Sometimes people mean so much to us that all “things” seem inadequate. We say we should give of ourselves, but that comes off as so trite. And it’s hard to define anyway. I can’t speak for most people, but I try to make myself available and try to do things for those I love without being reminded or asked anyway. I love them and try to be attentive to them.
So what to give a life partner who makes smiles just happen by being in the same room? Who frustrates me by leaving the butter out and staring at me blankly when I ask if we need anything from the store before I head out then asks me why I forgot mustard when I get home… Who perfected the infamous Muppet Dance and does pseudo-ballet twirls in our kitchen as I’m moving boiling water around….
I wrote a poem.
I don’t like
take one of my
Make sweet, hot, wet
Drops on your lips.
taste of yours.
My fingers reach to your hair
I hold you there
lick it up
take another bite.
I don’t like coffee
but your flavored kisses
are too brief.
I wrote this before my husband’s birthday, but sharing it is a very different step. I hope you’ll all indulge me for the moment as I wish Dan Happy Birthday (a few days off).
I wasn’t planning on making this post. With so much going on, it didn’t seem I could find the right headspace to write for August McLaughlin’s Beauty of a Woman blogfest, but I just started reading Elizabeth Anne Mitchell’s “The Most Beautiful Woman” post… and it got me thinking about how impossible that would be for me to nail down that title to one person.
She’s that homeless person that just walked into Bruegger’s this morning with a creaking shopping cart full of plastic bags, most carrying scraps of clothing. She spent a half-hour in the bathroom, using it to bathe.
She might be the manager who saw Emily (not her real name) come in the store and who smiled and said cheerfully “Are we out of milk? Would you like more?” and made small talk with her. And made sure to leave a cup with some bagel bites and made sure there was extra milk and cream left out for the homeless woman to get a small meal before Emily left, wrapping a plastic bag about her shoulder to block off the cold wind.
Perhaps that most beautiful woman is the one I met in line while getting my sandwich. Despite some rushing, we had a wonderful conversation about the weather and how the sky is so pretty in the Winter.
Perhaps she is the receptionist at my son’s school who managed the most amazing smiles even though she lives in daily fear for her son’s life because an autoimmune disorder.
Yes, and no…
She’s my sister-in-law, my grandmother, my mother, your mother, your sister, your wife… you.
She is all of us.
♥ to all of us And to the men in our lives too. You guys are beautiful too!
- Beauty of a Woman BlogFest logo (August Mclaughlin)
- English: A picture of a plastic milk bag holder (or pitcher) with a lid pouring milk (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
- Just Women (Photo credit: tchon92)
Today’s a hard one. As fellow challenge poet said in her piece The Cure, how does one write freely and not write as one’s self? I’m still a bit stumped, but I’m willing to wing it and see what happens.
For those interested in joining in, there’s still time on the linky. The “rules” as they are, are here: Poets on the Page Day 3
a phone rings.
in my chair,
alone in our room
my tea is nearly finished
so I set it down instead.
I want to stay here.
It’s too loud down there
with your television show
as you type away
on your computer
I don’t know how long I’ll continue posting these pieces–certainly for the rest of the week of the Poets on the Page challenge. As I said: the words need.
For day two, Julie Jordan Scott asked people to choose five things they could see from the vantage point of their reading the original challenge post (at least that’s the impression I took from the post). Then we were to choose one to write a poem about without naming it.
Of my five items (the Green Man, a peacock feather, fossils, rough wood paneling, and old ribbons from chocolate boxes), only one called out for a poem today:
So cold to touch
I trace you
The saw laid bare youth,
left points and sharp edges,
bands of color to abraid my fingers.
Now you shine, polished,
miniature valleys of ice.
Were you ever so warm
when you yet lived?
Normally I don’t post here the way I probably should, but the sweet Julie Jordan Scott is running a mini poetry challenge this week, and I felt I needed to join in. The words …want.
So here is my short poem (no form used) for Day 1 of the February Mini-Challenge of Poets on the Page:
red from the effort
of standing by,
as so many have passed
Image and linky to join up are on the Mini-Challenge page.
Where do you want to be in the end? Plan ahead to get there!
Originally posted on A Round of Words in 80 Days:
Start thinking ahead.
The sooner you start calling yourself a writer, the sooner you will start seeing the world is full of opportunities for writers. If you introduce yourself as an office worker, your conversation will start off focused on what everyone knows about office workers, which is not much. If, however, you start by saying that you are a writer, people will immediately think of all they know…
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Posted January 8, 2014on:
I can’t “like” this post by Kristen Lamb because of how close to the heart it hits. I just know it makes me want to hug her and share a cup of commiseration disguised as tea and cookies with her.
Originally posted on Kristen Lamb's Blog:
Today is a tad of a touchy subject, but in this New year, I want everyone to have a the greatest gift any of us can have…peace. Bullies, in my opinion, are among the lowest known existing lifeforms. I wouldn’t want to insult cockroaches and fleas by drawing a comparison.
Kristen’s History With Bullies
I grew up most of my life being bullied. I switched schools at least once a year and there was always a new gaggle of Mean Girls to make my daily life a veritable hell. I think this is why I grew to love books. I skipped school so much (to seek sanctuary at the public library), that I’m fairly certain I’m the reason for the current Texas truancy laws.
I couldn’t get out of bed. I became ill at the thought of even walking through the front doors of…
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