Merry Christmas!

When I was much younger, the tradition at Christmas was to listen to John Denver and the Muppets: A Christmas Together, and more than any other song, it was a lullaby that Mr. Denver sings with Kermit's little nephew, Robin, that I remember most. When the River Meets the Sea is my most treasured song. I sang it to little kids when I was a camp counselor, trying desperately to get them to sleep. I sang it to my baby sister, born when I was fifteen years old. I plan on singing it to my children, whenever it is I end up having them.

The point I'd like to make about this particular song is that it, unlike many of contemporary Christmas music, is about the true joy of Christmas. It is about having that wide-eyed awe of the world that children always seem to have, of looking at the world as if everything in it that is good and beautiful is a miracle. It is about us and about our future, and not the dim, ominous future that we all predict for ourselves, but for the opportunities, for the potential that we all have. Like the rapture we see on our small ones' faces right before they open their presents, the song advocates that we treat our future as a slowly unfolding gift: something that could be anything and everything, something that could make the world a brighter place.

Christmas is about light, and about love, and I do hope you all have a little light in your eyes and a little love in your hearts this Christmas Day. I shall leave you with Robin and John, may he rest in peace, and I do most heartily wish you a very merry Christmas.

Much Love,
Ellie


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZOoXTggzoFk

Calling All Musicians!

Music is so incredibly important in our lives. Some might underestimate just how special it is, and they wouldn't be incorrect in assuming that we don't need to be constantly blaring Bieber and Miley Cyrus and whatever else the recording business has cursed us with. The music industry has, as of the last decade, taken our music and turned it into a farce. We no longer hear the music of people who've been working at their art for years and years before we ever heard of them. We are listening to a few lucky morons who either had a lucky break or had enough money to buy their way in to force their whiny, off-key, nasal bullshit on us. Some of us are dumb enough to think, because it is on the radio, that it is actually well produced.

I've been singing since I could read (that's the age of three, for those of you who were wondering), and I've almost dedicated my life to music. Since I was eight, I did every talent show I could, participated in every choir in my school, and I've even been a lead in a musical, though I'm sure few of you have heard of or seen Damn Yankees, so I won't expect you to be too impressed. Regardless, music is a considerable part of my life. You almost never see me go anywhere without my Zune on me, and if I'm in the car, and I'm not in the company of someone I really would rather be talking to, I will have it plugged in to my stereo at full blast. Music is possibly the most liberating outlet I've ever had.

My first sister, called such because I'm the oldest, and she's the next oldest of three sisters I have, had a choir concert last night. She is, unfortunately, not in the show choir, which I had been two years in a row, and neither was she in the jazz choir, but it was still pretty exciting. I was underwhelmed by the soloists, and could have gotten along without much of the jazz choir. But when I got called up as an alumna to sing, both for the jazz choir and for the show choir, as is tradition, I didn't expect it to hit me so hard. For four years, I've waited patiently in the shadows. I haven't even seen a stage since I was seventeen. I figured that if a career in music was what was waiting for me after I left, it would happen to find me. So I didn't pursue it. But singing up there and being a member again of something so big...I've been bitten. I thought I'd never want that again. Yet here I am, wondering and searching for maybe a chance to get out there again, and feel the spotlight.


Curtain Call

Dark before ascension, and there is tension,
anxious thrumming, and wishing for straight thought,
instead of such frantic spurts of worry. Asking why I crave these moments
of strung-out adrenaline is like asking where the Loch Ness monster holds
her court in the waters of Scottish highlands, so I don't.
I shut my eyes, I count to three, and
I take a tender step towards the light, a beacon above me.

Bright, searing, and where it falls makes my destination clear.
The timid child within me pulls me away, to hide in the shadows -
the shadows that conceal my darkest flaws - but the brazen minx
who rears her head in my heart of hearts yearns to prove
she is the dauntless blood-kin of ancient kings.
She feels no fear, and I succumb to my pride.
I enter the limelight.

My voice is the Siren's call, and the thrumming of anxiety
turns into a new thrumming in my song,
a sound of reverence, of love older than the skies.
And slowly, surely as a river, the people below turn from foes
to devotees, and even as they do, they disappear as my heart crescendos.
And as the thunderous crashing of waves comes down on a rocky shore,
the curtain falls as appreciation sounds its last.
Satisfaction comes, a blanket around my shoulders, and after all that,
I feel free.

I Hate Petty Thieves

I was going to write about friendship this week, mostly due to the fact that my Air Force best friend (he currently goes by my best friend from South Korea) is coming home this week, and I'm very excited to see him and hang out with him and get into general shenanigans with him. It is going to be amazing.

However, this morning, I woke up to find that my car had been busted into while I was house-sitting, and all the contents were strewn about the front two seats. I also discovered that a bag of clothing I had saved for doing laundry was gone, and I'm feeling the need to talk about my feelings about the morning I've had. I also realize this post is two days late, but I'm more focused on the fact that I now have something to talk about.

As I've said in the past, I am a notorious cynic. I believe that everyone is out for themselves, that we are all motivated by self-interest. While this may not be true, it is what I believe. My experience in the past, in dealing with people in my personal and professional life, have led me to this conclusion, and, so far, I have not been given any sign that this is any different.

I say that I believe this. I don't have to like what I believe. In fact, it disgusts me. Why we have to be so focused on our own problems when there are people out there who suffer much worse than we do is frankly beyond me. The world is so much bigger than one person's problems. I will admit, I was very upset this morning, and I did rant for a long time about how selfish the people who took my things are. How dare these people inconvenience me so? How dare they think their problems are so big that they can take advantage of me? But I soon sat down and thought for a while. Perhaps they really are that troubled. Perhaps they are desperate for clothes. Of course, they would have to find a washing machine to wash said clothes, for they were plenty dirty from working and sweating and running and whatever other activities I get into that generate filth on my clothes. However, that isn't the point. Perhaps they really need those things more than me. I was, after all, able to replenish half of what I lost within three hours of discovering my things were gone. Not everyone has that luxury.

And then I thought about it more. Even if they thought their problems were bigger than mine, even if they really were that desperate, where does the right to steal and violate other people's space come from? In almost every species we see that has evolved into a successful species that can sustain itself, altruism is one of their founding behavior patterns. Looking out for each other propels the success of the species. Human kind routinely abandons this philosophy, calling for an "every man for himself" dogma that would theoretically destroy us. There is such a thing as being able to ask for help, and we let pride and suspicion prevent us from seeking solace in our fellow human. We get in the way of ourselves, and so we fail our altruistic instinct, falling prey to the temptation of over-analysis.

