
men,
gay,
straight?

Respect or disdain
Jews,
Muslims,
Christians,
Buddhists?

Honor or scorn
olive,
brown,
black,
white?

Cherish or forsake
old,
young,
strong,
weak?

Value or deride
athletes,
actors,
artists,
activists?

Commend or rebuke
politicians,
preachers,
teachers,
truth-tellers?

Think hard.
Choose fast . . .

Who most deserves your hate?

*Please take a moment to watch the clip below if you've never seen it. It is an excerpt from Charlie Chaplin's speech in The Great Dictator. His words stand much stronger than mine.

OpenLinkNight: Chains

2011-08-31T00:21:00.001-04:00

How far
can we take these words
before over-extending?
blending to gray?
bending to break?

When desire is to create
release is sweet
until criticism brings retreat.
Who then, in this scenario,
is truly weak?

Words were meant to be spoken
not boxed and bow-tied,
but tongues cut loose
quickly wrap that noose
too tight to wriggle free.

We all want to know
we are seen, heard.
How many turns around to learn;
stop trading in freedom
for chains again.

*Written for OpenLinkNight at d'Verse Poet's Pub. Please click over to read some brilliant poetry, and feel free to add your own to the mix. All are welcome.

Poetics: Transactions

2011-08-28T14:14:00.000-04:00

Visceral reactions

infiltrate

every whispered connection.

No suspension of reality is needed

when immutable discretion keeps

one nomadic,

waxing inadequate

to break down walls built

by negative transactions.

No moment's irrelevant.

Entrenched we are in

the plus and minus

of day to day to day . . .

and wishing truth away

won't make it all a lie,

won't hide the constancy of

life's exchange economy.

Bit by bit we do affect change

(for better or worse rearrange),

but at your core,

you're more than give and take.

You make the choice to coordinate,

tabulate the sum of your zeroes and ones,

and you can be more than

stuck between stardust and misery.

You can re-write your test-i-mony

even if you tend to hang tight

in the balcony.

Because

one

is a

neutral

insignificance.

**Written for Poetics: Third Eye Open at d'Verse Poet's Pub. Come have a look...

OpenLinkNight: Time

2011-08-23T22:05:00.000-04:00

*Written for OpenLinkNight at d'Verse Poet's Pub. Come join in the fun. All are welcome!

Time

Dreams are tricky beasts
sometimes.
Taunting, teasing, pleasing
one moment,
then confounding
making those surrounding

you doubt sanity.
And sanity comes and goes
when you dream big,
real big,
so big
your eyes squint

from bright lights, big city
dreams,
and it seems to sustain
one moment,
madden the next,
this questing to

hold fast to dreams
in real time
so your life can shine
the way you know it was meant to.
So wait for me, Love.
I'm still coming,

still running
to catch my
hopes deferred.
I just need
a bit more
time.

Tonight, I'm doing something I might later regret, but it's good for me. And, besides, I can always hit delete later if need be. Below you will find me attempting to cover Alexi Murdoch's, "Wait". It's for my Steven who has believed in me from the moment we met. Somehow he never tires of me, and I'm hoping he'll keep waiting for me as I attempt to live out my dreams. So far, he's the only other one that can see them as clearly as I can. And that, my friends, is a sweet, sweet gift.

Wait (cover 2) by storimusic

Poetics: Worn

2011-08-21T23:25:00.001-04:00

A million thoughts wrinkle weary head. Crinkle-y lines
crease with consternation. Dots of sweat threaten
then tumble down jagged contours of face
well-worn by life's storms. Un-shorn,
stubble alongside sorrow stationed
firm in blue eyes pooled in gloom,
bathed in misery. Primrose skin
sinks deep into bone. What's
left shows man, empty-
handed, heavy-
hearted, well-
worn.

Written for Poetics at d'Verse Poet's Pub. The theme was textures. Read about it here.

OpenLinkNight: Burn

2011-08-16T17:08:00.000-04:00

Words flow like dripping honey,

spinning like J to the B did

once upon a time . . .

Can I keep my sweet-tart, naive heart from

spewing truth,

trickling, tumbling, stumbling over big heads?

Selfish bedfellows buzzing, hello, in sing-song voices,

flipping scintillating syllables,

wreaking havoc on more than a fantasy island.

We need to tweak proud minds.

Reality check, one,

two twist our own titillating triads

over heads haughty.

Shhhh . . .

Still hushed whispers swell to screams,

fatigued from being caught up in extremes,

in-betweens.

Bruised hearts, weak and wounded

suffer while strong and supercilious,

pretentious politicians

lord kingly over what they deem animals

beneath leading feet

led to nowhere.

Dropped.

Crazy mixed-up-side-down mess.

Can we push a progression

of the people,

by the people,

for the people?

Turn a tide of love?

Let rational minds rise to surface?

Reverse inevitable mass destruction

without apocalyptic melt down?

Or should we let it all

burn?

**Written for OpenLinkNight at d'Verse Poet's Pub. Click over to add your voice.

Ghazal: When Night Treads Strong

2011-08-12T10:38:00.000-04:00

White weeks of tender trysts still labored days
Erase all wrongs expressed when night treads strong

Two hearts lock careful, listen now for grace
All fear reverts, recedes when night treads strong

Anger over reason never displayed
Sharp chords of chaos cease when night treads strong

All kindness stands up certain, does repay
Surrounds, sits sure, remains when night treads strong

Eterne never release the weary stray
The laurelled dare return when night treads strong

*Written for FormForAll - Ghazal. I will not try to explain this form, but you can read about it at d'Verse Poet's Pub. Hopefully, I didn't completely butcher this form. It was not an easy one, for sure. Oh, and I did fit my name in the last line. Lori/laurel means crowned. Thank you, Gay and John for quite the challenge!

Imperfect Prose: $5.00

2011-08-10T14:28:00.001-04:00

Our little black Hyundai slows down at the stoplight off exit 5. I see her standing to the left. They always set up shop there, holding signs, needing, depleted, faces weary. Today, I am weary, too, but I can see I am not as weary as she. I look in her eyes from across the lanes of traffic, know that I want to give, know that some discourage this type of giving, know that better ways probably exist to give to her.

But, in this moment, I just want her to know I see her, want her to know I don't think she is less than, want her to know she matters. Her poverty matters. Her sadness matters. I turn to my husband who already has his wallet out. He pulls out the only $5.00 bill he has and hands it to me. The unspoken words hover between us mid-air, no need to verbalize. My heart is thankful to have a husband who wants to give despite losing his job the day before. His first thought isn't to consider us, but to consider her. This, to me, is the complete measure of this man I love.

He knows each day has enough troubles of its own, that right now we have $5.00 to give, knows tomorrow we might not. I motion for her to come, and she does with head down. I speak to her so she will look up, know that she is not beneath me. Embarrassed gratitude is uttered, and she limps back to her place on the side of the road, the marked place, the forgotten place, the place of resignation.

Light turns green, and my heart hurts as I drive away from her, wondering where she will sleep tonight, what she will do tomorrow if drivers keep passing her by. I know that $5.00 won't change her world, but I also know that not giving $5.00 might change ours.

*linking up with Imperfect Prose today. It is a lovely place to visit if you've never been.

OpenLinkNight: Faith

2011-08-09T23:16:00.000-04:00

Last Friday, my husband and I were faced with the news he no longer has a job. Even though it stings to know what we might face in the future, our news is trivial in light of the suffering of much of the world tonight. I've had a bit of a block with words the past few days. I didn't know if I could come up with anything tonight. I ended up going back to the form Gay Cannon taught us (Rhyme Royal). I needed some guidance to help me beat my words into submission. What I've written is not particularly unique, but it has brought a bit of comfort to my weary soul. Thanks for stopping by.

Faith

If shadows tempt to shake, let peace remain
sustain through crashing waves, through slamming seas
Faith sees more than the billows of fierce pain
looks past where doubts exist, where strength recedes
Upholds the weary head, the heart that bleeds
Faith, prudent, knows how far to bend the soul
believes, surrounds when weak, and sanctions hope.

*Written for OpenLinkNight at d'Verse Poet's Pub. Feel free to stop by and take a look around.

Poetics: Tarry

2011-08-06T21:20:00.000-04:00

Mark Kerstetter has given us an excellent prompt for inspiration today for Poetics at d'Verse Poet's Pub. We were challenged to write a poem inspired by Giorgio de Chirico - the man, his art or one of his works in particular. I chose The Anxious Journey, 1913.

Tarry

Walls taunt
crepuscule haunts
vacancy mocks
windows stare
hearts beware
obvious evades
choices yet unmade
every door
heavy heads abhor
as distant whistle screams
crushing present dreams
travelers
journey,
world's unseen
freedom,
please
tarry

*Please take time to visit d'Verse Poet's Pub. You'll be glad you did.

Election

2011-08-05T14:26:00.003-04:00

My poem for yesterday's Meeting the Bar has been mocking me all day. It seemed an even bigger suck-fest this morning, so I've had words ringing in my ears all day. This isn't as rose-colored as yesterday's poem, but when I write happy it often seems to fall flat. What can I say? I have to find a way to do happy poems. Until then...

Election

Love,

no stranger,

bangs

wandering hearts

into submission

without permission,

straighten's

crinkled butterfly wings,

makes sappy songs

ring with meaning,

leaves grown men

entrenched, convinced.

