Cheryl
I want(ed) to be you,
your strength, your light;
I want(ed) that
to be part of me.
I dreamt, as a little girl,
not of being a princess
but of being you.
All green eyed and ready,
ready for anything and looking,
always looking, for more.
Only the brightest of spirits
can claim the same.
I want(ed) that,
to be that person,
that person I see every time
you come to mind.
* There was a opening if you will that is pasted below. My mom read it at her services.
I am at a complete loss for words and those who know me well know that is crazy unusual; I always have something to say. It is one of the many things I likened myself to Cheryl; she certainly had a lot to say.
I have a list – if you will – of the women in my life that I see as the glue, the strong ones, the ones that can do virtually anything and survive. Cheryl has always been on that list. I fancy myself on that list about 30% of the time and the other 70% look to the others on the list for inspiration.
For me, Cheryl embodied a strength that is really unexplainable. She faced things in her lifetime that would break a lesser person and handled it with the grace and skill of an Olympic Gymnast.
She came to live with us when she was eighteen. I was in awe, she listened to cool music, had the greatest white pants I had ever seen and goodness was she beautiful. I remember borrowing (and ruining) those pants when I was in Junior High School. I can still, to this day, see the pants in my mind. They were white “jeans” they had stripes like a bad set of drapes might, cream and white, and zippers clean up the middle….plus they were hers and I was, as I mentioned, in awe. I have never, to this day, slid into a pair of white jeans without thinking of her.
At my most confused times she was there, at my silliest and craziest moments she was there, from Oreo cookies to camping trips; never did she judge. I think Scotty said it best the other night; she was a “WOW”. She walked into the room (or your life if you were lucky) and you knew it for oh so many reasons.
I grew up wanting to be nothing less than my Aunt Cheryl. Today I sit and still want to be to be nothing less than my Aunt Cheryl.
I will miss her always.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Late this morning
Late this morning
with the tide (perhaps
a bit too high)
the cynic in charge of belief
fell silent.
The log was damp,
the air, still thick
when a little boy
sat down too hard
in the sand
and you smiled.
Then, I knew peace,
a willow's peace,
born only to lay hands
on the occasional high tide.
I wonder,
what will awe me
a second time?
with the tide (perhaps
a bit too high)
the cynic in charge of belief
fell silent.
The log was damp,
the air, still thick
when a little boy
sat down too hard
in the sand
and you smiled.
Then, I knew peace,
a willow's peace,
born only to lay hands
on the occasional high tide.
I wonder,
what will awe me
a second time?
Half born (A Villanelle for my son)
I'm flipping back and forth, a poem and your
history, hardly qualified to lend
either a proper voice, or life. Half born
I've found both meander about the page
as if they, rather we, haven't a thing
but to flip back and forth, a poem and your
life. Laid out on paper like you were that
day after breaking both bones in your arm
neither a proper voice or life, half formed
in some perverted pro-choice protest laid
down on hospital grade, or college rule
left flipping back and forth, a poem and your
history, hardly qualified to lend
a hand much less anything relevant
with neither proper voice or life. Half born
at best, on a good day, when decisions
don't bend sideways and I can do more than
flipping back and forth, a poem and your life
neither with proper voice, or life; half born.
history, hardly qualified to lend
either a proper voice, or life. Half born
I've found both meander about the page
as if they, rather we, haven't a thing
but to flip back and forth, a poem and your
life. Laid out on paper like you were that
day after breaking both bones in your arm
neither a proper voice or life, half formed
in some perverted pro-choice protest laid
down on hospital grade, or college rule
left flipping back and forth, a poem and your
history, hardly qualified to lend
a hand much less anything relevant
with neither proper voice or life. Half born
at best, on a good day, when decisions
don't bend sideways and I can do more than
flipping back and forth, a poem and your life
neither with proper voice, or life; half born.
Power lines, trees, and the human condition
My lover hates power lines,
the way they barge through his sky,
as if he were the owner.
Still he hates them, distracts him,
his mind spins a bit faster with
the buzz running in the air
like some impatient fly
spinning around the glass waiting
for the picnic to move to the grass,
so he can climb inside.
In the same respect he loves trees,
the way they scent his air,
as if he holds special claim.
Still he loves them, they calm him,
the way they are about lending shade
without a single thought. Not like people,
with their penchant for measuring this and that.
He didn't care for them,
and rightly so when the corner tree
is struck clean through the middle
with power lines, as if man had finally
gotten his fingers in every bowl
only to find once is never enough.
the way they barge through his sky,
as if he were the owner.
Still he hates them, distracts him,
his mind spins a bit faster with
the buzz running in the air
like some impatient fly
spinning around the glass waiting
for the picnic to move to the grass,
so he can climb inside.
In the same respect he loves trees,
the way they scent his air,
as if he holds special claim.
Still he loves them, they calm him,
the way they are about lending shade
without a single thought. Not like people,
with their penchant for measuring this and that.
He didn't care for them,
and rightly so when the corner tree
is struck clean through the middle
with power lines, as if man had finally
gotten his fingers in every bowl
only to find once is never enough.