Of course, I could take this tangent so many places. I could talk about universal health care. I could talk about gay rights. I could talk about the corruption of the modern corporations. I could even talk about religion. I won't. But I will say this: Selfish impulses, however strong, will be the undoing of our infrastructure, and, in the end, desperation is only our weaknesses getting the better of us.

The Futility of Invincibility

I'm all for adrenaline rushes. I am the first person to respond to a drum riff in a song I'm playing in the car by revving up the engine. I'll accelerate to up to fifteen miles over the speed limit, while in the middle of a sharp turn, and I'll be feeling the thrill like nothing else. There is nothing like the feeling of being chased. I will be hiking on a trail in the middle of the woods, and suddenly take off, just to pretend I'm being pursued - or pursuing. And I love the feeling of danger, of the unknown. But all too often, I am confronted with how fragile it all can be, and how mortal I am.

I learned a long time ago that I am not invincible. My mortality is the same as the person next to me, or the person next to you. It's always so amusing to me how old I sound when I say things like this, but I developed a good understanding of the world very early on in my life. My mother calls me her "cynical daughter" for this very reason: I made my mind up about the workings of the universe long before anyone else my age did, and not much has changed my perception. All it took for me to realize how mortal I really am was looking at the wasting away of my friends as they delved into dangerous waters: drugs, meaningless sex, and adventures into darker, raunchier places. When few of them made it out the same as before - and I do mean they were mere husks of who they were before - I knew that not only are we physically mortal, but we are also mentally mortal. They played with fire and found an addiction in getting burnt. Sometimes getting a rush is not worth the risks we take.

This is one I wrote when I was undergoing that passage from naivete to cynicism.

Bridge from Childhood


The most beautiful place that I've ever walked
was a bridge, stony, weathered and laced with ivy.
Bracing waters that it shadowed, it held a century of love and war,
childhood play and adult tears. And I walked there with you, so long ago.
In your arms, I stayed and watched the moon rise up and kiss your face, and danced between streetlight and fenced trees.
And in my darkest hour, I'd sob into the stone, which would hold me up
when I felt like falling apart.

And that beauty I know to be true is a monument to the teenage ruin
that came to pass and fall with each flirting child who lost their virgin tongues
to a night as black and velvet as their cloaks of secrets given in tribute to the obsidian river.
Begotten lies and trades that would eventually be harvested in the incest,
and all their hopes to be grown-up drown as they realize that they lost their identities
trying to be someone else.

In the reflection of an empty wine bottle left from the frivolities of two lovers,
I saw my heart burst, wishing I could be the river.
Wishing I could pass by the darkness in my heart, that while shining
like a jewel in the eyes I once dared to gaze in, was not to be lingered on.
I wished to be a river, to be carried away into the sea
where nothing is left to meaningless dreams.
And no more would I linger on this stony bridge, where I passed over
a chance to be ever changing.

In Response to A Question

So, for those of you who read this blog, I have submitted my fan fiction to a good friend of mine who is running a nerd's website of sorts. He will be debuting it soon, I believe, and I will be published under a pen name, largely due to the fact that I'm not really ready to attach my name to something this big. It may also be that I'm outwardly very much a prude, and this fan fiction is definitely blush worthy. Needless to say, The Nerd Filter will be launched very soon, so you all should definitely subscribe to it. It is run by a couple of my coworkers, and I have no doubt that it will be a huge success. It is also a relief to finally be rid of that God-awful piece of writing.

On to my topic for the week: love. It's a topic that has come up before. I've mentioned it in terms of lust and the differences between the two, and I said that I wasn't really sure what the differences between the two were. Not to say they aren't mutually exclusive: you can love someone and definitely lust after them, though the two feelings are definitely very different, and I did know that, but I didn't understand how. But I think I'm beginning to.

The feelings I felt for the subject of those poems were primal, basic, and without much depth. Lust is primal. Lust is looking at someone and saying, take me, if only for tonight, and not caring what happens afterward. Or you might care, but it isn't about what happens to the person you are feeling for. Lust is a dream and a figment of your imagination, what you wish could be love, but in your heart of hearts, you know can't be. It is selfish and it is a dark curiosity that can easily be satisfied.

Love is innumerably deeper. Love is bigger than physical attraction. Love is admitting to yourself that pride doesn't matter. Love is that connection, that understanding that you share with someone to imply your desire to do whatever it takes to make the other person's life better. Sometimes it comes in the form of reverence. Sometimes it comes in the form of embrace (and I do mean embracing personality quirks). Sometimes it comes in the form of sacrifice. You literally lose all desire to gain anything that would detriment the other person in any way. There are even cases, more numerous than should be physically possible, where we lay our hearts on the line for the people we love, where we take our hearts and smash them up before we can even try to receive love. We look at ourselves and deem ourselves too unworthy for the person we love to even dare consider giving ourselves a chance because we'd rather not disappoint the objects of our affections. We would rather stay away than risk injury. It is, of course, a noble effort, whatever the cost. I myself have been found guilty of dismissing my value for the value of keeping someone safe, and I have found people guilty of doing it for me. Some of those people were right in doing so. Not all of them were.

It is in those few cases that I would advocate for strength and courage. I have been the victim of being kept safe from the love of another, and more than anything, I was offended that I was not given the opportunity to make that decision myself. I would have asked for a chance, and damned the consequences, for I missed out on something that I might have wanted, had I known it was an option. True love only comes to us in every few lifetimes, and it is not something to be dismissed for what would seem to be the greater good. Pain, while not pleasant, is a reminder that we are alive and that we are strong. I would rather live in pain and see life for what it could be than merely survive without feeling at all. I want to be loved, and not for my beauty or my grace, but for my intellect and my good humor and, damn it all if not for my clumsy feet as well. I have had enough of lust. Whatever the sacrifice, I want to feel love again, and make someone feel loved even more than that. We all should get that chance at least once, to have that satisfaction of making someone feel whole.

I know this post is a little preachy. I know there's no poem this time. But I guess I figured there are enough love poems in the world, and I'm sure I'll write more of my own on my own time anyways. I just want it to be clear that I do get it. I know what it is to lust, and I most assuredly know what it is to love. Perhaps I will even find love someday. I'll be looking for it, wherever it is.

This post is dedicated to an old friend, who also needs to learn the difference between lust and love.

Heart of Darkness (It Isn't Just a Book)

I've always, ever since I started being discerning about who I let in my life, said that I'm good at being alone. Now, I say this, and I want you to know that this doesn't mean I like it. One of my very good friends heard me say this once, and he promptly told me that no one is good at being alone. No one likes being alone. No one wants to go through life unnoticed, unrecognized, and unloved, and that is what you become when you are alone. No one is there to tell you if you are a good person or a bad person. No one is there to tell you their opinion on the deeds you've done and the words you've spoken. No one is there for you when you are alone, and it possibly the most unhealthful feeling in the world to feel alone.