Fusion's urgency beckons,

never lessens

flames eternal

'til . . .

melodies shift.

Lover's irksome

quirks surface.

Scales fall fast.

Thud

exposing crud,

repressed confessions

ink black blots

on white pages.

Rage replaces

adulation.

Genie won't cram

back into bottle

once throttled.

What then?

Begin again?

Can wrong erase?

Incriminate?

Exonerate?

Lovers

left

elect

fate.

Meeting the Bar: Stay

2011-08-04T23:40:00.001-04:00

*If this is your first time visiting this poem, you can click here to see the re-write that I did the day after. I kept a few of the elements and started over.

Stay

Lovers leap

every day

make life, love

work when trouble lurks

round corners

a, b, c, d

Love deep

repeat

when life's melodies shift,

make sunshine

less than

golden

When demands

of dawn to dusk

crinkle butterfly wings,

bring

too many cracks

to love's shaken ground

turn happy upside down

instead

of right side

up,

loyal lovers

love

again

even after fatigue sets in.

Through good or bad,

happy or sad,

lovers can

stay

together.

*I borrowed a little from the great Al Green at the end. Thanks, Al.

** This is posted for Meeting the Bar: Critique and Craft over at d'Verse Poet's Pub. I know this could be more than it is right now. I did trim some fat, but to be honest, I've looked at this one too many times. I kind of want to trash it. Perhaps there's something to be saved in it or perhaps not.

OpenLinkNight: Perform

2011-08-03T23:01:00.000-04:00

Can he deliver

as the clock

tick-

tocks . . .

or only peacock

across

world's stage?

Maturity needs be

more than a seedling

when push comes to shove

or rubber meets road.

Does he know what it takes

to make

dreams

come true?

Does he strut,

muck up the call

to do?

Shut mouth,

perform

when it matters?

When all-seeing eyes

are fixed upon him,

does he

have what it takes?

*Written under the wire for OpenLinkNight at d'Verse Poet's Pub. There are many poems waiting to be read. Come over and check them out.

Poetics: Liquid Love

2011-07-30T20:10:00.000-04:00

Here is the prompt for this week's Poetics over at d'Verse Poet's Pub. Sheila Moore encouraged us to write a poem with water as our inspiration. I've stretched the theme a little, but you'll still find a bit of water within.

Liquid Love

Drip drop

Don't stop

crashing,

covering complete

Liquid love run

rave like rivers wild

wash dark delusions

satisfy seared souls

steep scorched sensitivities

in soothing symphonies

Twist, turn

trickle over

stop the burn

of endless yearning

hearts empty,

depressed,

recessed

(now)

quench

insatiable thirst

soak passions first

liquid love

*Check out how others interpreted the prompt at d'Verse, and feel free to join the fun by adding your own spin.

FormForAll: Shudders

2011-07-28T17:34:00.000-04:00

I was a little scared to participate in this week's FormForAll, but if I'm serious about growing, I must try new things. Gay Cannon wrote about Rhyme Royal here and challenged us all to give it a try. Here's my attempt:

Shudders

When fears exist to trap me in myself
I strain to hear the rhythm of your heart
When dreams are left to mold on vision's shelf
I perceive the shudder before it starts
And all your blindness now to me imparts
The cardinal reason you choose distress
What you fear most remains contented rest

*Written for FormForAll - Rhyme Royal at d'Verse. I'm not going to lie. I feel very stilted using form, so I know this might be all wrong. Thanks, Gay Cannon, for taking the time to help us all grow.

OpenLinkNight: Deliverance

2011-07-26T20:09:00.000-04:00

Pilgrim's feet beat
impermeable pavement
baring Herculean loads of

unrelenting pressure
Abstract standards set
shoulders heavy

unwieldy weights impossible to carry

Pores split with sweat

Toxins trickle down

meander through folds and creases

breezes bring no relief

from hard heat of expectation

Deliverance, come quickly
to the crestfallen
Save us
once again
from ourselves

*Ready for OpenLinkNight at d'Verse Poet's Pub? Head over and link up.

Poetics: Sprawl

2011-07-23T19:02:00.001-04:00

Spike-y stiletto stuck
deep in society's Cycloptic eye
crammed
jammed
into Stepford brains
The only refrain left ringing through this
one-dimensional universe?
"Beauty trumps all, y'all!"
stands tall
above substance
Reluctance to spread truth
has left youth
scarred
marred
by hard lines of
no crossing
One-way signs
clutter life's roads
engorged with
lipstick, lovers, and lies
The blacktop
bleeds for us all
still glued to
cruise control
Rural, urban, suburban
sprawl
it's all falling down
faster than
Michael Douglas
trapped in a traffic jam.

*Written for Poetics: On Your Feet over at d'Verse Poet's Pub. Come on over and join the fun.

Longsuffering

2011-07-21T17:25:00.000-04:00

Spots flash, heat rash
molten anger boils, roils within.
When it's hidden,
(pressed,
pushed,
smushed down)
her body frowns,
and even a clown face
cannot replace her empty eyes
with smiles again,
cannot conceal
the congealed emotions
under her cover
left to hover
under
ceilings of suffering long.

*written for Crit Friday over at d'Verse Poet's Pub. Let the fun begin!

OpenLinkNight: Lost and Found

2011-07-19T20:21:00.000-04:00

the sun's blazing rays have faded
into night's sweet mystery
time for you and me
to be
covered under pin-pricked light canopy
i see you
drink me in
and i
am all at once
lost
and found
again

*It's finally time for the Opening Celebration over at d'Verse Poet's Pub. Click over to participate or just to see what all the fun is about.

d'Verse: It's Time

2011-07-16T17:38:00.000-04:00

Time to whet your whistle
with words
and learn
from those who wield them well,
who have stories to tell
while weaving webs of wonder
and building bridges between,
those who dare to reach across
the albatross
of differences
that separate
try to berate
the weary,
cast-down,
perpetually frowned upon.
There's a message to be heard,
an anthem ringing,
a chorus singing
in the distance.
Only one way to say it best
with no regrets,
leaving nothing left hidden heavy
upon our chests.
It's time
to spread
some love.

*Excited to be linking up with d'Verse Poet's Pub for the first time. Please take a moment to check them out, though the site is still under construction until it officially opens on the 19th.

One Shot: Revolutions

2011-07-12T17:01:00.001-04:00

They stand
hands in pockets
minds fixed on . . .
what?
nobody knows
lost love?
lost beauty?
lost art?

crickets resound

sounds once pounded
lost
will there be another verse, another rhyme?
well,
the beat goes on and on and on and on...and
can you really stop a song?

if you say you want a revolution
well, you know...
what to do
grab a pen
and then
let your soul speak
bleed ink once again
let colors captured
unwind, fly through night sky
explode life in empty spaces

and if the world stops singing with you

my friend,

then sing alone.

*Written for One Shot Wednesday

Jonah Goes to D.C. and Returns in One Piece (Part 2)

2011-07-11T12:41:00.000-04:00

Hi everyone. Here’s my Washington D.C. trip, part 2. Enjoy.

THE WHITE HOUSE

We stopped by the White House on our second to last day to get some pictures. We were able to get insanely close. When I told my dad about it, he said that there were sensors on the lawn so if I would have dropped my camera on their lawn, somebody somewhere would have known.

LAURA BUSH

On the morning of our last day, Laura Bush came to speak. She gave a very good speech about herself and about us, and then we took group pictures with her. We were set up like this . . .

standing - standing - standing - standing

chair - chair - Laura Bush - chair - chair

And do you know where I was? Right next to her. Yeah, that’s right. And then after the picture she started to strike up conversation with me! No big deal. I just told her where I was from and stuff like that.

(We weren't allowed to take pictures, but they took pictures for us. It hasn't come in the mail yet.)

THE BOAT CRUISE

And on the last day we went on a really fun boat cruise. We had dinner first, and then they played music, and we danced on the dance floor. We had a great time and there was great scenery around us. It was a very smooth ride and the weather was great. If you got hot dancing on the boat you could go outside to the stern or the bow, I’m not sure, but there was a nice breeze and a great view from there. Over all, I had a great time at D.C. It was real fun.

(I only took video of the the boat cruise, but my mom won't let me post it. She says the people in the videos may not be happy if I do.)

Here are some random pics from the trip for you.

Thank you, Jo-Jo. One more thing before I leave. Jo was really excited that his new friend, Sam, was staying over for the U2 concert in Baltimore. Jonah gave Sam money for a t-shirt and recently received it in the mail. He'd love for you all to see it . . .

He's been a fan of U2 since he was 4. I'm not exaggerating. I have video of him putting on concerts simultaneously with U2 playing on the television. It's the cutest thing ever, but I'm not set on embarrassing him just yet. We'll save that for later. Music is definitely in this sweet kid's blood. Thank you all for supporting him. I thank you, and he does, too.

Relax. Seriously.

2011-07-09T21:07:00.000-04:00

I've stumbled across new knowledge this summer that must be passed on, ingested and digested by all. I'm going to share the wealth. There are universal pool rules to follow, and I've been breaking them all. In the interest of enlightenment, I will divulge what I have learned. I wouldn't want you to be caught unawares as I have been.

