Don’t earnestly promise to catch me a star,
Cradle stars in your hands, cut up and bruised.
Don’t talk about how England awaits,
Grasp my hand as we wander down cobblestone streets.
Don’t tell me that you want to paint my portrait,
Show me in a sketch how you’ve captured my eyes.
In that notebook where you write all our future adventures,
How many entries will you ever cross off?
It’s one thing entirely to dream a beautiful love story,
It’s another thing to strive to make it all real.
Don’t promise we’ll go dancing together in the moonlight
Put on sultry music
slide across the floor and pull me towards you.
Your heart should have buoys around its shores
warning any adventurous sort not to venture too close.
With flashing strobes and a strident moan…
stay back stay back stay back.
But there’s always going to be someone like me
willing to ignore the warning clang,
venturing close and closer still…..
until I smash into your hidden shoals,
another shipwreck littering your shore.
“Love, my mother believed, was the only specific for true beauty—an abundance of it could make a woman who was as plain as zwieback go into the streets smiling, with her head high and her shoulders back, and a dearth of it could transfigure a good and glowing aspect into one that drove the woman to lock herself away like a vampire. As for my mother, she appears in her wedding photograph to be a handsome woman, with a healthy body and a furnished mind, the type of woman who is assumed to be responsible, efficient, and kind to animals and old people; but it was my father’s adoration and then the memory of it that elevated her to a dear and perfect splendor. And she was never aware that I knew how she made sure she stayed that way.
She took for granted that intelligence was needed. She believed that a woman had to be bright enough to choose correctly and distinguish between abiding trust and transient infatuation. She believed also that a woman’s intelligence, which she called “the ability and desire to spend as much time in the world of serious ideas as in the shoe shop.” should be swirled in with her other attributes. She spoke of intelligence as heightening the impact a woman could make, the way a cook might scare vanilla batter with just enough nutmeg to make the cake memorable.
She explained that the optimal situation involves heart and mind working together, and that only a woman who is swept away could be ignorant of the way the heart was always pressing for advantages behind the mind’s back. “The soul wants to feel good all the time. Feeling good all the time is irresponsible. And someone must be hurt in order for that to happen. The heart will inevitably find you the most all-around charming man in the room, but you should never trust it to decide if he should be kept. The heart throws no fish back in the river. It doesn’t realize that there is always another one around the bend.”
-Kaye Gibbons, Divining Women
As she gathered her skirts and headed briskly up the staircase she hoped the view was worth the strain on her tender lungs, bruised from the ill-fated excursion to the Teparda bog the evening before. The effects of the poisonous air of the bog lingered, even though she had been careful to wear surgical gauze over her nose and mouth. Malicson had insisted she see the view from the Northeast garrison tower and he had insisted in a way both frightening and intriguing, so here she was climbing the five flights of stairs to the top.
Three flights up and her lungs ached. It had been challenging to escape her evening household duties so she hoped to get back before it was noticed that she was gone. She reached the top, a spare circular room with one tall narrow window. It was almost dark and she could see the dancing bonfires on the river bank to the East. The Jompays had gathered for their monthly lune ritual and the flames glowed rich pinks, purples and blues from the spices thrown in as they circled the fires in solemn weavings, which reminded her from that height of inner clock workings.
She looked to the North and saw what Malicson had wanted her to see. A thin greenish mist clung to the rooftops of the houses in the Jacka neighborhood. The neighborhood where her mother lived.
(a story I am working on)
I don’t know where you are
because you are in another room.
I don’t know how you feel
because your voice too faint to hear.
I don’t know what I said, or didn’t say
I don’t know why you bowed and turned away
I just know that love once lassoed us as one
And the rope, while loose is not undone.
Fritter is something I do – not eat,
Although I call it lollygag.
Some might say I loaf around,
But truly aren’t loaves made of bread?
My mind works such
from slack to bread to silly songs
It scoots here and there
The time it takes to encompass these thoughts!
If daydreaming is an art
Applaud my form
As I can paint so leisurely.
No clock can stop
My wandering thoughts
Nor pressing tasks that plead,
Even now when I really should sleep,
Sitting up in bed, here I am–
Mind alert and pen in hand.