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Showing posts from May, 2012

So much more in love than black and white.

Outside my door are gardenias. They smell more lovely by the day so I admire them. But they are not azaleas, red and pink.

Alongside nestle the hostas, varied and friendly, so I glance over each time I walk past. But they are not yellow daisies, sunny and strong.

Across the way, the mondo threatens to overtake the whole lot and I've seen it's kind before.

I can't claim to miss my gingko tree. Only when I happen upon another do I remember how it reaches high, but never shady and exact.

Sugarman enjoyed it, however, skizzling up and down.
The back yard boasts a swimming pool but begs for butter lilies and lilac colored flox. So I bide my time but plan and plot.

It'll all be there when I get back.

You can go your own way.

I will protray a fine example for the wide eyed innocents. Even the mean ones who know not what they do.

But I'm not drinking your Koolaid.

I will accomplish the tasks at hand. Just tell me what needs to be done and I'll find my way.

But I'm not drinking your Koolaid.

I will hustle and give without expectation because I said I would. As long as I can stand it.

But I'm not drinking your Koolaid.

I may not be that good of a person but I know bitter and it tastes of creative minds misundestood and cleverness devalued. When the banner rises only to afford the rising, the flag flies high but not true.

Without joy, there is no music.
Without wonder, there is no aesthetic.
Without stories, numbers and letters are meaningless.

As days go by, the contrast is sharper and we spill over and out but reach ever deeper:
"I'm awesome. They just don't know it." So, that settles that. No more Koolaid.

Like breathing in and breathing out.

Who takes an ordinary week night and creates feast enough for the children of Israel with manna to spare?

Who says yes when she'd really rather say no but rises to every occasion?


Who continues to be the Boss of You from another residence, vacation (hers or yours) or even a hospital bed?

Who willingly takes to the shadows so we can shine?


Who generously offers a plentitude of hair style and fashion tips without regard to generational preferences?

Who listens patiently for hours while you talk yourself into the answer she already knows?


Who buys matching lavender underwear for a lavender dress, hose and shoes to make the Valentine's banquet lavender special?

Who gives till she's bone dry, then rallies, and gives the rest?


Who determinedly continues to stock her cabinet with bags of chocolate chips as the generations raid and pillage?

Who champions your cause, right or not, because you're hers?


Who has faultless and flawless grandchildren…

Give me 'til then to give up this fight.

It's drab and rainy this day as I feel around in the dark for my hoodie because I already put the wintry clothes on the wintry rack of my closest. Finding an umbrella is hopeless because, apparently, they are for grown ups, not groan ups.

There is a red ballon rolling around the floorboard of my car and I'm uncertain where it came from but certain I don't need it.

My brain is foggy having kept my body up too late with this thought or that and I pretend through the day's tasks, smiling and feeling my way around in the dark for any morsel of joy because I already put it on the sunny rack in the back of my mind where it waits for me to catch up.

Mostly, the presence of the sun warms and thrills but, sometimes, it glares and exposes what prefers darkness. Even a Not That Good Of A Person prefers flaws exposed to the sun's healing rays to hiding in darkness where things are not as they seem.

And I wonder how the sun feels, always bright and responsible, and does he ev…


• It's totally immature but I mutter "whatever" under my breath like a sulky teen when I repeatedly hear dumb things.

• It's a dumb thing to eat pickles fresh from the fryer and, let's face it, at all.

• I don't at all feel obligated to pose in your photos because they will only end up on facebook.

• On facebook, only the good photos of you are albumed while I'm having to untag myself and hope for the best.

• I'm always hoping for the best but keep a Plan B fresh. But I mutter under my breath, just in case.

• Just in case it's unclear: I'm really not that good of a person.

• Whatever.

They say our love won't pay the rent.

The trampoline gang gathered during those dank days of summer. Sweaty buzz cuts, green capes and plastic swords. Red, blonde, black and brown. Shoeless and shirtless.

The sheer numbers prevented them from being allowed indoors but they were given juice boxes and popsicles on their way into the back yard. They skizzled up trees and scratched big bites. They painted their faces with mulberry juice because the tree grew over the fence into their space and what else was to be done? The tough 'ol broad next door was patient and not as they ran through her flowers, threw her rocks and perused her weekly carport sale for treasures.

The Trampoline Gang invented games.

"Let's play war! Bip, bip, bip!"

Some did research so they could cast characters expertly but it's no fun to play with know it alls.

"No, I'll only play with you if we play Categories. I go first: Bazooka!"

May the best death pantomime win.

"No one wants to play that. Let's play Ma…