Moms are not supposed to get their hair wet in the pool, under any circumstances.
Moms are supposed to stand in the water watching their children play. They are in no way, shape, or form allowed to play with their children.
Married couples must act as if they are not attracted to one another. It is not required or desired for you to acknowledge each other while in the pool or its vicinity. Though it goes unspoken, I'm fairly sure you get extra points for completely disregarding your spouse.
Talk to your children as if they are a complete nuisance, incapable of doing . . . anything. They are, after all, children. And, they are totally ruining your tan time.

I kid.

But, the truth is I've watched all of these scenarios play out at the local pool this summer, and it's kind of sad. I propose we follow one rule only; relax.

Seriously.

The ban has been lifted. You are allowed to be messy, look imperfect, act as if you enjoy your husband and children, and have fun at the pool this summer.

Now, go friends,

into the pools of summer and frolic with smiles fixed upon your pretty faces . . .

White Men Dancing

2011-07-07T21:19:00.001-04:00

Today, I have something for you far greater than a ramble of opinions or poems or whatever it is I am doing here depending on the day.

You will see.

The following is a video of my husband, Steven (on the right), on his commute home with co-worker and friend, Joe (on the left). I should warn you the video is a bit unsteady, but I assure you, it is still worth watching. Perhaps, you'll watch it several times, as have I.

If you're having a bad day, this video will cure it.

Promise.

One Shot: Gone

2011-07-05T17:21:00.000-04:00

Gone

Song scents send
painful past memories
ringing through every
corner of my mind.
I find
echoes far-reaching,
and my singing stops
for thoughts of you
(uninvited)
come creeping in
and out
of cob-webbed corners.
But then the DJ plays
a new tune,
and you
are gone again
as quickly
as you came.
It seems
I must reclaim
melodies as mine
give them new memory stamps
and stop you from stealing
my songs.
Because,
buddy,
you are long gone.

It's that time again. You know you want to play. Click over to join the fun with the rest of the gang over at One Stop Poetry.

Jonah Goes to D.C. and Returns in One Piece (Part 1)

2011-07-04T11:29:00.001-04:00

Recently, my son Jonah went on a student leadership trip to Washington, D.C. Truth be told, it was hard for me to let him go because I had to trust people I’d never met to take care of him hours away home. A special thank you to Mike and Leigh Ann Nitz who live in Woodbridge, VA, for easing my mind about stepping in for us should the need arise. It made the week easier knowing we'd have someone to swoop in and rescue in the event of an emergency.

As I unsuccessfully tried to contain my tears, we said goodbye and prayed for God to be where we couldn't. When we returned to D.C. to retrieve our son, he was happy and still in one piece.

He has a lot to share, so I'll have to post it in parts. Here’s Jonah:

Hi. My mom wants me to write about my trip to Washington D.C., so here I am. I was able to go to D.C. courtesy of the People to People Foundation, which was started in 1935 by President Dwight D. Eisenhower. I had a great time. And now, my trip.

GETTYSBURG

On the first day we went to Gettysburg. That was pretty cool. I don’t really remember anything our guide told us except for that was where the Civil War took place and two war stories. The first one was about a general and a soldier. The general was shot down so the soldier went to go help him, and right as he was running towards him, a bullet entered his right temple and shot out the left one.

This blew the top of his head off, but his cap was on so tight the top of his head didn’t fall off until he fell to the ground. Brains went flying everywhere. And the second one was about a general and two new soldiers. The general walked up to the new soldiers to tell them some encouraging words. He told them, “Don’t worry men. Those snipers couldn’t hit an elephant a foot away!” and right when he was done talking, a sniper hit him right under the eye.

DOWNTOWN D.C.

Downtown D.C. was really cool. We did a lot of things there. First we visited all the memorials, the Lincoln, the Jefferson, and the Roosevelt, etc.

Then we visited the Capitol Building and the Washington Monument. Then after the historic monuments, we visited the museums. We visited the Newseum (do you know what TV show is filmed there every Sunday? I know because I used to watch it every Sunday.), the International Spy Museum, and of course, the Smithsonian’s Natural History and Air and Space Museums.

To be continued . . .

Imperfect Prose: Laundromat Lessons

2011-06-29T18:02:00.001-04:00

Sweat lights my face aglow before I've barely begun the task of washing, rinsing, repeating. Finding out of order signs on almost every machine does little to excite me about the task at hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her, cringe inside because I know her though I've never met her. She is that woman. That woman in long denim, church hair, no makeup, and my insides hurt as memories of unwelcome scrutiny surface.

Memories of church ladies staring me up and down when they think I'm not looking, picking me apart because a pastor's wife doesn't say what I say, dress how I dress, look how I look. Of being verbally shredded to every parishioner for things I didn't do, things they thought I should do, shouldn't do, would do, wouldn't do . . . Of hearing words bounce back to me uninvited that my husband was leading the young people of our church into apostasy when I knew my husband had a heart of service, of love.

And, the mere sight of her makes my heart hurt again, though I thought those wounds were healed.

So, I work hard to avoid her gaze as I work. I don't want to see the look of disapproval again, don't want to see I don't measure up in all of their eyes. Don't want any of it, any of her. And, I know I'm wrong, know I should be bigger than this, like I was all those years ago when they saw me as less. But, I don't have to do that anymore. I told myself I was done the day we left church work doors behind. But, here I am again, bound by them, though they are miles and miles away.

And, then she says, "Ma'am?" and I turn on my sweet self, the self I always knew how to summon even in the darkest of days. I go to her, ready for bad things. Ready to see that look . . . at me . . . in her eyes.

But, she doesn't scold me with her gaze. She simply offers me her dryers, says they run hotter, says every bit of money saved helps, and she almost brings me to tears with her smile, with her non-judgment. And, I hurt again inside. But, this time, it's with my own judgment, my own reverse discrimination, my own willingness to write her off because of her look when I know that pain, know it well.

And then I turn to gratitude because any place can be sacred if I let it.

One Shot: Who Knew

2011-06-28T17:26:00.000-04:00

This week, I'm writing for him.

My poems have always tended toward the morose. I don't often offer explanation, which lends itself to reader speculation, which I prefer. But, I'm afraid this might give the wrong impression about my personal life, which is actually quite lovely. Because my sweet Steven is gracious and understanding of my need to create (even when my words could be misconstrued to his disfavor), this one's for him.

Who Knew

it's never been about a prince for me
you see
I needed no royalty
to sweep me
off my feet
I only needed love strong enough
to shelter the untidy pieces of me
and then
midnight bright stars paved
the path from me to you
at party where I didn't fit
when boy with me
didn't see
me . . .
you . . .
you left your pack
for me
came in steel toes
swinging chains and tattoos
and you were love
all love
dripping love
reaching strong hand down
to pull me up
covering my babydoll-dressed body
with you
(and your coat)
and hope was no longer
far far away
but here now
with me
in you
and who knew
you'd be my everyday sunshine
make walls fall
and secrets safe
and songs fun again

who knew

It's One Shot Wednesday, so don't forget to click over and check it out the fun at One Stop Poetry.

Red Writing Hood: Little Man-Boy

2011-06-26T00:53:00.001-04:00

This week's prompt is to write a piece of flash fiction (300 words or less) based on the word, life. I may have stretched it a little to fit, but this is what came out. Feel free to put your two cents in.

Little Man-Boy

Young pre-teen life struggles to carry his manhood in a duffle bag, orange and heavy. His right-now world sadly depends on weak muscles, and the bag is winning as his gait buckles under the pressure, the strain of sought independence, freedom. This pressure, of life, of growing, of learning, of wanting to be a man, not wanting to need is eating his insides.

The struggle is meant to stay hidden, but it's seeping out as grunts grow louder. Muscles weaken further, and young blood tries to steady his lanky body, tries to bare up under the weight and make his muscles work. He wills them to perform as needed. But, they don't listen. Why won’t they listen?

Tall, thin frame battles to conquer the weight of the world in one moment. Tears threaten to ruin his work, to betray his pseudo-strength as his emotion breaks him down little by little. He knows dad is watching, feels the threat coming, and then . . . defeat . . . as dad steps in and lifts bag of burdens effortlessly. Shoulders drop under the shame of impotence, and car doors slam on a little boy's dream to live as man in his father's eyes.

Home

2011-06-24T00:20:00.000-04:00

Before I begin, I want to say I am tired, though sleep eludes me. Therefore, I apologize in advance for unorganized ramblings or grammatical errors. I'm sure they are present in the following, but know this is from the heart...

I was reading a blog post by Melissa from life or something like it, and she got me thinking. I love when someone else inspires me. Melissa was writing about home, and how it's not here on earth for her.

Her post reminded me of my struggles over the years to make a home for my family, a tangible home. My husband and I worked in various churches for the first 12 years of our marriage, so home didn't always look like what I thought it would, like I dreamed it would when I was a little girl. Instead, we found ourselves living in various apartments, parsonages, rental homes, and for brief times we even lived with my parents when times got too tough, until we could get enough to go out on our own again.

And, it was hard for me. The pride I felt deep inside was difficult to rid myself of. I wanted a place to bring others that wasn't filled with hand-me-downs or even empty spaces at times.

Eventually, we did buy a house, and it wasn't all it was was cracked up to be. It actually turned out to be kind of awful because we couldn't sell it when we needed to, when God was calling us to go again, and we lost a ton of money.

But, it was good for me because I learned that our children can have home with us no matter where we are. They can feel safe and loved and secure in a place we rent, in a place we share with another family, in a place that won't be ours forever. And, they can learn to be flexible, to hear God's voice and go when he says go even if that means material possessions will be few and far between.

