Favor me

lace me up in scantily adorned verse

breathing in butterflies

and gasping for air

Common ground

When you feel yourself connecting

But you keep pressing pause

That’s when you begin drifting 

It’s called sabotage 

Seems a lot of people’s favorite thing about being in a “relationship” is being ignored

Tit for tat

Howl

Just a bloated belly abaft

Lackadaisical foam 

Illuminating a muted darkly sky

My moon begins to groan

Much Ado about Nothing

Nothing

Nothing to drown out the silence

Nothing to silence the truth

Nothing ever changes

Nothing stays the same 

Nothing here to see

Nothing left to understand 

Nothing left to fulfill

Nothing left to give

Nothing left to lose

Nothing left to gain

Nothing fills the void

Nothing left to compute

Nothing ever happens

Nothing ever will

Nothing to fuss about 

Nothing much to tell 

Nothing much to say

Nothing but the best

Nothing to hold onto

Nothing seems to satisfy

Nothing really matters

Nothing comes to mind

Nothing means everything

Or 

Maybe

Nothing is a stubbornly persistent illusion that is situationally subjective and a trite simple word perpetually misused.

I wonder what would happen if we all said nothing at all.

“I am the wisest man alive, for I know one thing, and that is that I know nothing” ~Plato

“I love to talk about nothing. It's the only thing I know anything about” ~Oscar Wilde

Not silly at all

 

Not silly at all

 It’s not silly at all

The satisfaction of paying my bills

I remember sitting down with my Mom at the formal dining room table. Usually after my brothers had gone off to bed, her teaching me the importance of paying bills and prioritizing. 

She would open all the envelopes and stack everything by necessity and due dates. 

She wrote everything down on a legal pad. Then would turn on her adding machine and start tapping away. She would crunch the numbers, and take to scribbling notes on the legal pad again and then with a swift hand, since this was long before she nearly crippled her hand, she’d furiously start writing out checks and put them with paperclips on the bills, stopping in between to jot more notes. Then settling in and striking away at the adding machine. She’d run the numbers twice, sometimes a third time, then she’d balance her checkbook. 

I would roll my eyes, knowing she kept all the joy of using the adding machine to herself, only later when I was a year or so older would she let me take over this duty, one I relished quite a bit. I was too slow at first, maybe because I just shy of seven or eight, and I would have to start over as she called things out to me. 

There was always a seriousness about her as she put all her focus into completing this religious mundane task. I knew the ritual alone meant this was important. 

I loved to sit and watch her, my legs swinging as I fidgeted in my chair. But still sitting politely with my hands crossed in my lap. I would always slouch a little on the edge of the table and she’d correct me, “Sit up straight like a lady, please”

As I got older, I often knew when things were tighter in the purse, by how deep her brow furrowed and how she’d twist her mouth to suck the side of her teeth, momentarily distorting her always beautiful face and polished appearance. 

I remember the smell of the paperwork in neat piles organized on the dinner table. The table my brothers and I sat and wrote “I will not ____” a thousand times on loose leaf paper when we were in trouble(no, my parents did not spare the rod, this was just a bonus), or where we’d do our homework for hours in the evenings.  The same table my parents insisted we gather as a family often and have meals together, and they taught us to eat properly and have good manners and conversation about current events and discussions about the world around us.

My parents taught us to value hard work and also be a part of a family and community where everyone contributed. This was not lost on me.

I understand the certain look of fulfillment she had had at times when the bills were all done and she would ask me to gather everything up and tell me where to put it all neatly away. She’d say, “You have to stay organized” and my parents are so well organized they could be serial killers.

While my childhood may have been more “charmed” than others, my parents were adamant in teaching my four brothers and I about hard work ethics and the value of those charms. They insisted on each of us getting jobs very early on and wanted us to understand anything worth having was working toward. Make no mistake we lived in beautiful middle class neighborhoods and took vacations and wore nice clothes and always ate very well. 

As an adult I wish I could say my life choices allowed me to continue on that “charmed” path. 

