Monthly Archives: June 2014

These Numbers

A panel of numbers
shimmer in the glint
of the overhead light
Numbers which could be meaningless
to aliens and animals
But to humans
signify freedom

That we rely on this list
of numerical code
is preposterous
Yet still
it is so

For the backbone
the door behind
is what some identify with
in whole

A soul’s opportunity
to shed itself
of material scrutiny
Can in an instance
be trampled
as if by a herd of buffalo
on the wheat-colored plains

And how ironic
those peoples
who hunted those beasts
did not exchange money
and surely not these numbers

Yet here we are
sliding our glimmering plastic
to feed clothe and perhaps
even travel
see the world
on a cadence of
digital emancipation

If it is so.

bank card

Leave a comment

Filed under Sunday Night Sonnet

The Scream of Silence

It was brought to my attention last night at a neighborhood party that I had not contributed to my blog lately.

I knew this would happen.

One of my avid readers, the boyfriend of the party host and the only male there, mouthed at me from across the room and plateful of cheese and crusty garlic bread.

“Your blog.”

That’s all he had to say really. I knew he would at some point in the evening bring about my accountability for my writing.

“I know,” I mouthed back at him. “I’ve been applying for jobs lately. Not a lot of time for my writing.”

My avid reader is deaf. He contracted polio when he was twelve. Woke up one morning to complete and total silence. I cannot imagine losing my hearing. Sometimes I think I’d rather be blind. To not hear the crescendo of a song that makes your whole body vibrate? To not hear the birds sing outside the window, reminding me of simplicity and nature? To not hear the myriad of beautiful (and not so beautiful) voices and accents from around the globe in their own rhythm and cadence?

But my avid reader doesn’t let this silence deafen his life. He fishes. He shops at the flea market impatiently with his girlfriend. He attends parties. He drives the old ladies (and intoxicated) people home. And he reads lips from across the room.

I am in awe of this ability. I try to read lips, too. I usually look at a person’s mouth when they are speaking to me. It helps clear the wobble of communication in loud places. But my avid reader not only reads lips, he recognizes accents, too. He knew I came from somewhere-in-the-south when he first met me. His girlfriend is English, and boasts a refined Liverpool accent. Thank goodness because she enunciates with the precision of a stern schoolteacher. I can’t imagine poor avid reader trying to read the lips of some of the people I heard mumbling their way through life during my childhood.


Despite his handicap, which perhaps he doesn’t even recognize it as that, he is one of the happiest people I know. I hear his laughter all the way down the street sometimes when I’m walking the dog.

I claim to be, and am, a very auditory person. I have music playing almost constantly. I can’t even brush my teeth without clicking my iPod to shuffle. But when my son and husband went away on a trip for a week I did not turn on the TV or music until the day before they arrived. It was as if I needed that calm quiet. That peacefulness after years worth of conversation and children and cartoons and the pop of Nerf guns.

I wouldn’t want the absence of sound all the time like Avid Reader. Although that absence does magnify the other senses. Maybe colors are more vivid. Hugs are deeper. The gulf breeze more caressing. Faces have more character.

And just maybe words, lines, and stories birth an even bigger life within the scream of silence. And when at a party full of cackling women the silence must be just heavenly.


Filed under Observations

A Symphony of Storms

The storm is my symphony
It creates the grand timbre
usually saved for musical moments
when the silence is uncomfortably deafening
But now the speakers are quiet
the power is disabled
Just the pitter patter of rain
on the skylight and window panes
the rumble of the thunder
closer closer above loud cracking and crashing
then retreating retreating
to a distant rumble
while the dog snores beside
and the tap tap tapping of fingers on the keyboard
are applause to this symphony
that is my storm.


Filed under Sunday Night Sonnet

Vacation, All I Ever Wanted

I don’t get how some companies only give their employees a week off for a whole year’s work. Thank god and universe my company (Starving artist/stay-at-home Mom) has a more flexible vacation policy.

I’m not saying I’m ripping it up in Rio or chillaxin it down in Fiji, but I am able to take a few days here and there to discover the wonders and rejuvenating benefits of staying with family and friends in the great American south.

Rejuvenating? With family? Actually, yes. Keep it at three days tops and you’re golden.

I just came back from a girl’s trip. Me and two of my besties finally converged to chill in the Florida sun like we did every summer for years until kids came into the picture. So this trip was a little different in that instead of packing a pipe we had superhero figures, Barbies, and juice boxes in our myriad of bags and suitcases.

Yep, we brought our kids.

Now I had spent a little time with these kids and besties over the last five years or so but it was only for brief moments when one of us was in the same state as the other. But you know when a friend is a friend for life even if you don’t see or talk to each other often.

The three of us got together again and it was as if no time had passed.

We picked off right where we left- comfortable and making squirrel noises and doing silly dance moves in between making pb&js. You should have seen the clockwork cadence of our moving about in the condo kitchen while cooking, cleaning, and opening a plethora of Prosecco.

And the kids got along famously.


Now luckily I was the only one on her period so there were no foul moods or irritation. Only some “Stop being so bossy!” And some “We’re not going to the pool until you eat something other than fruit gummies or Klondike bars!” That coming from us Moms to our kids, of course. The only thing we had to yell at each other was “Hey that’s my wine glass!”

The three of us saw each other through high school, college, and those weird years afterwards where we were each in totally different places and phases in our lives. But we still made time for each other on our days off. Blueberry pancake breakfasts, afternoon swimming, box wine, piling in the hatchback listening to 311 and going to the movies. We were the three musketeers, or the three squirrels, as we called ourselves (thus the kitchen squirrel noises).

To see them now, all mature with stable jobs and children and talk of Cub Scouts and art projects was so interesting. They have each aged like fine wine in that they are more comfortable in their own skin. And seeing them is like a mirror for me. I remember where I came from, what it took to get where I am now. My wine has aged, too. It is subtle sweet and full-bodied. Not that it couldn’t use a few more years in the barrel, but perhaps breathing in a carafe is more of its stage now.

I will miss my friends greatly. That little vacation came at a perfect time for each of us. And my son said it was the best time he’s had with me.

It wasn’t Fiji but it was just what I needed. Sometimes good friends, silly board games, and an undiscovered wine is all you need to feel as if you’ve been to an exotic island and inhaled a breath of fresh air.









1 Comment

Filed under Observations