Because, ultimately, it's all temporary. This isn't our home. And, the truth is that my heart aches for my real home often. It has since I first accepted that call to be His. And, there isn't enough money or a big enough house to make that ache leave.

Don't misunderstand, there's nothing wrong with having things. And, the truth is we've accumulated more stuff since leaving the ministry. But, things are not where we'll find peace and love and hope and security.

When I was 15, I fell in love with a song called If I Stand by an artist named Rich Mullins. It became an anthem for me because I would often ache for God, to see Him, to be near Him in a tangible way. I never talked about it because who would understand such an odd propensity to leave this world? I didn't want to be misunderstood, for others to see it as an unhealthy urge to stop living. It was merely a deep-seated love to be with my Savior.

But, there was a man that did understand, and he wrote this song, and he sang the words that my heart had always been singing. And, I cried tears of understanding the first time I heard it, and I cry tears of longing every time I hear it now. I'd love for you to hear him sing it. Maybe it'll bring comfort to your aching heart as well.

If I Stand

by Rich Mullins

There's more that rises in the morning
Than the sun
And more that shines in the night
Than just the moon
It's more than just this fire here
That keeps me warm
In a shelter that is larger
Than this room

And there's a loyalty that's deeper
Than mere sentiments
And a music higher than the songs
That I can sing
The stuff of Earth competes
For the allegiance
I owe only to the giver
Of all good things

So if I stand let me stand on the promise
That you will pull me through
And if I can't, let me fall on the grace
That first brought me to You
And if I sing let me sing for the joy
That has born in me these songs
And if I weep let it be as a man
Who is longing for his home

There's more that dances on the prairies
Than the wind
More that pulses in the ocean
Than the tide
There's a love that is fiercer
Than the love between friends
More gentle than a mother's
When her baby's at her side

And there's a loyalty that's deeper
Than mere sentiments
And a music higher than the songs
That I can sing
The stuff of Earth competes
For the allegiance
I owe only to the Giver
Of all good things

Peace to you this Friday, friends...

Imperfect Prose: Busy

2011-06-22T20:26:00.001-04:00

I sat down and thought of me today,

pushing the rest of the world away.

For a moment, and then a day or two,

I was all that I could do.

And, oh, I did it well.

Those days turned into months and years,

and never once did I hold fears

I might be self-consumed,

self-absorbed,

self-

ish.

I've cared a time or two or ten

of others pain

of others when

they need a helping hand,

but then

I've turned it back to what was pressing-

all that time I lost in dressing

up my fancy lies

to disguise

the fact

that I've done

nothing.

Nothing more than seeing me

and all I want

and all I need

and I'm content

most days

to let the haze

of my intentions

keep me from

any

sort of mission

more than me.

So go ahead and save the world if you can.

Follow through with those big plans.

I'm far too busy . . .

doing . . .

nothing.

This was originally written for Amy Sullivan's site, which is all about finding God-sized ways to give in the everyday. Today, I'm sharing it with the wonderful Imperfect Prose community.

One Stop: Wonder

2011-06-21T17:10:00.001-04:00

Can you turn my gray sky blue?

Can you take my admirations,

return my inspirations?

Aim to make submissions,

reclaim my permissions?

Can you resist me?

Tempt me?

Twist me

up in knots?

Or would it be in plots

to undo me,

subdue me,

renew or

reduce me?

Can you turn my gray sky blue?

I wonder . . .

for you.

Meet Deidra . . .

2011-06-20T09:29:00.000-04:00

Today, I am excited to introduce you to a new blogger who also happens to be a dear friend. Her name is Deidra. She is awesome.

We first met in college. We used to sing in choir together, and we were both English majors, and we both happened to have a dry, sarcastic sense of humor. So, we hit it off right away, and we've kept in touch on and off over the years. I am thankful for the wonders of social media, which have allowed us to connect even more over the last year or so.

This is one of my favorite pictures of Deidra from our college days. Isn't she adorable?

When Deidra decided to blog, I was thrilled because she is one of the smartest people I've ever known. She was the one who could keep every grammar rule straight and remember which piece of literature belonged to which writer. Sometimes, I mixed the details up, so she helped me keep my facts straight.

She's brilliant. She really is. She has so much to share, and I asked her to write something over here today so you could meet her.

When she sent this to me, I thought it was a perfect introduction to the journey she has begun. Here she is...

Under the Rug
by Deidra Manning

“Sweep it under the rug,” they say.
“Things just work out better this way.
Don't be a tattle, don't tell your pain.
Do you not realize this could bring us shame?”

“You'll be just fine now, so go on your way.
Don't breathe a word of what was said here today.
Your truth will bring sorrow, your story's contrived.
Are you totally sure you remember that right?”

“You're the one with the problem.
You're just making stuff up.
You were always a martyr.
Why won't you shut up?”

All of their threats truly scare me.
What if they really are right?
What if I actually am crazy?
I'll just keep it held tight.

So under the rug lies the story,
A truth so ugly and vile
That if it got out in the open
Its dust would spread wide and defile.

Deidra has a lot to say, and I can't wait to hear it. Click over to her site The Middle to follow her journey. You'll be glad you did.

I Know My Father Loves Me Because...

2011-06-18T18:07:00.001-04:00

I am proud this man is my father, and I know he loves me because . . .

He is an amazing grandfather to my children.

Like when he makes tents and swords and leaf piles for them . . .

and, when he gives them wheelbarrow rides.

I know he loves me because he loves to give, especially to his family.

Like how he cooks a feast for us whenever we all get together.

And, how he used to save his loose change and give it to me and my brother no matter how much it added up to be, and how he now does the same thing for my children.

And, how he loves Christmas because it's just another excuse to give again to those he loves.

And, I know he loves me because he also taught me how to give by letting me give with him, to children who didn't have enough, and we gave them more than things.
We gave them love and told them stories about the One who would care even when no one else in this world seemed to notice them.

And, I know he loves me because when my brother and I were little, he talked to us as if our opinion mattered.

Like when he explained to us how he felt God nudging him to be a pastor, how he'd known for a long time and was now ready. And, even though we were only children, he asked us how we felt about it instead of telling us it was our new future.

And, when he did become a preacher, he let me give him big hugs and kisses after every one of his sermons no matter who was waiting for his time.

And, he didn't think me childish when I wanted to work in the church, too. Instead, he chose to respect and welcome my ideas and give me a platform to use my gifts as I grew.

And, he was proud of me when my heart longed to do mission work in Honduras as a teenager.
And, instead of trying to talk me out of it, he helped me raise the money to go.

I know he loves me because he worked as an engineer while pastoring so he could provide for us the life that our church could not give. So, he traveled often, working harder than any man I have ever known, never complaining about his insane work schedule even when his time at home was less than 24 hours before he had to head back out on the road again.

And, I know he loves me because he treated outsiders with grace and dignity and respect.

Like the time a homeless man wandered into our church, and he invited him home with us for dinner, and how he only smiled when the strange and unkempt man had horrible manners at our dinner table.

And, how he bought that same man a bus ticket to see his family because that's where the man wanted to go..

I know he loves me because he shows me that life is about living and learning and growing and giving, so he never stops doing any of those things.

I know he loves me because he is the expression of a humble man, a man with many gifts he doesn't boast about. Like how he sings with the most beautiful tenor voice I have ever heard but realizes it's merely a gift from God to be used whenever called upon to do so.

He is my dad.

And, I know he loves me.

I know he loves me because every time he looks at me I see a smile in his eyes.

And, though it might seem I deem my father a superhero, I know he is just a man, imperfect as I am imperfect. Thankfully, we love each other despite our imperfections.

I know you love me, Dad, and I love you, for all you are, and for all you are still becoming.

Happy Father's Day.

Red Writing Hood: Flipped

2011-06-17T00:07:00.001-04:00

Working some fiction for The Red Dress Club today.

Here's the prompt for the week:

Physical beauty. It can open doors - and can also shut them. Write a scene in which a physically beautiful character is somehow impacted by that trait. Come back and link up here Friday. Word limit is 600.

Feel free to give your opinions/suggestions.

Flipped

His beady eyes ogled me. I sashayed across the room in response. He, with his rakish presence and determined gaze, had already told me all I needed to know with his stare. So, I continued because I knew what to do, knew which way to gently flip my hair, knew when to stop making eye contact before it was too much, too eager, too dominant, knew to then avert as if nervous, uncomfortable.

I knew what to do.

My flesh-colored dress clung in all the right places, floated ever so gently over curves hidden. Not too short but short enough it was. And, that was all it took for his eyes to follow me.

Twinges of guilt tried to edge in, but I needed this. Besides, he was a creeper, and it wasn't taking much to get the job done. I was already undressed in his mind, I knew. I advanced the dance.

A half-smile graced my face before I started in, "I'm sooo sorry I'm late. I hope you can forgive me. My car was giving me trouble on the way over. I promise I got here as fast as I could." I shrugged my shoulders up a bit, lifted my eyebrows and opened my eyes wider, blinking, pleading, trying to do just enough, not too much. "Am I too late?"

He believed. "I suppose it would be okay. Why don't you go ahead and have a seat, miss."

"You're too kind. I really appreciate this, sir. I know how important your time is."

"No, no. It's fine, and please . . . call me Bill."

