On the floor,
Beside my furry, winter boots,
Lies a small plastic palm tree.
Either it belongs to Malibu Barbie,
Or the gods are mocking me.
Perhaps it's a sign
That I should jump on an airplane and flee
Down to Florida.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Thursday, January 5, 2012
stone 1/5/2012
She jogs toward me,
a bounce in her step,
(like she is coming to tell me something! Something exciting!)
her fur sticky matted,
one wet ear,
white powder dusting her black face mask.
What have you been into now, my toddler kitten?
Great Mother
I wrote this poem a long time ago and didn't like it at first, but this morning I'm liking on it. I wrote it in response to a man I overheard talking about how he hated living in WV. Love it or leave it, buddy, and blessings either way. I don't really hope he is eaten by a black bear...maybe.
He says that mountains don't talk,
But he just doesn't listen.
The wind gossips behind his back,
making the creek giggle.
The wind tries to be sneaky,
but the chimes report his every move.
Leaves drift around like teenagers gathering
to share their secrets and then just as quickly scurrying away
not to be seen talking together about who's crunching who.
The crows watch it all
and CAW! CAW! CAW!
And there's no telling what the fairies are up to.
He says mountains are obstacles,
things to be moved.
I look at the same gentle hills,
And I see the Great Mother.
Her bosom and arms cradling the valley,
Her swollen womb
nurturing seeds of every kind.
And I know that she will produce spring.
And when spring arrives,
if you dance barefoot outside,
you will feel her pulse.
(He only sees dead things everywhere,
And dreads the god-awful mountain winter).
He looks up and sees the trees
as a circle of barbed wire,
trapping him.
I agree that they are barbed wire,
put in place by the gods to keep
less hardy, less determined people
out of this sacred place.
(And I ponder how he got to our hills in the first place and why.)
He pities us poor, uncultured hillbillies.
I pity him because he is blind to our culture,
And, therefore, will never have a chance of
fitting in or being accepted.
I get my morning hug from the mountains
by sitting outside in the sun,
draped in a quilt sewn by my West Virginian granny,
and eating toast topped with homemade blackberry jelly.
I hear the chatter of the wind, the creek, the chimes, the birds, the leaves.
I feel the pulse of the earth beneath my bare feet.
And I secretly hope that he is eaten by a black bear.
(c)TNicholas 2010
He says that mountains don't talk,
But he just doesn't listen.
The wind gossips behind his back,
making the creek giggle.
The wind tries to be sneaky,
but the chimes report his every move.
Leaves drift around like teenagers gathering
to share their secrets and then just as quickly scurrying away
not to be seen talking together about who's crunching who.
The crows watch it all
and CAW! CAW! CAW!
And there's no telling what the fairies are up to.
He says mountains are obstacles,
things to be moved.
I look at the same gentle hills,
And I see the Great Mother.
Her bosom and arms cradling the valley,
Her swollen womb
nurturing seeds of every kind.
And I know that she will produce spring.
And when spring arrives,
if you dance barefoot outside,
you will feel her pulse.
(He only sees dead things everywhere,
And dreads the god-awful mountain winter).
He looks up and sees the trees
as a circle of barbed wire,
trapping him.
I agree that they are barbed wire,
put in place by the gods to keep
less hardy, less determined people
out of this sacred place.
(And I ponder how he got to our hills in the first place and why.)
He pities us poor, uncultured hillbillies.
I pity him because he is blind to our culture,
And, therefore, will never have a chance of
fitting in or being accepted.
I get my morning hug from the mountains
by sitting outside in the sun,
draped in a quilt sewn by my West Virginian granny,
and eating toast topped with homemade blackberry jelly.
I hear the chatter of the wind, the creek, the chimes, the birds, the leaves.
I feel the pulse of the earth beneath my bare feet.
And I secretly hope that he is eaten by a black bear.
(c)TNicholas 2010
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Back to School (stone for 1/4/2012)
I drop her off at germapalooza.
She quickly joins the other poppets,
Schoolhouse glue dripping from their noses,
tiny, sticky, grubby hands linking best friends.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
1/3/2012
I awake at 5 a.m.
and climb into the writing loft
with a bowl of oatmeal,
steaming coffee, the best of intentions,
but the kitten and ADHD,
have followed me...again.
Lukewarm oatmeal!
Thank you for sustaining me all these years.
I close my eyes and try to remember
what salsa tasted like.
and climb into the writing loft
with a bowl of oatmeal,
steaming coffee, the best of intentions,
but the kitten and ADHD,
have followed me...again.
Lukewarm oatmeal!
Thank you for sustaining me all these years.
I close my eyes and try to remember
what salsa tasted like.
Monday, January 2, 2012
small stones 1/2/2012
Jealous am I of things that can fly.
I hook my thumbs and make finger wings.
I follow birds in their flight,
But they continue into the sunlight
And leave me spellbound, earthbound, (hellbound).
I hook my thumbs and make finger wings.
I follow birds in their flight,
But they continue into the sunlight
And leave me spellbound, earthbound, (hellbound).
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Small Stones 1 1 2012
I took a walk with spring today!
Wild winds! Plants danced!
But now the sky cries
Because tomorrow that cold-hearted wintry bitch moves in next door.
Wild winds! Plants danced!
But now the sky cries
Because tomorrow that cold-hearted wintry bitch moves in next door.
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