the right words

pick up a
pen
     pour
out my heart
and then and
     then
it will all
make
     sense
all make
and
     once
it's all out
the pieces surely
     will
fall
together
     together
and this
ache will be
     done
done in
by
the right
     words

just now

this muffling quiet of softly
falling snow
all around lazy white
flakes, plump and solemn, steady
and unhurried, untroubled
by wind
untrammeled by unthinking
boots, cars, snowmobiles...
anything
except, perhaps, the tiny, delicate
steps of birds
saucy cardinal or little tufted titmouse
or bright-eyed chickadee

gone the robin, gone
the red-winged blackbird, gone
the noisy squawk of summer
winter comes soft
and quiet
and chill

dim interlude

haunted by memories
     ghost touches
your hand
     on my shoulder
your breath
     against my cheek
memories, only

only memories
     without substance
without shape
     without warmth
cold, alone
     I shiver
    
call for an exorcism
     bright sunlight
and fresh breeze
     and soft, soaking rain
banish these ghosts
     again again again

snooze

I kissed you last night
in my dream.
You were strong, and sweet,
and loved me like fire loves flame.
I felt the pieces come together—a new whole
from our whole halves
an interlocking
mind, soul, flesh
together
ignited with just a kiss.

And then somehow I was careening down a zip line toward a giant pile of sheep and the new girl from my department was there and we were singing Christmas carols and there were Nazis, somehow, and that hot guy from Band of Brothers though I could have sworn we were in Canada and then my alarm was going off and I
woke up.

beginner-level love haiku

1. dream

walking down the street
holding your hand. around the
corner, happiness

2. interlude

summer sun shining
leaves shimmer, gold-edged and green
cool shadows shelter

3. reality

I have smiled your way
seven hundred times, but you
never take notice

twin cycle tour

I wanted to write
you but now
I’m not quite sure
why.
Come home.
Yes, that’s what
I wanted
to say.
Come home, come
home.
The words churn
circles
spinning their wheels
in my
heart.
No logic behind it, no
concrete
reasoning, just come
come home, come home, come home.
Have I said that
before?
Perhaps.
Perhaps
I am not as good at moving on
as I think I am. As
you are.
You are always
moving
on.
My wheels just
spin.
Come home, come home,
come home
and solve this mystery
with me
once and for
all.

stories, legends, and fairytales part II

Thanks to those who joined the conversation—you sparked some good thoughts. I realized something I hadn’t before. Robin Hood stands uniquely in my mind for another reason.


I doubt I’ve ever told anyone this, but almost every childhood/YA story I loved and…absorbed, I guess you could say, sooner or later would take root in my imagination in a very specific way—I would “write myself in.” In my version of Star Wars, there’s a girl shockingly similar to me ramming about saving the universe. In my version of Little House…yep, you guessed it. Let’s see. What else? I was on Star Wars for a long time, for some reason. X-men. Yup, really. Little Women. Narnia. Redwall. Anne of Green Gables. Heh. Newsies. I’d forgotten about that one. The Secret Garden.

But I never wrote myself into Robin Hood—the story I claimed to be my “one.” I have been a sailor, a marksman, a governess, a squirrel (all the characters were animals, ok?), a singer, a spy—but never part of Robin’s merry men. Naturally, I’ve started to wonder why. Maybe there just never seemed to be room for me in it.

Or maybe because the story itself it so multifaceted in my head. There is no single streaming plot line to plug myself into, and no character that needs my help.

Wait—what? Hold that thought. Let’s go back to the multifaceted thing.

Did I mention before how many versions of Robin Hood I’ve seen or read? Hmm. Let’s tally. Movies first. The Errol Flynn version, naturally (delightfully ridiculous with lots of laughing with both fists on his hips). The Disney animated version (I love the Scottish chicken maid). The Kevin Costner version that I adored at the time (back when Christian Slater was so hot right now). The recent BBC series (so bad…and yet I can’t look away). Some sad, sad version with Keira Knightley as Robin’s daughter (there’s two hours of my life I’ll never get back). The newish Russell Crowe version (very good…half the time). And of course, Men in Tights (I have no need to ever watch that again, excepting maybe the song and dance about tight tights).

Robin Hood books. Hmm. I’m failing to think of any kid’s or YA version at the moment. They must have been there, though. My brain is calling up some vague memories of illustrations. Robin McKinley’s version is quite nearly great, but she’s had me on the hook since The Blue Sword. I recently read the King Raven series by Stephen Lawhead. Liked it. Took a different twist in history and did good things.

So…the point—ah, yes. All of these versions are different from each other, in small or large ways. And I like that. I like the three-dimensional picture it builds in my brain, and the contradictions don’t trouble me. I do not need it all to fit into one master storyline. But there is so much going on, so many threads, so many different outcomes and storylines (and musical numbers) that I’ve never felt a me-shaped hole anywhere. Maybe that will change in the future, I don’t know—I have yet to kick the “write myself in” habit, if you must know.

So why is it that one of the few iconic stories of my childhood is the one I’ve identified as having the most influence on me?

I don’t know. Maybe because it has no “hole,” needs no “fixing”? Maybe, but…I doubt that is all the reason there is. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that it just made me want to shoot things and climb trees, not join the plot line.

Well, they say that the simplest explanation is usually the right one.