He continued on, talking of weather and other nothings while I feigned interest. He asked few pertinent questions. We could've been telling tales at a bus stop. I would've asked more questions of a dog sitter. And, I knew. He was going to hire me regardless of what I said. I gave him what he wanted, what he needed to respond. A glance here, a smile there, he didn’t know it was all nonsense.

But, I knew.

We shook hands. He held on longer than necessary, smiling slyly. I returned a smirk, hating myself in the moment. Was it worth it? Would it be worth it? To flip and flaunt my way through my days at a job I was sure to hate anyway?

But, money was money, and flirting far less dubious than the pole. Mr. Creeper and his concrete cubicle prison would be my tomorrow no matter how much I hated myself for flipping his switch.

mediocrity

2011-06-14T17:14:00.000-04:00

the momentum of mediocrity
does not compel
a magnificent spell
of forward motion
it crawls
along
and wrongs
all rights
into false flights
of standard realities
that cease to amaze
or excite
or incite
any reaction
for
anyone
and this momentum
is not so much a motion
of progressive notions
but of mini-steps
in the circles
of all that is banal
that keeps able-
bodied men and women
from aiming
to make dreams
come true

*I can't take credit for the phrase 'momentum of mediocrity'. It came from Marlon Brando's character in the movie Don Juan Demarco (1994). This little gem of a film is worth your time if you've never seen it.

One Stop Poetry . . . a fun place for those who like to play with words.

So What?

2011-06-13T14:28:00.000-04:00

I've been thinking a lot about anger and irritation we feel toward others.

I've noticed a lot of entitlement raging in our world. Not only do people feel everyone owes them something, but everyone wants the right to tell everyone else how to live, how to be.

I don't want to live a life of entitlement. This got me thinking.

Recently, I found myself quite irritated and angry over a situation with another person. I would tell myself to let it go, just let it go, and I would . . . until I had to be around this person again. Then, the feelings would come up new and fresh and powerful. I would then proceed to berate myself for my poor ability to let others be . . . to not make the problems of others mine. I finally came to a few conclusions.

First, my anger and irritation were more about my lack of control in the situation than anything else. No matter how certain I felt that justice wasn't being done, I had to come to terms with the fact there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. My hands were tied. It wasn't my job to be the savior.

So, my strong reaction was really more about me than I realized. I had no control, none. Yes, I felt that injustice was being done. But, I wasn't responsible for the situation. I had no rights in the situation to change it. It wasn't my life to change.

Second, our reactions have more to do with us than with the other person. I'm not saying there's never a time for anger or frustration. Sometimes, people are rude for no reason at all, and you would be less than human if you had no reaction. You can't help but be a little irritated when an individual is heartless, narcissistic, or cruel. But, I believe our strong reactions, the reactions that won't let us go for days, are often more about our own issues than the person we are so intently focused upon.

There are people that don't let others rattle them. I want to be one of them. My husband is one of those people. When I can't let something go, he'll gently ask me questions to shed light on the situation. Often times, my anger comes blazing in when I try really hard to do the right thing, be the right thing for someone who doesn't notice, who doesn't care (it's not pretty, but it is true nonetheless). He says gently, stop trying, which goes against a lifetime of trying to earn it all, from everyone, everywhere.

He also often simply says, So?, when I say what others are doing, have done, are wanting to do . . . So?, he says with a calm that sometimes alludes me. So, what if someone thinks you're horrible? So, what if someone doesn't like you anymore? So, what if you're not who you thought you would be by now? So, what if you don't meet all the goals you thought you would? So, what if you spent a whole day being lazy?

So, what?

He knows how to suck all the drama right out of every situation, doesn't he? And, I tell you what. . . I love that about him. I really, really do.

I know people often have eyes that glaze over with disinterest when Oprah is mentioned, but I recently read an article in her magazine by Martha Beck called, I Don't Care. And, it was an eye-opener for me if ever I had one. It's about loving others without caring about their actions, which are often what we get hung up on, right? I'll leave you with a quote from the article,

"Real healing, real love, comes from people who are both totally committed to helping - and able to emotionally detach. This is because, on an emotional level, our brains are designed to mirror one another. As a result, when we're anxious and controlling, other people don't respond with compliance; they reflect us by becoming . . . anxious and controlling. Anger elicits anger, fear elicits fear, no matter how well meaning we may be."

Hmmm. What do you think, friends? I'd really like to know.

Crazy-Hot Summer Fun

2011-06-10T11:47:00.001-04:00

~~It is summer~~. It is a crazy-hot summer. We have been going to the pool and playing in the creek to stay cool. But, it's been too hot to really play outside beyond water activities. So, when I read what Brian Miller suggested for Friday Poetically over at One Stop Poetry, I knew the kids would want to play. Here's the game-plan:

Write a poem or 55 word story with a child or youth and then link up with others who participated.

That's it!

So, I suggested the three of us collaborate on one piece. However, I have a 12 year old boy and an 8 year old girl. It's not surprising they rarely agree on anything. I decided to grant their request to work alone. Therefore, you get two pieces for the price of one.

Enjoy!

Abigail's 55

Magic Carpet Ride

There once was a boy named Elvis
who had a secret magic carpet.
After everybody was asleep,
he would take his parrot Elvis
(he named after himself)
with him for a midnight ride
swooping up and down,
circling in the cool air
above the skyscrapers.
Then, they went back home
and dreamed magic carpet dreams.

Jonah's Poem

That Stupid Bee

i sat there under the tree
with my feet in the grass
and the sun shining down on me
but alas
a bee came and stung me

the pain made me cry out in pain
i hate that bee
i don't want to know his name
it left a red sore on my skin
oh that bee I really hate him

so this is a tale of that awful bee
who came just to sting me
i hate that bee
i really do
i hate that bee this much is true

Imperfect Prose: The Club

2011-06-08T22:32:00.000-04:00

I know how to be in the club
(been in the club my whole life,
I have).
But, now the club feels empty.
It's a neat, clean, prim and proper
club,
contrived club,
of undertaking
people always aiming,
to be neat, clean, prim and proper
while they're in the club.
But, after the club is hollowed out,
after the songs abate,
after the passing of the plates,
after the flags unfurl . . .
the smiles fade to frowns.
And, lonely souls
still feel lonely.
And, sad souls
still feel sad.
And, jagged souls
tear further still.
And, shadows linger longer till
no light is left to cast them.
And, no matter how I will
myself to delay my departure
to stay
in the club
(just one more Sunday, I say),
I can't make it work,
can't make it right,
can't get my body and soul
not to ache in the presence of
a massive club
where songs are sung
lights are strung
where preened beings
stand before the club and
tell'em all how it's done.
And, it's empty.
It is . . .
so empty it hurts to be a witness
to these crimes.
So, it's time.
It's time
to be done with the club.
No more dying in the club.
I'll be on my way now,
Away from this club now,
I need to find its owner...

**linking up with beautiful Emily here...

One Shot: Exhaustion

2011-06-07T17:01:00.000-04:00

An attempt to pare down my verbosity . . .

Exhaustion

Right trumps relation
in your concrete universe.
I now need a nap.

Written for One Stop Poetry's One Shot Wednesday. It's the place to be.

All About Abigail (and Vegetarians)

2011-06-04T22:57:00.001-04:00

Abigail, age 8

I mentioned last Saturday to Amy in my comments section that my daughter had written me a funny letter after a dramatic dinner. Here's what happened . . .

Drama.

Drama over eating dinner is what happened.

When Steven works late, dinner often becomes a different kind of event in the McClure household.

This particular dinner without Steven started off fun and a little silly. I'm okay with that, a giggle here, a giggle there. All is good as long as eating continues. But, as children sometimes do, they started to take it too far. The laughter got a little out of control (like laughing and eating and choking out of control). So, after asking them in my nice mother voice to stop, I was forced to lay down the law.

This laying down of the law was followed by lots of sad faces and pouty faces and declarations and vows. I know a conversation about starving children around the world came up somewhere in the mix. I couldn't help myself.

Vegetarianism also came up. She wants to be vegetarian, or so she did on the night in question. And, generally she doesn't eat a lot of meat. When we go out, she always orders a baked potato. Fine by me. And, the whole idea of vegetarianism has come up before, but the girl loves her bacon. And, let's be honest here, yesterday, she also wanted to be a teacher, dancer, singer, and actor. So, I'm not quite ready to help her commit to a life of vegetarianism just yet.

After dinner, I received this letter from Abigail:

(I tried to scan the actual letter to no avail. You'll have to read the typed version.)

Dear Mom,

I'm sorry about not eating my dinner.
I guess I just thought you
would give it to dad or Jo and I
could eat something else. Next
time I promise to just eat it
even if it does make my gag
reflexes work. And just so you
know I'm absolutely not going
to eat my ~~dinner~~ dessert tonight.
As for not stopping laughing
when you said to I'm really,
really sorry, next time I do
that I'm going to discipline
myself no matter what you say.
sorry for everything.

Sincerely,
Gab

She kind of makes it sound like we regularly make our children discipline themselves, doesn't she?Anyway, I thought this letter was too good to keep to myself. Hope you enjoyed it.

Oh, and dinner wasn't even gag-worthy (chicken, brown rice, and broccoli . . . c'mon!). It could have been way worse.

Happy Weekending!

Red Writing Hood: Holes

2011-06-03T23:55:00.001-04:00

"This week's prompt is all about character development . . . write about what your character wants most."

