Archive for chances

Old Favorites Revisited: Episode One: Mowing After Dark

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , on April 25, 2010 by 1writegirl

I wear a silver chain around my neck bearing a Chinese character; the year of my birth. I don’t take it off to shower, or sleep, or jog or even when I mow the grass, which is after dark. Long after everyone else has put their lawn care products away and retired to the sanctuary of porches, living rooms, and television screens.

I mow quietly, my push reel mower making only a low, humming sound, and as I mow, I talk out loud to someone who isn’t here. I ask him questions and tell him just exactly what I’m thinking as I feel my way across the yard, around the edges and trees. “Love is a tightrope,” I tell him. I can see him in my mind balanced precariously, and I know if I love him too much, he will fall off, just like he will if I don’t love him enough. This is a test, and I wonder if there is a way to cram for it. I wonder, too, if it’s the kind of test you can re-take if you fail, and who decides these things.

By the time the moon is high in the sky I am finished, sweating in spite of the cool night air, sitting on the front step with my fingers wrapped around the necklace: caress, release, caress, release, like a dance or part of a rosary bead benediction. It strikes me that life is like mowing after dark, feeling your way as you go, with the likelihood you’ll run over something sharp increasing the longer you’re out there.

It represents something, this necklace, which is why I never take it off. Not a promise, or a dream, not even a wish for what might have been. Some might call it a memory. Others folly. Patience is a virtue, while stubbornness a sin. Is there a difference? I call it hope and it lives in a place between two hearts, where the grass only grows after dark.

Time

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on November 9, 2009 by 1writegirl

Where does
Redemption lie
If not
Within the heart

In the realm of
Second chances
Dawn to dusk then

Last chances

Faith in faith renewed

We’re given only
So much time
So many possibilities

Before what came before
Becomes that which
Overrides all hope
Of touching anything

More

Transcendence has
Its limits
Equal to the
Human heart

Finite in dimension
Despite immense intent

Restricted
By the darkness
Captured
Within the scope
Shot down
By the power

Of ticking
Treacherous

Time

The Prism

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 26, 2009 by 1writegirl

Why do you stay with me?
He asked
In a voice wracked with pain

You know why
She replied
Though she could have asked
That question herself
In the seductive shadow of sleep

She sometimes wonders
Why she stays
When he rarely seeks her out
And needs her even less

When he won’t let her cross
The threshold
To that place free of
Have-to’s and fears

But between the lines
Behind three little words
Is the answer to his question

The truth lies there, a prism
In colors of intricate depth

She stays

Because to be close to him
In any way he’ll let her
Brings her moments of

Simple, perfect peace
In a life of chaos and strife

Because he’s teaching her
What it means
To accept someone

Completely

For everything they are
And everything they are not

Because he won’t lie to her

Because she can make him laugh

Because it’s okay in his presence
To say not a single

Word

Because she’s learning how
To trust
After having been betrayed

Because he tells her
She is one
Of only three people on earth
He can speak to
From brain to mouth

Which gives her courage
To reciprocate
To confide any thoughts she has

Even ones he might wish
She didn’t

Because in his arms
She understands freedom
And can’t imagine
Another man’s kiss

Because he’s hard
Rough
Gentle
Sweet
Bitter
Angry
Loveable
Tormented
Brilliant
Weak
Hopeless
Loving
Strong
Insecure
Hopeful
Imbalanced
Honest
Broken
Real

He makes her crazy
Yet he touches her
In places she needs to be touched
Where no one else can reach

Because with him
She’s a better person
Than she could ever be
Without

Because he’s
Her best friend
And one of these days
He might look at her

And see that she is his

And then
She won’t need to ask him

Why do you stay with me?

Haiku #12: Brew

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on March 13, 2009 by 1writegirl

Love that’s pale, lukewarm
Is for those afraid  of heat
I’ll take dark and hot

Bemoaning the ends

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on November 19, 2008 by 1writegirl

 

She undergoes in the name of love endless insult,

everything a means to an end,

comprised of acts against nature involving

 

hot wax

razors

foul smelling creams

food deprivation

scissors

tweezers

bar-bells

treadmills

abortions

a high priced psychoanalyst

eye liner

carrot juice

and the observation and feigned enjoyment of such pastimes

  as football, tv, and Nascar

… to name a few.

 

Please him, please him, please him,

she has been taught since infancy.

Never did anyone suggest please yourself.

She spends a good deal of her time

looking in the mirror and weeping.

In the end, it always ends.

 

She wanders from place to place,

repeating the cycle,

through the good years,

the years of her youth,

the years she can never get back.

Bemoaning the ends.

 

Till one day, something snaps, something changes,

and now she chooses which acts of nature

she will violate and why,

and there is no him to please anymore;

they have stopped lining up at her door

 or she has told them all to leave,

she doesn’t know which.

 

It is quieter now,

she is more focused,

and she doesn’t feel guilty nearly as much,

though she still spends a good deal of her time

looking in the mirror and weeping.

Bemoaning the ends.

 

It is not that she has given up on love.

It is that she has a different understanding

of what the word means than she used to.

 

Then one day she meets someone she thinks

maybe she could love someday,

the right way,

the way love was intended.

 

She admires this man,

she respects the way he faces his demons,

and in his presence,

she feels lighthearted and joyous

in a way she has not for years.

 

He says he wants to be her friend,

and he cries when he confesses

he cannot give her more.

 

She looks in the mirror and weeps.

Not from sadness; after all, she can give no more in return.

Not from happiness; where was he twenty years ago?

Not even from habit.

 

She weeps because his hesitations are her own,

his fears, as fresh and raw as hers,

His reasons as old and familiar as the skies.

 

She realizes he may find it easier

to walk away than to walk toward,

and she will end up, once more,

 

Bemoaning the ends.

 

 

November 17th, 2008

Posted in Meanderings with tags , , , , on November 17, 2008 by 1writegirl

 

My inbox remains empty. My phone is silent.

I cannot will you into these places,

though god knows I’ve been trying.

 

I am certain of very little in this world.

 

So I try to be honest with myself and others

hoping at least for a connection now and again,

however tenuous, however frayed and timid.

 

We all need someone to call our own.

 

We accomplish weeks of therapy in mere minutes together,

you and I. You have undone knots, months in the making,

without ever even touching me.

 

I imagine what miracles your hands might enact.

 

I might become a child again were we to have a month.

Who knows what years would do…return me to a state

of eager, hopeful, uninhibited innocence?

 

I like to think I might have given you something in return;

that I might continue to give.

 

Yet a kiss on the cheek does not a suitor make.

 

And fear is not exclusively my domain.