The satisfaction of being able to pay all the bills, was something that seemed out of reach for more than a dozen years. Always robbing Peter to pay Paul, I’d let one or two bills slip by and pay them next time, rotating between necessities. I made it work, and at times even with three jobs would fall short. I’d make concessions and find somewhere else to pinch or moonlight for a few extra dollars cleaning houses or reorganizing a legal filing system for a family friend. I would hustle. But the struggle to get ahead won’t be soon forgotten. I’m not bad with money, I just fell behind as a single mom of three with very little help. I busted my ass and I didn’t give up. I gave a lot of effort and time and a whole lot of love to make up for the things money couldn’t buy. 

I’ve come a long way and it wasn’t without constant challenges. But looking back, I know the life lessons I learned not just from being taught but from observing that this wasn’t just a lesson, it was an important part of our understanding it was necessary for us to be successful in our lives. Steady the path, work hard and be grateful. I had healthy support and love in ways my parents may not have known they gifted to me in my youth.

Finally within the last year or so being able to push ahead, save some money, take on a car payment and actually take a vacation for the first time in a while. I did that. Me. Some months were harder than others and I’d have to push through with only a few bucks in my pocket until the next payday, but here I am celebrating the little victories.

The road has been long and I know there’s miles to go. I know better than to think things couldn’t fall behind or worse, but I am trying to plan ahead in the hopes that they won’t. Staying sharp and remaining vigilant with my budget.

Life’s funny. And always subject to change on a whim. I hate to coin a million phrases, (I’ll save that for my Mom) but I am better to count my blessings while I can and send out the gratitude and positivity back into the universe. 

It’s good juju and we all need the good juju. Chin up.  

A feathery thing

Resigned to the idea that my heart was no longer viable, time had hardened it into stone. 

How could this perpetual thud in my chest be so sincere and resilient amongst such grievous wreckage? 

A smooth stone sculpted in a bumbling gurgling brook of drowning tears had declared it thus. 

I, taking to and folding in fetal to embrace my enduring solitude, could not escape the quiet moments that began to crush all eternal hope. Left alone in a cage of unrelenting cerebral assaults, came to the realization my essence was far more fragile. 

This heart of mine, my lovely lyrical heart was really just a feathery thing that too often took flight, soaring at such grandiose and marvelous heights only to plummet again at such agonizing and terrible depths. 

Never still, the wings of hope carry my song, and it lives on the sweeping wind. Sometimes it sends me spiraling and sometimes on melody and rhythm, pinion and plumage I magically glide.  

I’ve sat too long 

Lost in the illusion of a life I was supposed to be living 

I got lost along the way

Tripping on pebbles scattered amongst paths not paved for me

Where did she go

I say, staring at an image in the mirror, I no longer recognize is my own

I’ve walked through fires and burned differently by the light of the those flames

Trusting far too many that didn’t worship and bathe in the cinders of those ashes

I’ve made my mark and danced on the graves of loves and people I once called lovers and friends 

Touching fingertips and lips with warmth leaving behind passion like glitter bombs and confetti strewn across oceans 

Crashing in waves upon damp sands, sprinkled with the footprints of terrifying things that slither and crawl masked under the moon’s glow

Like tears falling from a cursed statue 

Moments of empty and hollow cries that scream in graveyards once called love

Pennies for the death guiding my ferry to lands of ghosts that haunt me still

Wandering mornings not meant for me and days lost on me

How did I get here 

and why were these my choices

I could’ve chosen easy

I could’ve chosen well

Still I lift my glass to choices I’ve made, and too easily called hell

A kaleidoscope of memories filtered with laughter and distraught 

The pain would take over

and I’d lose myself again

Falling farther and further in someone else’s skin

When the music no longer comforts

the pain walled deep within

It’s time to stop watching 

and let time begin revealing

who that little girl was 

left staring at the moon

Wondering what great adventures

life has yet to hold

I want to stop all this dying 

With just moments in between 

And fill my air with laughter 

and love for everything 

The longing to live burns brighter 

than the eternal thought of dying

Today is filled with emotion for choices not yet made

and at least I am still trying 

To live the life that I have made