The following is an excerpt from a larger fiction project I'm working on. Thanks for visiting, and feel free to leave constructive criticism. It's always appreciated.

Holes

My mind wandered again, but the daydream remained the same. I spent hours pretending my real father was on his way to swoop in and save me. I didn’t know who he was, what he looked like, but my imagination filled in the gaps.

These mental movies cast my unknown father as the hero. He was a handsome and strong man with gentle smiles and loving ways, a man everyone loved, a man who loved me but hadn’t been able to find me yet, a man who would stop at nothing until we were reunited, culminating in the fulfillment of our collective dreams. So syrupy I could be in my delusion when the truth was undeniable; he never had come.

And, I didn’t even know his name.

The only time I ever saw mother enraged was when I asked about him. The vague clues I had were discovered upon overhearing church ladies prattle. I gathered I was a product of two teenagers caught up in insurmountable temptation. I sensed I was mother's token of shame.

Juggling half-truths left me weary, and after daydreams ended, fresh waves of clarity came. I was alone in this world, and finding my father would only create new possibilities for disappointment, something I was through collecting.

But, sometimes the parent-shaped hole in my heart ached with such intensity I became physically ill. I wanted to be wanted. I craved a mother’s affection, a father’s wink. I coveted unconditional and passionate love I was sure parents were supposed to have for children.

What was missing in me? Was I too different? Was I too similar? What about me created the impossible burden they refused to carry?

One thing I knew. Even though my father was absent, my mother’s physical presence had not a parent made. And, all I really wanted to be . . . was loved.

Short Story Slam: Real . . . Like Me

2011-06-02T21:13:00.001-04:00

*A quick note before I start - I am having trouble commenting on certain sites lately. Apparently, blogger is working on this issue. If I'm not able to comment directly on your stories and poems, I will try to email comments. Thanks!

I'm not a cowboy.

(I just play one

on tv.)

But,

I know a thing

or two.

I tell ya,

I do,

about what the ladies like, see,

a hero,

a legend

like me

(or the me I play on tv).

All you fellas out there

with your manicured nails

and well-coiffed hair

have no idea

what the ladies care

for these days

and I tell you

it's not

a fluffy, marshmallowy-puff-of-a-man,

but a scruffy, tough, leathery man.

Yes,

a mysterious cowboy man, like me,

(or at least like the me I play on tv).

(Of course, this is all silliness simply highlighting the fact that none of us are what we seem. John Wayne's real name was Marion Michael Morrison. There's nothing wrong with that name, but it doesn't quite conjure the same tough cowboy image 'John Wayne' does. There's no right or wrong way to be. Just be you.)

**This was written for Bluebell Books' Short Story Slam: Week 2. Click over to read some more fun short stories and poems.

Dear God...

2011-06-01T19:58:00.000-04:00

Originally, this post was an open letter to God apologizing for the really awful movies Christians like to make. However, I couldn't decide if it was in good taste or not.

Therefore, plan B . . .

This all started when I read a post the other night by Chaplain Mike over at the Internet Monk. He wrote about this group of Christians in Colorado who want to make a Judd Apatow-inspired, Christian comedy called The Waiting Game. Yeah, you read that right. (You did.)

So, I was thinking about what Chaplain Mike was saying, and I thought, okay, let's see what they came up with. I'm fairly open-minded, and I'm not going to pretend like I haven't watched some (if not all) of Judd Apatow's movies and laughed quite hard at them.

The problem is this. It took me three tries to finish the trailer because the acting was . . . well, the acting was awful. There's no nice way to say it.

I know a lot of people have really enjoyed some of the popular Christian flicks such as Facing the Giants and Fireproof (I promise they're popular in some circles). And, to each his own. They are not my cup of tea. And, I'm not comparing The Waiting Game to these movies because I haven't seen it yet. But, I do know they all have one thing in common. They're painful to watch. And, I should say, for the record, there are other movies in this genre, but these are the only two I've actually seen all the way through to the end.

In so many words, I did not enjoy these movies because I couldn't stop thinking, why didn't they invest in an acting class or two? I mean, I can't dance, and I'm not about to go up and pirouette across the platform on Sunday just because I think it would be fun. I've always wanted to be a dancer. There's only one problem; I can't dance.

I think this fact should influence my life-planning decisions. Besides, it makes more sense to watch other people dance who know how to dance. And, I'll appreciate that God gave them the talent and ability to dance. And, I'll applaud them when they finish dancing.

So, this is no joke, people. The Waiting Game is coming to a theater near you if they can come up with the funds to complete the project (though, let's face it, direct to DVD is more likely). Here's the trailer for your, um, enjoyment? Please don't feel bad if you can't make it through the whole 2 minutes, 41 seconds. My perseverance was an act of love . . . for you . . . for all of you out there actually taking the time to read and watch what I put out here in the blogosphere (I know there are at least two of you).

And, I promise if you make it at least partially through the trailer, you'll be rewarded with a guest spot by the one and only Ted Haggard. Again, I'm not kidding.

So, these are my opinions. What I want to know is . . .

What do you think?

Sticky Sweet

2011-05-31T20:03:00.004-04:00

Sticky sweet
you are to me.
And, I don't always know
what to say,
how to be,
when you're sticky sweet to me.

I look in the mirror.
I understand what I see.
And, when you say things
I find too hard to believe,
I want my feet
to run from your sticky sweetness.

If you could hear past
me pushing you away . . .
If you could look past
my backwards way . . .
Maybe,
one day

I'll be less half,
more whole,
stop playing the role
of the rogue, wandering soul,
learn to accept you could feel
all those sticky sweet words . . . for me.

**It's that time again. Linking up with One Stop Poetry for One Shot Wednesday.

JC's Whatevs: Hamball

2011-05-28T15:29:00.000-04:00

It's Saturday! That means I'm ready to hand over the reins to my son, Jonah, for a little bit of comic fun. Last week, we read the adventures of Pickles the Ninja. Today, you will meet Hamball.

Enjoy!

Twirling

2011-05-27T11:17:00.000-04:00

Having some more fun with The Red Dress Club. The prompt for this week's Red Writing Hood is to write a post (600 word max.) beginning with the words, "This was absolutely the last time" and ending with "She was wrong."

This was absolutely the last time she would twirl the gold band around her soon to be lonely finger. Her right hand edged the simple, gold ring past her knuckle. She stopped before she could finish the task.

Hot tears stung her eyes threatening to gush. Thirteen years of struggle seemed preparation enough for this moment. They were not. She was no stranger to lack. She had scanned her cupboards many a day only to find peanut butter and crackers waiting. And, it had been okay. She had it far better than many people the world over. This she knew.

But, today that was not enough, and she didn't care if the whole world was destitute because she was losing the last thing that mattered in this world, a symbol . . . of love, of good-and-bad-time vows kept. The pain rested heavy, the ache ran deep.

Anger crept in as she thought of others with their diamonds, diamonds she had never craved because the gold band was enough, enough to mark her devotion to her lover.

And, she knew. The money gained from it's sale would garner little security, buying them a couple of weeks maybe before the whole cycle would start again: prayers, tears, hope, disappointment, worry, despair, prayers again . . . It was the cycle of the poor, a club of which she never intended to be a member.

The ring still rested just at her knuckle. She stared. It's just a ring, she told herself as she pulled it free leaving an empty finger in its wake. With both hands she brought the ring close enough to read it's inscription one last time, until heaven, then forever...

She was sick, ridden with guilt for not wanting to part with an object when she had never fancied herself a material girl.

She sighed as she placed the ring in a plastic bag, ready for the pawn shop. He would be the one to take it. She did not want to witness the parting. The decision was made. It had to be done. Now, she must get on with the day. There were children to feed, dishes to wash, laundry to clean. Her forever would have to stay in her heart.

As she stood at the sink feeling numb from the disbelief of her circumstance, she felt arms around her. They were his. Tears trickled.

"I know it shouldn't matter. It's just a ring. I know," her eyes looked up at his, sorry and sad. "I'm ashamed to be grieving the loss of a thing." His eyes held an unexpected look. She thought she would see shame for not being able to stop the inevitable.

"Give me your hand," his hand enveloped hers. "I know we have needs. I know. But, I want you to give me more time, to find another way."

"But..." he stopped her with a kiss, and took the plastic bag emptying the ring into his palm. "Until heaven, then forever..." he said as he placed the ring on her finger anew.

"Until heaven, then forever..." she whispered, looking back up into his smiling, chocolate-brown eyes.

She turned back to the sink and twirled the gold band of promise again and again before dropping her hands into the soapy water. She had thought she would never twirl it again.

She was wrong.

Outlander

2011-05-25T15:47:00.008-04:00

She searches and searches for truth in this world,
and they are happy to hand it out in pamphlets,
in parables,
in bite-size sermonettes,
so they can count her soul in the tally roll of newcomers to the kingdom.
But, when she doesn't translate well into what they want her to be,
she dies a little more inside,
and she knows she never really could make it work,
and they know, too
(knew it from the start).
But, it made them feel good to try to fix her up
(like a prized pig),
and even better to cast her aside.
They've got it more together than she does
and, now there's proof.
They're closer to that one-way train ticket than she is.
This they know for sure,
and they won't spend too much time
holding on to what was really right
because hey, there's cake to bake,
and stories to spread,
and surely there's someone out there needing to be told they have it all wrong today.
But she . . .
she sits on the side of the road,
and she already knows she's not enough,
knows that a god who couldn't love her wouldn't be big enough anyway.
She knows.
She knows she's not an outlander to God.
He calls her beautiful.
Even though his people have already marked her forehead and called it a day.

