Art Deco I loved the art deco details of this theater in Peoria, Arizona. The movie it led us into was fabulous as well. See “The Danish Girl.” I think there will be at least one Oscar in the works for this one! Brilliant acting (effervescent!), writing and camera work.
It was at that age
of worrying about others
of feeling not enough
of looking for a pattern that was myself
that I put words down
or if not them, fearing those who read them.
At that age when I didn’t know what I thought,
I was astonished that the hand that wrote
knew more than I did
and taught that I must be brave,
fearless on the page in a way I had not yet learned to be in life
so that I became a writer to teach myself.
To have someone I trusted as a guide.
It was at that age when I wanted to be admired––
that age when I sought to be loved––
that age when I yearned to be thought a thinker,
important, listened to––
that I somehow was led to listening to myself.
There are these times we are led to by life
that become turning points
so long as we continue.
That sentence. That first sentence stretching
into the future, into now.
I found this poem on my desktop, and although I vaguely remember writing it, I can’t find any evidence of having posted it on my blog. For some reason I feel it ties in with today’s prompt and so I’m going to post a second response to the prompt today. Happy 2016 to all. I hope we all come closer to discovering our best selves in the year to come!
The Prompt: A Brand New You, Effective Tomorrow––Tomorrow you get to become anyone in the world that you wish. Who are you? You can choose to be anyone alive today, or someone gone long ago. If you decide to stay “you” share your rationale.
How could I choose to become another when I’m still trying to become myself? Start all over? I don’t think so. Every person is a puzzle bent on solving itself. Perhaps for some the puzzle comes fully assembled, but if so, they are people I’ve never met. Why would I want to begin a new puzzle before the one I’ve started is completed? Finish the job, I say.
Perhaps in another life the chance to construct a new life will be provided, but in this life, we are given only one life to solve. No one knows the reason why this life is not perfect from the offset. That puzzle is one for philosophers to solve. In the meantime, I am busy enough figuring out what goes where today and in my own life. I’ll leave the assembling and breakdown and reassembly of the world at large to others.
I found this photo on an old backup drive and can’t resist using it as my flower of the day.
Depth of Field
I also love the crispness of this turtle against the more muted lily pads.
I Used to Eat Red
My sister Patti and I, posed by my older sister Betty. Those are “the” cherry trees behind us. The fact that we were wearing dresses suggests we were just home from Sunday school and church, our souls bleached as white as our shoes and socks!
I used to eat red
from backyard cherry trees,
weave yellow dandelions
into cowgirl ropes
to lariat my Cheyenne uncle.
I once watched dull writhing gold
snatched from a haystack by its tail,
held by a work boot
and stilled by the pitchfork of my dad
who cut me rattles while I didn’t watch.
I felt white muslin bleached into my soul
on Sunday mornings in a hard rear pew,
God in my pinafore pocket
with a picture of Jesus
won from memorizing psalms.
But it was black I heard at midnight from my upstairs window––
the low of cattle from the stock pens
on the other side of town––
the long and lonely whine of diesels on the road
to the furthest countries of my mind.
Where I would walk
burnt sienna pathways
to hear green birds sing a jungle song,
gray gulls call an ocean song,
peacocks cry the moon
until I woke to shade-sliced yellow,
mourning doves still crooning midnight songs of Persia
as I heard morning
whistled from a meadowlark
half a block away.
my white soul in my shorts pocket,
plunging down the stairs to my backyard,
I used to eat red,
pick dandelions yellow.
(This is a reworking of a poem from my book Prairie Moths.) The prompt today was to talk about our earliest childhood memories. https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/childhood-revisited/
What story does this discarded and abandoned wedding corsage tell? You tell me.