And that is what he thought I meant when I said I'm good at being alone. Had that been my meaning, he would have been right. But I don't like being alone. I'm simply practiced at it. I know how to survive long periods of time without contact with the outside world. When the task asks me to act the shut-in hermit, I do it without question and with uncanny finesse. It is like the saying goes: once bitten, twice shy.

There is safety in loneliness, despite how detrimental it can be to one's psyche. No one can take advantage of you, no one can break your heart, and no one can betray you. For a long time, I was convinced that it was all anyone ever wanted to do to me: all they wanted to do was use me for their own ill-gotten gains. I will admit that I am gullible. I still retain some innocence, and despite my protestation, I will even go so far to admit that I can be something of an idealist. And it isn't a bad thing. But in a world where people are so easily corrupted, it isn't the smartest thing either. So I broke off from my friends and from those I deemed too fallible to keep safely in my heart. After that, there was a long time when I had no friends, only myself and my writing to keep me company. Obviously, I went a little mad.

I've never addressed this dark point in my life. In that time, I didn't write poems. I wrote fan fiction and played video games and made a fantasy world for myself: an escape from my solitude. It was only last spring that I was able to reemerge from my seclusion. Now, almost eight months later, I will attempt to speak on that black time. I will try to convey the anger and the fear that I still strive daily to overcome.

Walking Through the Fires Unhanded

If ever I had tried to love, it was with an open heart and open mind,
and I thought the best of all I touched, believing so strongly
that the light I carried would shine bright enough to touch them,
to kindle little lights of their own.

But woeful was the girl who did not understand that darkness
is sometimes our closest companion. Our shadows are thick,
full of our hatreds and hurts, and we are daunted
by the prospect of letting in what small sunlight there is for us,
since with the sun comes the painful truth of seeing what monsters we harbor.

Since I was ignorant of whatever monstrosity festered and grew in my soul
as I was continually refused, the day it grew to match my height
was a shock, a stalker hiding behind the curtains leaping out with a knife.
However, death was not the foe that claimed me.

Black anger, tart and putrid, filled me, and all of a sudden,
I was the darkness. I walked through shadows as if I was one,
and they knew me too as one of their own, welcoming me to their
pitted ranks, their humble existence.
And no longer was I counted among human company.

So still, I waited for the light to capture me, and it was an unending game
as I eluded the candle that flickered once in my heart of hearts.
Until one day, my shadow-friends took fright from a glance my way.
I chased them, pursued them with anguished cries, but could not coax them.

It was that day I realized:
the candle had been there all along.

Waiting for the Full Moon

Today is the day of the new moon, and it is overcast where I am. I am sorely missing the nights when I could walk outside, and not worry about being lost in the darkness for the light of the full moon above me.

Why are we so fascinated with the Moon? Back in the day before we could travel in outer space and use technology to uncover the secrets of the world around us, it was understandable: the Moon was a mysterious orb in the sky, and no one really understood its purpose other than it was what we could expect it to reflect the Sun's rays back to Earth and illuminate our night skies. It inspired a ridiculous amount of mythology for the ancients and today, it is still apart of our urban legends, despite the fact that we pretty much have all the facts and knowledge of it that we can really gather.

Obviously, as a writer and a lover of lore, I am obliged to write about the Moon.

Diana and the Hunt

Through the night, she passes, her glowing face mirrored in
starlight and celestial incandescence: she is the fierce, the wild,
the unnameable force that makes the water dance at her feet.
She is the dauntless nature that summons the tide.

Her cries are those when her face is fully shining and the wolves are her voice,
calling to their Sister to lead them into the night,
where prey and playmates come out to join them in their dance.
They are the lovers of joy and family, and she is their matriarch,
shooting fiery arrows through the night sky when the weather is warm,
to celebrate their fraternal bonds.

Dark comes a time, on every other fortnight, when she hides herself,
her shame at having let herself go too much,
indulged too abruptly in the splendors of the Earth below her.
But it is when the sullen lowing of her children breaks her heart,
a warding away of her solitude,
that she is coaxed back to us, back from the velvet void above us.

She dances above our heads, watching over us as an elder sister would,
guiding us through the shadows.
Diana waits and watches, arrow nocked and ready
to slay the beast that hunts her little friends.

Speaking of Thoreau...

I definitely took a day out, deciding to channel Henry David Thoreau: only my version of Walden is not a pond in the middle of a deciduous forest. My Walden is a little park that I helped raise funding for about seven years ago, full of Douglas Firs and cedars and all other manner of mosses and ferns and vines that belong to the Pacific Northwest. While taking my walk along the very unkempt trails (they used to be very tidy until I stopped volunteering for school's sake), I did what I always do: I think.

The next morning, I sat down and wrote for a while, and being that I was up earlier than usual, I noticed that we'd started getting frost in the mornings, much to my delight. Of course, I wrote about that too. I know it is only two days after my last post, but these two poems were too good and too irresistible not to post, and I'm feeling a little proud of myself for getting two poems out in the same time period.

The First Frost of a Northwestern Winter

The first frost comes with surprise -
like an ice cube slipped down the back of your shirt,
see how the world gasps under its touch.
Like a neophyte's first kiss, new and epiphanic,
the magic of the auroral freeze is only seen
in the few brief small hours of dawn.
It is the glow of a sleeping lover with hands peacefully
tucked beneath a yielding cheek, innocent out of context,
but surely reminds us of something more consuming and dark.

And then the Sun rises over the foothills, and
the spell is broken.
The frozen ground shudders, warmth pulsing through,
and her eyes flutter open, slowly as the dream fades.
The world comes to life, stretching, awakening, and any memory
of the cold stillness is gone into the night.
Life has resumed, and the frost melts without apology.

Still, it is no secret, that for some time to come
the frost will return, insatiably and vehemently obstinate.
And, like the sweetheart we keep soundly in our arms as we wait
for sunrise to break the enchantment on our hearts,
we shall wake and expect it with almost dependence.
We shall hope for the ushering comfort of winter.


Transcendentalism's Call

Passing over root and moss-ridden stone,
my boots would carry me beyond the walls of society.
Though my pockets are heavy with tinkling car keys,
a phone that has kept strangely quiet for a good amount of time,
and my Zune that I've whimsically put to the sappy task
of playing love songs: softer ballads for a softer realm.
Techno-Gaga-dance music holds no court here in my kingdom.