*Linking up with the lovely Emily today at Imperfect Prose today...

The Sting

2011-05-24T17:19:00.000-04:00

Separation stings.

In my ears, your words ring.

I'm holding tears that want to trickle,

and I feel all prickly inside.

I always knew this was the way.

We're made to eventually separate,

but the sadness sets heavier than I ever expected.

I know you love me,

and I know you care.

But, I'm already feeling unprepared

for you to be a man

when just yesterday,

your sweet hand

always

rested in mine.

And, once upon a time,

I heard your first cries

before your chubby little body

burrowed deep in my arms.

And, you charmed me

with your baby spell,

and I tell you now, sweet boy, that

my insides pulsed to know you more.

And, I pored over ways

to make sure I'd raise you right.

You're still my baby boy

even though you fancy yourself a man.

I know this was always the plan,

to guide you,

not keep you

forever holding my hand.

But, my heart - it hurts

as I watch you grow

because I know

it just gets harder from here,

and I don't want to smear the lines

of my need

with your need.

No, I want you to be free,

to be what you were meant to be,

and I promise it's so much more than son

because you shine, baby boy

as bright as I knew you would.

And, my biggest fear

is that after so many years

I'll realize

I did it all wrong,

that I won't be inspiration for more

than your sad stories and songs,

and oh, I long to be more than that

for you.

I long

to be all

you need

from a momma.

So, little boy turned young man,

you need to know I will do the best I can.

And,

when I fail,

I'll be right there

to pick up the pieces

I never meant

to break.

**It's time for One Shot Wednesday. Click over to One Stop Poetry to link up a poem of your own.

My Son: The Humorist

2011-05-21T16:33:00.000-04:00

Remember my son, Jonah?

Here he is.

Well, Jonah can be quite funny at times. I picked him up from school yesterday, and this comic fell out of his binder along with a pile of miscellaneous school paraphernalia.

I read it.

I chuckled.

I thought you might chuckle, too. I mean, we still have a few hours before the rapture, and you know you have nothing else to do while you wait.

"Pickles the Ninja" by Jonah McClure

Funny, right?

She Pretends

2011-05-20T13:20:00.000-04:00

Linking up with The Red Dress Club, and writing about sloth, which is this week's prompt. Here goes!

My black dress mocks me, makes me foolish with false hopes of my power to seduce you. I could’ve worn a potato sack. I could’ve come naked. I’m not sure anything would’ve filled your stare with more than blankness.

I can’t stop looking at you as I vacillate between longing and misery. I reach across the table because I tell myself deep down you want me to. But, you sit unphased as I reach for your hand. So, I pull back. The stares are blank when once they were filled with promises not empty. Tonight, we eat quietly, and I wonder what happened to the nights when anything was possible.

I still stay. And, he stays, too, because that’s what we do. We have superpowers allowing us to exist in the mundane without insisting for more.

And, I pretend. That’s how I do it. That’s how I stay in this pitiful place of nothingness.

I pretend we are not two strangers who used to know each other better than we knew ourselves. No, we are mysterious lovers under night’s cover, and this isn’t an empty night filled with empty promises.

This is love.
Big love.
Exciting love.
Love that will keep us fed forever.
And, we are only quiet because we are content to drink in the intoxicating bliss of what could be.

Yes, we are more than this.

But I don’t really know if we can dig deep enough to turn tonight into more than a sad song.

I look up to see words about to form from his lips, those lips I once constantly longed to kiss. I feel a bit of hope stirring as I wait for words to snap my fantastical possibilities into the now.

“Yes?” I lean forward waiting.

“My steak is over-cooked,” he says with all the passion of a 12 year old reciting the pledge of allegiance.

I think about throwing my napkin on the table and walking off in a huff to prove I’m done pretending, to prove I’m more than a willing participant in this obnoxious dance.

I look back at him instead and say, “Why don’t you send it back then?”

Short Story Slam: Strangers

2011-05-19T21:02:00.005-04:00

**Stretching my fiction muscles and trying something new today. This was written for Bluebell Books' Short Story Slam. They provide the picture, we provide the stories.

Photo by: Melissa R. Bickel

Another day to pretend all is fine, to pretend this fractured relationship forms a tiny family. I knew Dad thought this would make us happy again. I knew it would not. A ridiculous hot air balloon would not allow us to fly above our problems, float past our worries. When grass finds our feet again, we will feel the collective weight of our conflicts, our hurts, our sorrows come crashing back on our heads.

I kicked my foot in the dirt and stayed a good ten feet behind him drilling home the passive aggressive point that my presence was not an admission of willing participation. Inside, I was kicking and screaming like a tantrum-throwing toddler.

“Come on, Jimmy! Catch up!”

How could Dad believe this would work? He seemed a pitiful simpleton as I searched his face for the familiar. I only saw a stranger forging full blast into a pipe dream. Nausea settled deep in the pit of my stomach. I stretched my arms out, yawned, and kicked the ground one last time. I forced my spine straight and yelled, “I’m coming!”

I gave him just enough to let him know I was trying, and when I caught up to him, I couldn’t stop the question from spilling out, “You know this won’t change a thing, don’t you? Life will still suck after this day is over.” I looked straight into his eyes, so he could see my hurt.

Instead, his pain gushed back at me as he said, “Son, I’m not delusional. I know this won’t bring her back,” he looked down, composing himself before continuing on, “but if I don’t get my feet off this ground, I’m afraid the earth might swallow me whole.”

I put my hand on his shoulder. We stood in the field together understanding for the first time in months; we were more the same than different.

let me count the ways...

2011-05-18T14:19:00.000-04:00

i love you.
i forgive you.
you can't cross enough rivers to get away from Me.

words written seven years ago that i didn't understand are now understood.

sometimes i feel i've crossed too many oceans to get back to Him . . . let alone rivers.

but, He's here.

He's been here all along.
and, i need Him.
and, He knows that i know i need Him.
and, He knows i get scared.
and, He knows i hide.
and, He knows i know i'm not enough.
and, He knows how much i fear failing.

and, He doesn't leave because of me . . .

He forgives.
and, He loves.
and, He doesn't go away when i don't look pretty.
and, He doesn't look away when i show Him my mess.
and, He says i can't go anywhere He won't be
because He loves me.
and, i'm forgiven.

and, i believe Him.

(Non)Sense

2011-05-17T17:12:00.000-04:00

She's got pain inside.

She's been told to hide

because they'll speculate

and blame

and change the game

to make it

all about

her.

When,

(let's be honest now)

it's about him

and all the him(s) out there

hurting her(s).

There are she(s) in every corner

hunkered down

with enough secrets

to last a lifetime.

Yeah, she's here.

And, she knows

no one wants to hear it anyway.

So many inconvenient truths to be told,

and she won't be the one to tell them now.

God, forbid

the victims should win, right?

That just makes too much sense.

**Linking up with One Stop Poetry again. Maybe you should, too . . .

I Missed Another Deadline

2011-05-16T17:45:00.001-04:00

I missed the deadline for something I wanted to participate in. It was the Rally to Restore Unity, which was the brainchild of Rachel Held Evans. She's cool. You should look her up here.

I often miss birthdays, anniversaries, etc. It took me like 5 years to nail down my own anniversary. Yeah, it's bad. True story:

In my first year of marriage, my husband and I were having dinner. The waitress asked us when we got married. I answered wrong. My husband was not amused. I can assure you (and my husband) that it's not personal. Dates just collide in my mind, and when I'm pressed to pinpoint events, I often get them scrambled. I'm more of a one day at a time kind of girl. It's all I can process.

So, I really, really, really wanted to participate in Rachel Held Evans' Rally to Restore Unity, but I missed the deadline.

Anyway, the Rally to Restore Unity was all about this:

"An online rally to promote open dialog between people with different perspectives in the Christian faith while prioritizing a practical goal we can achieve. We may not always agree on everything, but we can agree everyone needs clean water!"

(You can give here: http://mycharitywater.org/p/campaign?campaign_id=15664)

I thought I would do it anyway, and provide a link to all the fun. Some of the signs are hilarious. Some are serious. Some are thoughtful. A counter rally was even organized by this blogger named, Mason, that I found amusing. Check it out here.

Here's my sign.

So, if you didn't participate but wish you would've, tell me what your sign would say.

A to V to C

2011-05-14T10:26:00.000-04:00

Lately, I've been a bit paralyzed because I'm experiencing information overload. I'm the type of girl that likes to know what I'm doing before I set out to do it. I don't want to come across as an amateur, a novice; when, let's be honest, I am.

I'm finally coming to terms with the fact that it's okay I have no clue what I'm doing in this writing world.

I've been reading books, blogs, articles - you name it - all about every aspect of writing, and here's my final conclusion:

I need to stop reading about writing so much and just write.

The truth is that what works for others, might not work for me. I might not plot like so and so does, or market like she does, or write from 5am to 9am like he does.

So, for today, I'm giving myself a pass to do it my way. If I get stuck, I'll search for answers, but for now, I need to let my creative juices flow and not get bogged down in the right way to write. It's overwhelming me.