Conforming (or not) to form (or otherwise)
It's this belief that I had to leave myself
to love properly, as if I'd be found,
not by some God, but a man. Perhaps not
my brother with his sticky breath,
even my father, but a man,
the same animal that can rape to make a point.
A man nonetheless,
one to grace me with another title
to choke down, drown under, marry into.
Save me the delusion
of being enough without this practice
of leaving myself to love properly,
being saved, not by some God,
but a man
even if it meant creating one
and it did
so I did
and with him, you,
all of you, again
with your sticky breath
and careless ways.
to love properly, as if I'd be found,
not by some God, but a man. Perhaps not
my brother with his sticky breath,
even my father, but a man,
the same animal that can rape to make a point.
A man nonetheless,
one to grace me with another title
to choke down, drown under, marry into.
Save me the delusion
of being enough without this practice
of leaving myself to love properly,
being saved, not by some God,
but a man
even if it meant creating one
and it did
so I did
and with him, you,
all of you, again
with your sticky breath
and careless ways.
Piercings, tattoos, and self-mutilation
I turned twenty-five and stuck a turtle on my chest,
a mask on my shoulder, and a wild flower
later that week, for the turtle's company.
I stopped short at the anklet, too near the bone.
Anyway I remembered the burn along my shoulder,
and the warning of addiction
half-way through my first mid life crisis,
driving across country with a recorder,
highlights saved on audio for my son.
The continental divide (twice), a perfect square
of baseball diamonds, an enormous rock
formation into Utah that lent weight
to the Mormons parking it in Salt Lake
to worship god, or marry many women.
Who knew which was more significant,
who cared in the face of low standing clouds,
healing tattoos, and huge rocks
crouched on the edge of salt slabs.
The scene did well to cooperate with
my love of extremes and the belief
that I was beginning and end,
wrapped up nicely in various displays
of self-medication, or self mutilation?
Certainly the difference lay in definition.
Regardless that was before the piercing,
there you had some mutilation.
'Course by Thirty and ten odd years
from my last line it was either the belly or me
dancing through another mid life crisis,
and as any seasoned addict knows too much
too soon, is no better than too little too late,
so the belly won a hole clean through it's top
and me, I only leak from time to time.
a mask on my shoulder, and a wild flower
later that week, for the turtle's company.
I stopped short at the anklet, too near the bone.
Anyway I remembered the burn along my shoulder,
and the warning of addiction
half-way through my first mid life crisis,
driving across country with a recorder,
highlights saved on audio for my son.
The continental divide (twice), a perfect square
of baseball diamonds, an enormous rock
formation into Utah that lent weight
to the Mormons parking it in Salt Lake
to worship god, or marry many women.
Who knew which was more significant,
who cared in the face of low standing clouds,
healing tattoos, and huge rocks
crouched on the edge of salt slabs.
The scene did well to cooperate with
my love of extremes and the belief
that I was beginning and end,
wrapped up nicely in various displays
of self-medication, or self mutilation?
Certainly the difference lay in definition.
Regardless that was before the piercing,
there you had some mutilation.
'Course by Thirty and ten odd years
from my last line it was either the belly or me
dancing through another mid life crisis,
and as any seasoned addict knows too much
too soon, is no better than too little too late,
so the belly won a hole clean through it's top
and me, I only leak from time to time.
Denial (or insanity's definition)
It's as ridiculous as flicking your tongue
across the sore you made,
biting your cheek, early last week,
pointlessly running over what will
only turn to scar tissue one day
if you don't stop snacking on your mouth
as if the wounds will always heal
smooth as glass.
Still, you taste the ridge
a good three times before it hits you;
a soft tissue testimony to what you might hear
sitting across from ten years sober,
too wise to hold the definition hostage,
like some two-bit terrorist might finger
a grenade in an innocent's view
an explanation of sorts,
mingling with the guy
who would have drunk cologne,
and did when push came to shove.
“It's the denial that spreads”
Like some overzealous virgin
flung over a poorly made bed.
With her you can dance barefoot
on unfinished floors and stay shocked
at the splinters you find.
Without her you'd slip on your shoes,
polish the floor, a virgin no more
Six one way - half dozen the next,
it'd be over.
across the sore you made,
biting your cheek, early last week,
pointlessly running over what will
only turn to scar tissue one day
if you don't stop snacking on your mouth
as if the wounds will always heal
smooth as glass.
Still, you taste the ridge
a good three times before it hits you;
a soft tissue testimony to what you might hear
sitting across from ten years sober,
too wise to hold the definition hostage,
like some two-bit terrorist might finger
a grenade in an innocent's view
an explanation of sorts,
mingling with the guy
who would have drunk cologne,
and did when push came to shove.
“It's the denial that spreads”
Like some overzealous virgin
flung over a poorly made bed.
With her you can dance barefoot
on unfinished floors and stay shocked
at the splinters you find.
Without her you'd slip on your shoes,
polish the floor, a virgin no more
Six one way - half dozen the next,
it'd be over.
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