With every step I take, I find something new.
The feather of a Stellar's jay, silver-blue-gray in the green bracken,
The rustling of a foraging squirrel as he prepares for the Deep Slumber,
and the markings of cerulean paint on a tree, deemed unfit to live,
simply because it is in the way.
I regard the red splotch on my palm,
the one that my mother has me convinced marks me as a healer,
and I look up at the limbs above me, high enough to be three of me.
I've been tending, ministering to the creature of the earth,
for longer than I have time to tell.
So I breathe a hope, touch a blessing on the marred trunk,
with bark crispy and gray, ridden with lesions and lichen.

I hear an eagle's brusque call overhead as she circles.
She's hunting, and I consider my own predatory instinct.
I all too often leap before I look, a wild cat in the brush,
and almost as frequently, the bewildered look of frustration
crosses my face like wildfire as my prey slips through my snare.
This is my punishment I receive for not sharpening my claws
and for my impatience with stalking underfoot.

The sun is still high in the afternoon, and the wind
is brisk, invigorating my nerves like a caress, voiding the need for caffeine.
My walk becomes an impulsive sprint - I wish to feel alive,
the air whipping my face, the earth falling behind me.
I feel free, unbounded, and all too quickly,
the close wood becomes an open meadow.
I halt, unfamiliar with this change.
Like the beast I'm channeling, I creep back in,
aware that in the clearing I am exposed,
vulnerable to whatever is lurking in the shadows of the trees.

Finally, my trek ends, and I return to a shiny white Outback,
a vehicle that has served me well as my bearer to this freedom.
And now, I begrudge it the odious task
of bearing me back to civilization.

Jane and I

Seriously, you need to read Jane Hirshfield. She is one of my all-time favorite poets ever (following Sara Teasdale, Robert Frost, and followed by Langston Hughes and Henry Thoreau, all of whom you should read). Before I get to my own poem, I'll give you one of my favorite Hirshfield poems.


For What Binds Us
BY JANE HIRSHFIELD
There are names for what binds us:
strong forces, weak forces.
Look around, you can see them:
the skin that forms in a half-empty cup,
nails rusting into the places they join,
joints dovetailed on their own weight.
The way things stay so solidly
wherever they've been set down—
and gravity, scientists say, is weak.

And see how the flesh grows back
across a wound, with a great vehemence,
more strong
than the simple, untested surface before.
There's a name for it on horses,
when it comes back darker and raised: proud flesh,

as all flesh,
is proud of its wounds, wears them
as honors given out after battle,
small triumphs pinned to the chest—

And when two people have loved each other
see how it is like a
scar between their bodies,
stronger, darker, and proud;
how the black cord makes of them a single fabric
that nothing can tear or mend.


I just find her style so provocative and real and down-to-earth. Poems should speak of the gravity of every day things that go unnoticed, should tell us a story that is both ours and not ours. She evokes images of horses with scars and bumps that, in real life, would make us believe that they are ugly or unimpressive, as well as with the dirty mug and the rusty nail, but she paints a deeper picture, one with feeling. The mark of a true poet is that you can feel exactly how the writer is feeling as you read their work without ever seeing a description of their emotions.

So here's one of mine, in respect to the little things in life.

The Bull and the Virgin

Under bare feet, callused and brown, the grass cringes from the weight of a human body,
springing back piece by piece, slowly reverting back to what it once looked like.
But it is not the same.

In white cotton, with a hem ripped from jumping fences, she floats,
a little cloud too small to rain, too pure to spark lightening.
Her eyes are that of the sea: they are old and knowing, and one can see
she has seen much in her young life.
Almost too much, as the storm lingers beyond the horizon of her irises.
And the split hairs that rain down from her crown are also sign that she,
as well as any wild thing, has more to care for
than the petty details of image.

The bull is mad, angered and fierce.
He is a proud beast, snorting and huffing in steam and stink.
A festering obstinacy keeps him steady, his feet firm stalks in the ground,
hooves that are rough from long treads through the craggy hills that led him here.
He stays true to a course he plotted out long ago,
and his cage is his realm, never his limitation.
Only the beauty can enter his domain without becoming a victim
of sharp, silent, undeniable suspicion.

Her hand, bleeding and burnt, heals slowly,
but there is much to be gained from the company of animals and of the earth,
too much to stay away for good.
Her eyes are decided
as they descend on those of her companion.
His eyes are soft and doting as they turn on his mistress, much less
the furied balls of dark flame that would mark a man walking dead.
They remain in their Eden for a spell before they must return
to the harsh reality of life.

Only When It Rains

In so many pieces of literature, the rain has been used as a tool, a metaphor, for the washing away of old sins, grudges, bitter emotions, and allows new, brighter sentiments to take their place.

It is pouring as I write. For the first time in a long time, I begged for my God to release me from my anger. It doesn't always show, and not for lack of trying, but I have become so angry over the last year. So I walked out into the deluge, and I cried for the washing away of my burdens. For all the things I have said against where I live, the one thing I count on is a good autumn shower.

The Cleansing

It started as a sprinkling, some cloud god flinging little token droplets down.
They dot my eyelashes, dust my hair, and my irritation grows tenfold.
My world has come to that: an irritation, and I seek to be rid of these vexing details.

I picked up my flute, a tarnished piece with the fingerprints of a twelve-year-old
crisscrossing over the keys. I'm looking at the past, and I wonder why I stopped.
My lips know where to go, how to push the air over the oval opening,
and my fingers dance, in steps of a waltz, a ballad
that my eyes have never seen, but my heart has always been sobbing.

I think of the rain outside, and I see myself in that rain, playing with the wind,
the rain drops on the silver like dew on a cobweb.
I put the flute down. My heart is breaking, but I deny it, dismissing my song as garbage.
My heart has been a stone of Provencal marble since my sunlight burned out.

I hear the rain, and I curse a bitter sigh. It comes in droves of drummers and cymbals.
It is dark outside, but I care not for the dangers of the unseen.
I face what fear is left in my heart, and I am outside.
The aggregate concrete under my callused soles is slick and frigid.
My hair, that dances and rebels against all attempt at good behavior,
sticks to my neck in veins of mahogany and coffee.

I blink hard and quick, and the rain melts my fortress of burned bridges and repressed love.
My palms are Mary's agonized pleas, but I do not ask for the return of a good son.
I ask for the return of sweeter days, softer words, and lighter laughter.
I ask for the purity I once knew as my own.
And it ends in a downpour, and I am, for the moment, at the mercy of fate.
I look to the skies for redemption.