Writing is definitely a learn-as-you-go kind of journey. For all the things I'm going to do right, I'm going to do just as many or more wrong. The sooner I make peace with that fact, the sooner I can get on with creating.

Honestly, I think the main point of creating is to unite us, help us not to feel alone in this crazy, mixed up, out-of-control world. If I can do that, I'll be happy, and if I go from A to V to C instead of A to B to C to make that happen, the world might still keep spinning.

So, read all you can and learn. That's smart. But, at the end of the day, the biggest rule of all is to sit down and simply write what comes oozing out of your heart. I promise, good things will happen if you do. You may not create the next New York Times bestseller, but you will be happy.

picture by Jonah McClure

It's Not Pretty

2011-05-10T17:28:00.000-04:00

*disclaimer - This was not inspired by my current life situation. This was inspired, however, by watching a really depressing movie the other night.

Two sides of a whole,
and I know
it's not pretty
what i see
between you and me,
this and that,
tit for tat.

How did this come to be?
We never saw mediocrity
wrapped up in our tomorrows,
but it's here to stay.
It won't go away
unless we ask it to
and you...

and me...
(never
what we seem to be)
make it so
the whole world knows
we are one
under this big world's sun.

Even though
behind closed doors
we're just two sides
of a whole,
and I know
and you know
it's not pretty.

All those big dreams
used to shoot sunbeams
through us both,
and now we can't cope
despite the trying
and a fair bit of dying
on the inside.

My mind sometimes wanders far, far back to when
we used to dance in each others eyes,
but I realize
those days are gone,
forever gone.
So, it's time to don a brave face.
We can't erase what's done.

And, here we are now.
The picture is peeling now.
The color is fading now.
The light is gone now.
The wonder is lost now.
The laughter is wasted now.
The hope is exhausted now.

And,
we
are
you
and
I
now.

*Having fun again with One Stop Poetry for One Shot Wednesday. Why don't you give it a try, too?

Happy Mother's Day

2011-05-07T22:47:00.000-04:00

My friend and fellow blogger, Amy, had an amazing idea to highlight our mothers and have a little fun for Mother's Day. She proposed we all send in pictures of our mothers along with a seven word story for her first ever, Your Mama, My Mama {A Bloggy Tribute} extravaganza. Isn't she fun?

So . . . I submitted my seven word story in honor of my mother, Joan Lang, and here it is:

Former wannabe go-go dancer, current compassionate nurse.

On a more serious note, I am grateful for my mother and her love, support, and friendship. I am blessed to have a mother that is as beautiful on the inside as she is on the outside.

And, for my mother-in-law, Dale McClure, my husband wrote this seven word story.

(He didn't want to be left out!)

My mom is a clown, like me.

I am also thankful for my mother-in-law, whom I've gotten to know even more in this last year. I am thankful for her relationship with my children. I have been blessed to watch them grow closer this past year as well.

Click over to Amy's site to see some more fun seven word tributes.

Civilized

2011-05-03T18:18:00.003-04:00

Should we rejoice in death of any kind?

Should we sing songs of contempt over an atrocious soul?

Should hatred roll

off our angry tongues

in celebration?

For, now the wicked one is dead.

Justice
has been done,

but loved ones lost

will not return if we hate

and berate

beyond the call of freedom.

Will we remain
humane

despite
the cries

for hell to burn hotter,

the evil one to burn longer?

I feel no victory

for i see people

hurt, sad, confused,

torn apart

with broken hearts,

and i want to run to the microphone

and yell,
"Peace,

be still!"

-for hearts to hear and

tears to stop

and soldiers to come home to mommas and babies.

And, maybe

freedom fighters

have a right
to cheer.

Some fears are now at rest.

But, we know the fight is not over.

Perhaps, it now begins.

Perhaps, we'll never truly win,

but let us keep our heads

and never tread

past the line

of the civilized.

**written for One Shot Wednesday

Heavy Hearts

2011-04-29T15:20:00.000-04:00

My heart is heavy as I hear stories and see devastation from the storms that have recently ravaged the south. Many have lost everything here in Cleveland and the surrounding areas. Stories and pictures continue to flood in from friends, and the devastation is great. The death toll continues to rise, and my heart hurts with every picture, story, and number that adds to the lives lost.

I grew up in IL, and we experienced severe weather on a regular basis. I remember the horrific Plainfield tornado of 1990 that is estimated to have been 7 miles long and 700 feet wide leaving a trail of devastation 16.4 miles long. I lived only a few miles down the road from Plainfield in Shorewood and dreams of people crying out for help haunted me in the days that followed the storm.

Having been a part of severe weather in IL, I must say I have never experienced anything like the storms of Wednesday, April 27. The tornado warnings were coming in quick succession, and the skies were buzzing with fast moving dark clouds.

After the hail and rain seemed to have passed, I was able to assess that power lines and trees were down in our driveway. I am thankful we don't have damage more severe to report.

Schools have been damaged with roofs gone, homes have been destroyed, trees have crashed though houses. Loss is extensive. As of right now, at least 297 people have lost their lives according to WTVC news in an estimated 179 tornadoes (numbers are conflicting right now). While I am thankful I haven't personally lost anyone in this storm, my heart grieves for those who have.

In the storms that passed through Arkansas, Tennessee, Kentucky, Alabama, and Mississippi on February 5th and 6th in 2008, I lost my aunt and uncle, Joy and Mike Dow. When you lose loved ones in this manner, it seems unreal, random, and unfair. I certainly do not understand why these tragic acts occur, but I am praying for those affected. In the days to come, we will be lending all of the help, love, and support we can as our communities rally together to rebuild.

If you'd like to help, please check out some of the following links to give in any way you can. May God's love and peace surround all those suffering today and in the days to come.

The Salvation Army
American Red Cross
Presbyterian Disaster Assistance
AmeriCares
Mennonite Disaster Service

little blue boy

2011-04-19T17:27:00.001-04:00

Toddler tumbles
over monkey bars blue.
The mommy in me
wants to run up, and shoo
away the pain
as I reach out . . .

then, stop.

For little blue boy is not mine,
and his daddy says
he'll be just fine.
Ignore him, and he won't fuss.
That's the way a parent must
raise boys,

he says.

I apologize
even though he spouts lies.
For I know
little blue boy
will one day retire his toys,
and lessons learned

to tough it out

will later make grown blue boy doubt
his urge to feel.
And he'll shove his emotions
so far down they drown
away life's tears
and turn to

anger.

I wish I
would have run to him
and said to little blue boy
just then,
It's okay little one.
The world won't come undone

if

sometimes

both big and little blue boys

need to cry.

**linking up with One Stop Poetry. Feel free to join in the fun of One Shot Wednesday.

M is for Madelyn

2011-04-16T12:33:00.000-04:00

April is Autism awareness month. I asked my sister-in-law, Lisa, to share a little about Autism because she is no stranger to the impact it can have on a family. My niece, Madelyn, has been diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome, which is on the high functioning end of the spectrum. Madelyn is beautiful, intelligent, and amazing in every way. Asperger's doesn't change any of that.

It is my hope that hearing from Lisa will help you to understand Autism a little better, encourage you if you already know firsthand, or help you to remember to lend grace to others that live with Autism every day. It is not an easy road.

I am incredibly proud of Lisa for opening up. I know this is not easy for her, so show her some love by taking the time to comment. Feel free to share words of support, encouragement, and personal experience.

Lisa and Madelyn

AUTISM . . . What?

When Lori asked me if I would write a post on Autism, I really didn't want to because, as you will see, I am not a writer. I thought about it and decided to do it because Autism is near and dear to my heart as it affects my family everyday. April is the month set aside to bring awareness to Autism. Autism affects 1 in 110 children. It is reported that every 20 minutes a child is diagnosed with Autism. This saddens me greatly.

For those of you who have heard of Autism but don't really know what it is, I'll give you a brief overview. Autism is a neurological disorder. It is not a mental disorder like some may think. It causes children to experience the world differently than the way many other kids do. Autism is a wide-spectrum disorder, which explains why no two people with it are alike. There are different levels of Autism that range from low-functioning to high-functioning. Children on the lower end of the spectrum have more severe developmental delays, often do not speak, and, in many cases, have other disabilities as well. Those on the higher end of the spectrum tend to have average to above average intelligence and less developmental delays.

People with Autism are wired differently than what we call the "typical" person. One thing that people with Autism have in common is that they lack the social skills that a "typical" person has. They are uncomfortable in social settings because many times they just don't know what to do and have a hard time expressing themselves. This is not their fault. They just need to be taught the proper way to respond socially. For a "typical" person, being social comes easy for the most part. It's just the way we are.

Often, a person with Autism has a great memory. Memorization comes natural for them. They don't have to sit and study something like a "typical" person generally does. So, just as a "typical" person has to practice something over and over to memorize it (because it doesn't come natural), a person with Autism has to practice being social (because it doesn't come natural). This is the way they are wired.

People with autism can often be misunderstood. They aren't freaks. They are people like you and me and should be treated like the jewels they are!!

I will leave you with this beautiful quote:

"They are . . .

Angels sent from God
Unveiling themselves to the world
To unite us all
Influencing hearts, minds, and souls
Spreading compassion, love, and understanding
Making a difference in this misguided world."

Lisa has also suggested some resources that I will pass on to any of you interested in learning more:

www.autismspeaks.org
www.autism-society.org
www.unlockingautism.org
www.aspergersyndrome.org