Reposted ~ Explanation ~

hello there, you, reading this blog. i've decided to repost some of my old, perhaps cryptic, attempts at poetry that i had previously posted under another blog hoping that would help me gain poetic momentum. alas! no go. i've added them into this blog, keeping the original dates and adding "Reposted:" to the beginning of the title and tagging them with reposted also. if you would like (no judgement on my part whether you would or would not), use the tag reposted that i've included on this post as well to bring them up.

Reposted: snowy imaginings

think i'm hallucinating

seeing things that are not there

light shining through the window

shining on your hair

i stood bare foot in the dark

i couldn't light a match

light was glaring off the ice

the wind hasn't started blowing yet

you thought i was your angel

i thought we'd fly away

its over but not gone

its over and gone now

imagine we'd find something else to say

there's nothing left to say

Reposted: monster besides the water

We were on the lake, a lake created by a dam, and one of the mountains looked like an enormous beast that had died just steps from a drink. The head of the beast was laying only yards from the current water line. Before though, I imagine without the dam, it would have been a small creek. The dinosaur was huge, lumbering to any water it could find in the desert. What made him wander into the desert, and thus to his death, I don't know. His head pointed to the saving stream, just out of reach. His short neck stretched out from his shoulders, pushed upward by his fall. He was left resting on his chest. The beast must have had stout legs like an elephant, his knees and legs folded up next to him. Over the years, he must have caused a great sad stench as his grand body deteriorated. Eventually, only his bones remained, rather than collapsing, they stayed through storm and flood, becoming skeleton to a new and mighty beast - a mountain.

Better Late Than Never

(I am reposting this from my original blog 5/28/08 because I liked writing it and I made eggs this morning)

My husband of nearly five years surprised me. Not in a randomly bringing flowers kind of way. This was more of an I-can’t-believe-you-waited-this-long-to-tell-me kind of surprise.

When we first got married, we both worked, but I tried hard to be a good little housewife – you know, always have fresh towels in the bathroom, never run out of socks or coffee or toilet paper, and make my new hubby breakfast every morning.

Breakfast turned out to be harder than I thought. We have very different opinions on eggs. I like my scrambled, as an omelet, or over hard. Fully cooked is the most important part as I don’t really enjoy eggs, especially un-disguised eggs. Ian however, loves runny yokes with wheat toast to dip in them after he’s eaten the fried whites. I worked hard to perfect the runny yoked happiness of eggs and made them for him once a week in the breakfast rotation. When Charsia was born, I started slacking off on the breakfast thing even more than I had while I was pregnant, so he probably has fried eggs once, maybe twice a month now. You may be surprised at the ways I have accidently found to ruin the eggs, but at least eighty percent of the time he gets his happy eggs over easy with buttered wheat toast to dip in the yokes.

This morning I set his breakfast down for him at his desk where he’s already working. He looks at the food and then up at me and pauses. Then he says, “Hon….” He looks down at his breakfast of coffee, toast, yogurt and nearly perfect eggs (one of the yokes broke) again.

“What?” I ask cautiously. I can’t guess what he is about to say but I know when he pauses and makes that face, he is feeling awkward.

“Uh…” Another pause. “I uh, don’t really like fried eggs hon.”

I must be giving him a blank look.

“I mean thanks for making these for me but I really don’t like fried eggs.” He picks up part of the egg’s white and tugs at it a little for emphasis. “I mean, if I am going to eat fried eggs, this is the way I like them.” As if that was going to console me for the years of egg making.

“But I thought you liked eggs over easy! That’s why I work so hard to make them that way – SO YOU CAN DIP YOUR TOAST IN THE YOKES. Why didn’t you tell me this before?” I start to walk away then turn and come back to lean over the desk and start laughing (I think I am making him nervous with the laughter). “We’ve been married nearly five years and you are finally breaking this to me?”

It turns out he likes almost all variations of scrambled eggs (I know you were wondering). It wasn’t like he told me that his name wasn’t really Ian, or that his other wife makes the fried eggs better. I may have over reacted. Now that I don’t have to try so hard on the eggs any more, they don’t seem that bad… Maybe I will make them for him next week. I’m sure that they will turn out perfect now that they aren’t his favorite.

Titles I considered for this post:

You Think You Know a Person

Deviled Eggs

Devil's Eggs

Fried Eggs and Hon

Reposted: once upon a time ... i was cryptic

once upon a time there was a girlchild who imagined herself a woman. She wandered about oblivious to the sheltered nature of her life and thought that everything was going right. much to her awakening and little to her subconscious surprise, nothing was as she'd thought. nothing was as good as she imagined. then one day her body guard and coincidental confidant asked her to run away to where there was a hole in the sky, describing the beauty of the land and the delicacies and the ship she could buy. The girl enjoyed the idea and pleased her vanity with it. It is perfectly fine, her guide told her. Everything reverted back to such untruthful statements in company. The guide always knew the thing to say to try and win her favour while the other knew her thoughts before she. And the prince; we shall fall into a deep sleep...

Reposted: moon

i feel you molding me by your opinion and

my inner personality the real me

pushes back to be

my façade 

i feel nothing without you

i feel something about you

i feel everything falling from

my façade 

i look up to seen a moon in your neighbor's window...

this white white is what i didn't want to see and didnt know it till i did

it's the lights on and the window open

it's one way or the other in my book

this is all façade 

Reposted: english

I want to write

of cold, juicy plumbs,

stolen from the ice box

that taste the sweeter for it.

I want to write

of his last duchess

if anyone wonder what happened

to the faire-one's successor.

I want to write

of tomatoes

taking of a town in June,

and settling on a kitchen sideboard.

I want to write

of a sad, put-away aunt,

who brought with her

away a sweet innocent, drowned.

I want to write

of Désirée's baby,

accepting aweful fate in life

though it is not your own to bear.

I want to write of

the soul cleansing white sun,

freedom in the breath of the llano,

and know the understanding of freedom.

Am I writing yet?

Reposted: salt water

SO. This is what it is when they say

"heavy of heart"

and "weary soul."

There is so much moire in me

with no way, no where, to go

I am at a loss.

There are wonderful

moments in life,

but they fade quick in the grey

matters of my mind.

Here I am

I am alone.

I do not question

God in this.

He is causing me still to

BREATHE.

He has never forsaken

me as my own spirit has.

NOW, for instance.

I am so tired I cannot sleep,

so sick I cannot be healthy,

too healthy so I cannot beg

sympathy.

Life aches.

If only,

If only my tears could fall freely

and the salt could heal my wounds