You Are as Free as You Let Yourself Be

I'm at that point in my life where all I can think about is how I would love to be out on my own. My own place, my own furniture, my own food, and a dog (I've decided on either an Australian Shepherd or an Australian Cattle Dog). My mother will possibly skin my cat or throw him to the coyotes if I don't take him too. All it is now is just preparing, applying to the school, looking for a suitable car, and eventually looking for a place to live. It is going to suck, financially, but I've accepted that. I've also accepted that, if I don't get started on this new life, it will never happen. Carpe diem.

East of the Mountains
People say, we're in a drought.
When I'm east of the mountains, the place where the sun knows no fear,
I can look at the grass waving in the wind - picturing them emerald -
and I know by the browning golden blades that people are right.
Nonetheless, I feel unraveled here, untangled as the sky and land meet
in a symphonic union, the hills rolling and skating against the blue haze.

In this place, the sun is a coward, between the storms to the west and the wall in the east.
Helios runs and hides, and the sky is an ashy ceiling, with no surprise.
St. Helens sits in her fury to the south.
My cage is a Douglas fir forest, and you can't blame me when I tell you:
It feels so small here.

You knew my frustration with this hell-mouth, and so, like a monarch,
you headed south, fleeing, knowing that if you stayed,
you'd be held prisoner like me; you'd be bound to the darkness, despite your love for me.
I felt the impulse to grab your ankle as you flew, to chain your wrist to mine,
but who was I to clip your wings when I too sought liberty?
East of the mountains, there is another place I am bound, but not by force.
It is by pure fascination, by a familiar spiritual understanding.
I told you of my infatuation, and I still hope you'll remember enough
to come back that way, to go beyond your fears.

She looks at me, informs me of my lacking sanity, and I swallow an angry retort,
quite the horse-pill to be sure.
She says, they're in a drought, and though I know this is true, I look at her
with sharp eyes and tongue bitten, thinking,
what does she know except for this salty scrap of gray and green?
What does she know when she's never been east of my mountains?
All she really has ever known is fear.

As Much as I Rip on Guys...

...Girls are crazy catty. And I am one. So, despite my vehement insistence that I am a saner female than most, I will admit to one small insanity that is allotted to me for the sake of my gender. I have a ridiculous superiority complex when it comes to being a member of the feminine community. And when regarding other women who are not exactly up to my standards...I can get a little snooty.

It's a work in progress. Realization that you have a problem is the first step...

Darkness is My Rival's Eyes (A Queen Bee's Lament)

I walk through washed out hall, amongst the various, nameless drones,
and my head is held high bearing the invisible crown as I was taught to.
I turn to observe a work station where one such drone always has a smile for me,
when she catches my eye.

My eyebrow raises, a bridge to let the ships go under and daring all others
- namely her disdainful self - to cross me.
She ducks her head down, eyes cast at her fingers, and I feel the lioness in me growling.
I have already won the contest.

For good measure, I retreat to the powder room, all decorum and ceremony withstanding,
just to make sure I am as regal as I want her to see.
My hair is a wildfire, a diadem of fury, and my eyes are fierce blazes,
with emerald eyeliner to complete the predatory visage.
I tug the hem of my shirt so the look is complete,
and then I enter in splendorous confidence.

I go to my tower, my look-out, to watch them all buzz in procession around our little hive.
All is well.
There are two behind me spewing utter nonsense, and so I ignore their blathering-on,
their he-said, she-said stupidity.
Then she appears from the staircase, like a cloud of gloom on the horizon.
She gives me one hurried glance to be sure that it is I sitting in the window sill,
and she makes her escape to her addled companions.
All the while, I sit, shoulders back, chest out, and chin held high as I peer down at my world.

She thinks she is safe from me. But as I leave,
I make sure she remembers
What she did, and
Who I am.

The Future is an Elusive Little Schemer...

This one really speaks for itself. I would like to share this one little bit from a college history professor. There are only two tales: of death and of love. I pray fate with allow me to find one before the other.

Tarot Cards and Fate-filled Dreams
He's looking at me, and I'm telling him about my favorite New Age shop -
I believe in the powers evoked by the candles dubbed Love and Creativity,
and I am waiting for that night when Seduction will come in handy -
and I tell him about my wish to have my palm read, my future told, just for laughs.
He offers to read his tarot cards to me over a beer.

A medium, he says, a trait that runs in his family, and he tells me stories.
The scientist in me, the ruthless skeptic that asks too many questions, that doubts
even the sky above me, that wishes to disprove every hypothesis put to me,
dashes away, hands over her ears as the gullible believer rushes in to hear more.
Though his cards elude him, we still talk over beer and delicious bar food,
and I am glad he has misplaced his minions, for I cannot find a question to ask him.
I wrack my brain, and I'm trying and trying and trying, until I am too lost in my stupor.
After a few hours, I leave, tipsy and happy and all the more willing to believe he can see what I cannot.

Two nights later, I am plagued with dreams of you, as I have been since that dark night in late May.
It has been my ritual, though seemingly unnecessary, since you have retreated into mere memory.
You deny me, my Peter, my crowing rooster, and you tell me
whatever hope I could possess for finding you again is all in vain, painting my heart darker.
I am still ever the theorist, and what proof there is in prophetic dreams is circumstantial at best.
Still, I am shaken. And then, like Archimedes rising from the bath water,
I have my eureka.

But now I hesitate - my question has been posed, but do I give it to the stars?
Do I give the spirits the ability to sway my opinion on my fate?
But I have always had to remind myself: there is no enemy but fear.
So I shall set my doubts aside. I have devoted my life to bravery, to being bold and strong.
Even if there are no such things as spirits in tarot cards, I will have my answer.
I will embrace my fate with arms wide open.

Curiosities

I definitely am in the middle of a major project. Of course, this is about the sixth or seventh time I've attempted a novel, not counting my attempts in high school. But, for the first time, not to count my fan fiction, which I may or may not give you all someday, I truly am connecting with my characters. I am prepared to fully invest myself in this endeavor. I really want this to make the cut.

I am, of course, going to continue with this little side venture of writing and recording all my poems for you all, my little audience. I just wanted you to know and wish me well on my enterprise. I am very excited, and I really do hope I have the perseverance to complete this. Anyways, onto my topic of the week.

I've been struggling with love for a while now. Lust and love are one of those things that are very similar and often confused for one another, and right now, I can't tell the difference. I'm feeling one of them. Maybe both. Here is what happened one night when I was feeling an odd cocktail of the two.

My Continuing Curiosity with Your Back

Several weeks ago - counted by several workloads, dozens of truck loads of
sod and soil packed into Jeeps and Fords, many punches in and punches out -
you followed me out of my truck into a stranger's house, the stepfather of our mutual friend,
a party for a sister.

Despite our obvious differences, quality of life, treatments of our bodies
(I will never understand the draw of tobacco) among them, we talk avidly on many subjects.
We waste away the hours unraveling our brains in a pile until, in our midst,
there is a pile of yarn from all the opinions and experiences and ideas we've detailed.
Finally, like the zombie apocalypse, the conversation turns to the inevitable subject
of body art.

The stepfather, the motorcycle enthusiast, take no time in pointing out
his obvious sleeve of dark, daring design, flames and skulls and metal.
I look over at another piece of art, a more feminine piece on
a brusque, frank speaking aunt, admiring and examining.
When I look back to you for a reassuring smile, I am almost disappointed.

Until you do the unexpected.

Your shirt is hiked up to your neck, and the pulse of my blood in my ears,
it is deafening, but it is nothing to the feel of my nerves flooding with mercurial fire.
My breath is snagged in all the sudden new ways
that I desire you.

That smooth, muscled, masculine, rub-your-hands-all-over sinfulness of the planes
that are your back, that I can see in that instant, where
tendons coil and attach and stretch, and all in the space
of five seconds, my face is the color of a Bloody Mary, warmth singing in
my cheeks and an unnameable place in my abdomen, between the apex of my thighs
and the depression of my cave of a navel.

I do my very best to shadow my blushing, ducking my head to hide behind my bangs.
My breath comes in pants, soft and silent, and I work hard,
trying to slow the canter in my thoroughbred chest.

But before I glance away, an inky incomprehensible word
forms over the valley between your scapulae. My interest crests, like a spike,
a prick on the polygraph test of a compulsive liar.
Just as my mind starts the process of picking apart the letters and forming a word,
the cotton of your shirt descends, the curtain at the finale of the opera,
and my breath slows to symphonic sighs.

Someday,
though only God knows when,
I will find the time to read the word splayed across your back.

Dedicated to Those Who Can't Seem to Keep Their Space Clean

In the nest of velvet and ancient tomes and golden statuettes, there lies a slumbering creature.
With soft growls, she curls up, her long snout tucked beneath her tail,
her scales like silvery rain drops moving over stain glass.
Dreams come, and her paws stretch out, her raptor claws unsheathing and relaxing,
her weapons in a hunting reverie.
It is here she stews in her predatory rage.

My room is a dragon's hoard, with treasures strewn from corner to corner.
Candles of various scents line the walls, their savory perfumes smoking their fiery breath,
clothes scattered here and there, a princess's wardrobe of silks and satin, and jewels dripping from the nooks, reflecting gleaming shine on the walls.
Treasure chests of kings and counts brimming with platinum and silver, gilded pieces spilling,
frothing over the edges stack upon each other like dominoes.

My desk is a dragon's ledger, full of lost documents,
DaVinci's forgotten blueprints, Earhart's disappeared flight-plans,
the first draft of the Magna Carta - they all sit gathering that thin blanket of dust
as they lie together in a pile of parchments.

My door is the Black Gate, and Dante's words of warning hang over the fire,
but still I gain entrance,
and although the door slams behind me, a foreboding sound to others, I show no fear.
This is my cave, my sacred place, my hoarding chamber.
This is my Dragon's Lair.

Back East: My Love Affair with Montana

Here's a little background on me. I'm from Great Falls, Montana. Although I moved when I was only three, no time to develop any real memory of the place, it has been a part of me all my life. I'm a child of the Rockies, a bonafide cowgirl, and a Wild Westerner. I can ride a horse backwards, I know how to make a cinch knot, and there has never been a time where I didn't own at least one thing reminiscent of my Midwestern roots. (If you saw my closet now, you'd notice that there are two wide brimmed hats, one of straw, another of wool, one pair of Stetson cowgirl boots, and several stuffed horses. I even wear a silver horseshoe nail ring on my right hand.)

My mother, one day last week, informed us that our grandparents were hoping we could journey the 700 mile trek from Seattle to Bozeman for a four day, three night stay to tour around. I also had hoped to see some of the campus, though the most I did eventually see was the Musuem of the Rockies - don't get me wrong though, I am not complaining at all. I got to see Big Mike...

There are also the people, who are the friendliest you could ever meet. Everyone says hi, everyone is willing to stop and have a chat with a total stranger. Twice, the group of us were invited to someone's home, the first being my mother's childhood home, and the second being my grandfather's neighbors in the Shining Mountain property. Not only were they both of them gracious, but the neighbors were thrilled to have company and give us every minute detail of their lives since they'd come to live in the Shining Mountains.

That was the most awe-inspiring part of the trip: the road trip out to the Shining Mountains. I would argue anyone, anyday, with every scrap of evidence I can muster that Montana has, by far, the most beautiful countryside in the world. Wild, craggy canyons edge the sapphire Madison River, and then you come to a cozy little town called Ennis with the zaniest people and culture - an eclectic merge of the Old West and the modern world. Beyond Ennis, is a huge valley, dusted gold from the hay and grain fields, with green bushes fringing the Madison and its tributaries coming down from the mountains. Antelope and deer are frequently dodging your gaze, and horses and cows eagerly look to the road as they yearn for friendly faces. I saw a few of my four-legged friends, a couple of quarter horses, and insisted that my mother stop along a road outside Ennis to say hi, petting them and sweet-talking them as they nibbled the corners of my shirt and nudged heads with me. And my favorite part of the scenery is the copious amounts of wild sunflowers. They aren't the big, honking dinner plate sized ones with stems the diameter of your pinkie: they are like any other flower, dainty and adorable, and they are so numerous that you could pick enough for a wedding party, and you wouldn't make a dent in them. I absolutely adore that they grow wild here.

When we got to my grandparents' property out there in the Shining Mountains, the sun was high above us, and the wind sang a song of greeting, so exuberant that my hat was prone to flying off. Golden eagles circled the valley below, and the peace of it all was the most striking thing I've ever felt. Far beyond the reaches of civilization, I could really feel myself falling in love with it all. I could see myself, ten years in the future, with a property like the one my grandfather owns, with a little cabin, a barn, and a few horses of my own, and a life in Bozeman. You could say that my heart has been set on Montana, thoroughly and finally.

In the end, I thought it only fair that I write about it, in hopes that you could understand my plight. You've heard of my ready disdain for western Washington, and this should be a heavy indicator as to where that comes from. I thought about scratching out a poem for you all, but I didn't think that would be fair, as it would be forced and quickly thrown out. Pray for me that next week, I'll have something more organized, and that some distant relative doesn't call me away again.

Lust: the Drive to Be Touchy-Feely

This is the article that I post where I'm taking a big chance, because I am going to be tackling one of those weird things that make us human that not many people are very open about. (There is also the issue that there are several people out there who I would be mortified to have read this, but I'm going to take that chance anyways.) But let's face it: everyone at one point or another has lusted after someone else.

I had just got done with one of those weird episodes of panting after someone one quite possibly was never going to have anyways, more abruptly than usual because the object of my affections was skipping state. It's sad, but in this case, I realize that it is better that it happens that way, or at least, that's what I'm trying to tell myself. It was a bad case: one where you get crazy dreams that wake you up in the night, and you are acutely aware of the fact that you are sleeping alone, that make you you wish you hadn't woken up because of how wonderful everything was going inside your sub-conscience, and that make you realize how very hopeless everything in reality is shaping up to be.It was one where you'd find yourself drifting off into space, picturing the many ways how an encounter between one and one's intended could go. In the case of a poet, like me, it often inspires a veritable slough of bad poetry (okay, in my defense, I'm a damn good writer, so they aren't that bad).

You must understand too, that I am one who does not ever find excessive emotions appealing or a source of strength. I have been accused of being cold, of being an ice queen, and it is because I view sappy, mushy-gushy feelings as a way of being vulnerable. I have struggled on many occasion with letting myself be vulnerable. Even with the object of my affections those few months, I did not let myself appear what I would consider to be weak. In this poem, I open up my weaker, more emotional side, in hopes that I can learn to be warmer.

Heat
It's hot out.
It feels like a sauna out on the street, though there are
no old people here, not like at the spa - they do love to flock there.
I'm near-panting, hosing down the roses, and the water comes off,
aromatic steam that perfumes the air with an amatory scent.
I would really love to jump in a pool, crystalline and cool and--
there, I see you walking.

I'm amazed at your attire, your choice of pants: black shorts.
I know you are from the South; you've been acclimated to warmer places,
but how are you comfortable?
And then I feel the heat of my body's response, and, oh dear God,
I am all the more fevered.

Hot, hot, hot, and I'm sweating.
How those shorts fall along all the right places, trailing over your sinew,
detailing the lean lines beneath.
I'd love to strip them off of you, and have you here,
peeling off my tank top that sticks and sticks like Saran Wrap
to my sun-kissed skin, smelling of steaming rose petals.

And I dream of you, drawing the pine green fabric over my brow,
laden heavy with perspiration,
to have you gaze on me with dark, smokey intent.
All the curses, all the blessings, everything I could say to you,
they stay bubbling in my larynx,
champagne, my preferred poison on a swelter-day
 (Sirius, you beautiful orb, you bring such odd luck with your humid rising).
I curse your power over me, for it is likely that you,
you who bring these scathing dreams to me,
will have such an intent, but not for shy, timid me.
Still, I can hope that one of these dog days,
you'll draw me close to share your heat,
draw me to your hard, hot chest and give me
one
      frenzied
                  kiss.

The Importance of Being Patient

Getting engaged at a young age in our generation is never a good idea. It might seem like a romantic idea at the time, but we young adults of the twenty-first century are too involved with our ambitions and our romantic notions of finding ourselves to truly desire binding ourselves to someone at such young ages. There are, of course exceptions to that rule, like everything, but, needless to say, I was reckless and failed to hinder this advice: I got engaged a week before my twentieth birthday. In two weeks, it shall have been the anniversary of that day, and I can't say it was a day of good decisions. I was too young - I had too many plans for myself and too many things on my bucket list to complete that a fiance or, God forbid, a husband would have gotten in the way of. I still am too young. Three months later, a month after ending the relationship (it had been an awful, rocky, turbulent engagement that I never expected, yet should have seen coming), I wrote this as a tribute to the end of what must have been the most exhausting time of my life.

A Pyre for "Us"
It's three months yesterday since I gave you
my incensed adieu - I crossed the street, walked away from your pleas,
the same street where some hag clipped your arm and tumbled you into the concrete
 - does that say something? Infer something, a difference between us?
There is a bitter irony in my heart that laughs in the nooks and cockles of my soul.
It has not escaped my well-trained attentions, those which you so willfully dismissed
as follies, as excessive.

Three months, and Ms. Jones sings "turn me on," the tune of my heart.
She wails in the cafe, and it's true.
I'm in need for male company, aching for something you tried to give,
but, for lack of something more sizable, more sumptuous and tempting,
you could not.

Romantic notions came, but your attending to tragedy
(you were always searching for Juliet or Cleopatra, when you could never
be satisfied with my Olivia, my Katarina) kept you, hindered us.
I need a man with wry smile, dirty intention, and in need of laughter, instead of a torrent.
I want passion, fury; I wish to be desired - seduction that I cannot stave off.
Where is he that can make me mad with thought of him in the dead
of slumber-less nights?
I cannot see him.
"Where are you, Petruchio?"

Living in Western Washington...as far as finding a decent man goes, it sucks.

When you were raised like I was, you know that your prince charming is going to come from the South. So, as I have lived in the Pacific Northwest, home of the Seattle Freeze (if you don't know what that is, it's the cold, scathing look you get when you say hello to perfect strangers in the street), for the last thirteen years of my life, you can imagine how easy it is to find one of those.

I was tired of the skinny, string bean, self-obsessed hipsters that strut along the streets of every city I wander in this God-forsaken drizzle-ridden hell. Not to worry. I don't really hate Washington all that much, though I would much rather live somewhere else if I was given the choice. I love the smiles of people when I visit my grandparents in Virginia, how you can stop any of them and have a decent conversation, then walk away and never have to know their name. Most of all, I remember my mother telling me that when she first lived in Enid, OK, with my dad after they got married, she'd never, ever have to pay for her drinks at the bars, because another man would always pay, simply because they wanted to show how nice they could be. And, yes, they might have just been doing it for some chauvinistic reasons, or they may have genuinely cared about making some strange lady special. All ulterior motives aside, I was desperate after my break-up with yet another self-involved pansy to care about attempting to find another man homegrown here. This is what came of my exasperation.

Lament of the Metropolitan Girl

Sauntering over unworried concrete that safeguards against earth, leaf, twig, fauna,

that keeps winding brush and bracken at bay,

I sorrowfully glean that there is little modern need for strong men.

Men who covet strength, who dream of being the muscled red-blooded heroes,

live in lulling comfort, tucked away in brick villas and oak cottages.

Soon, they take on the hysterics that women have conveniently long since abandoned

I yearn for a man, bloody-knuckled, wild tempered, and steeled,

with a five o’ clock shadow (hardly tolerated within civil company) and dirtied jeans,

ripped from labor and not some addlepated twit in some design office trying to give

her clients the false edge they cannot earn.

I shuffle past these peacocks, preening their perfectly coiffed faux-hawks, hidden beneath

fur lined hoods of H&M jackets, as their TOMS patter over the pavement…

enough to make my ovaries shrivel and turn in repulsion.

These are no men – bright birds without so much tooth or claw.

Give me a griffon instead: a beast, terrible beauty that could dismember my greatest foes,

who does not care to avoid the fray merely for the sake of keeping his feathers sleek.

At night, I lay waking as my wish bores holes in my mind.

I think of a man, not so frail that he cannot rock me to a molten place, eroded smooth

from a weathering heart and jarring disappointments.

Not so egocentric is he that he is unable to view my pleasure as a measure of his worth,

unable to get past anything but a man’s beady-eyed, onyx lined release.

The little jungle cat may purr and slink to entice, but matured am I that seeks out the truth

beneath flashy pelt, for something of more substance.

Only the elusive leopard’s prowess may gain sway over my wearied heart

as he sinks his claws into that prey known as my undivided attention.

No more momma’s boys for me – no.

But the rugged man shall someday make me his inamorata.

I know it isn't quite yet Tuesday...but sometimes, you need to know what your expectations are.

My mother has recently discovered that she loves lemon drops. Not the candy. The alcoholic beverage that has two shots of Limoncello, two shots of vodka, and two shots of Cointreau, not to mention the added fructose of the lemon juice. Her liver is going to be busy all through tonight and tomorrow. I am glad for the fact that she chooses not to get drunk very often.

The thing about my mother when she's heavily intoxicated is that she becomes very talkative. She is a very taciturn woman otherwise, though whatever comes out of her mouth anyways is usually rather sarcastic or stern, as a mother's words should be. Point is, when she's inebriated, she's verbose.

So, tonight, when she'd had two of these cocktails, she caught me slip into a Scottish accent. My grandfather only recently divulged the information that he is a descendant of Robert the Bruce, a national hero in Scotland and the first king of an independent Scotland, independence he fought for. This makes me a descendant, a member of the clan of Bruce, and I am, in blood, a Scottish royal. My mother and I have taken it upon ourselves to learn more about my Scottish heritage. So, naturally, she thought it funny to fall into a silly accent that, truth be told, wasn't all that bad.

That's when the situation and the conversation became more serious. My mother looked at me through the alcoholic haze, stared me down, and said "Elizabeth, look at me." Not really taking her seriously, I looked up briefly to see what she wanted. When she wasn't quick enough with her speech, I took it as her desire to further antagonize me and went back to playing with the cat.

"Elizabeth!" I heard from the couch, and I knew I had better pay attention, despite my amusement with the cat.

Still using that silly ass Scottish accent, she began to lecture me on my heritage. For the first part, it didn't really make much sense to me: it was mostly just her blathering on in that goofy voice, until she barked at me again.

"Elizabeth! Stop looking away!" At this point, my rebellious nature reared its head. The line I'd always used when I was three came erupting out of my mouth.

"My name is Ellie!" I felt pretty confident with my retort. Of course, my mother has a notorious history of never taking shit lying down. She is, after all, the source of my more intellectual tendencies, and she knows better than to let me have my way.

"No! Your name is Elizabeth! Do you know what that means?" Of course I knew. It meant 'consecrated to God'. I also knew why I was named so, and I assumed that was what she was asking me. Three of my great-grandmothers were named Elizabeth, including Marjorie Elizabeth. That was the answer I gave her. "No!" she scolded. "It means that you have a heavy burden on your shoulders." She took the next twenty minutes reminding me on all the historical Elizabeths, Biblical or otherwise. All of them had an important place in history. Aaron, brother to Moses the Prophet, had a wife named Elisheba, the Hebrew for Elizabeth. Two reigning queens of England were Elizabeth. Mary's cousin, mother to John the Baptist, was Elizabeth. Queen Isabel, wife of Fernando of Aragon, was also Elizabeth in the Spanish. Even in America, one of the leaders of the feminist movement was Elizabeth Cady Stanton, who was also an abolitionist, and the reason women can vote today. Of all the female names in history, my mother told me, there was no name as prominent as Elizabeth.

"Now," she told me as she reminded me once more to look at her  -- granted, it's hard to keep eye contact with someone as drunk as she was, and with as much going on in the room as there was, "you are gifted with a great intellectual capacity that your sisters do not share. At the same time, you will NOT take this to your head; you will not be vain about it either. But there are many with your name, with your heritage that will not live up to them. You are not likely to live up to them either. But it is your obligation to strive for it anyway." This was what sobered me at the end of the night. What she said next was what gave me a renewed sense of pride.

"On my side of the family, you are descended from a long line of French stewards. It was our family who attended the cathedral where the Dauphin was crowned, and it was our family who was obligated to be caretakers for the French throne. On your father's side, you are Scottish royalty. You have a great heritage, a great number of expectations. As the oldest, it is your job to ensure that you make something of that lineage. My parents didn't care about that stuff. All they cared about was making a buck. As for your dad's parents..." she waved her hand dismissively, "they're too busy making gin and tonics. But it is your job to remember who you are and what your expectations are, who you are obligated to be."

So now, as I sit here, typing my story, I ask the same of you. Where my mother never knew about her ancestry, where her parents never cared to make her understand the importance, she strives to help me understand, and I'd like you to do the same. Know who you are. Know what standards you set for yourself are the standards you set for your children and their children. As my mother said before I shooed her off to bed, "the past makes you who you are today, in order for you to pave a better future." So here I am. I begin the preparations to become someone more today.

My Struggle with My Zodiac Sign

I am the oldest of four girls, and the oldest of my generation in  my family - that's thirteen cousins, if it really matters to you that much. Yet, for as long as I can remember, my friends have always treated me as the baby. I have always been the most naive seeming out of my peers. Not that I truly believe in it, but it doesn't help that I am a Virgo, and for those of you more familiar with the Greek Zodiac, Virgo is the Virgin. See what I mean? Even the stars have to point out my sheltered upbringing. They have to make it a part of my identity. Of course, Virgo is a dual sign, a fact few people know, but the Vixen is a side of Virgo that only a select few ever get to see. So far, all everyone sees is the Virgin.

I'm not the naïve young woman I once was. But, like the ghosts that haunt the catacombs of Paris, my innocence lives with me. It's all anyone really sees of me. It's always so funny to watch the faces of my friends when I curse or when I make a lewd joke. They never expect it because of how proper or prim I appear to be, which has served me better than I might let on. At the same time, my peers seem to be forever deterred by the rose-tinted glasses they think I sport.

So, when I visited my mother's friend, I was playing with her Bombay, Finn. There was a discussion about how he had come with the name, Rex, and she didn't like the name, so she changed it. I told her that, had it been me, he would have been Bagheera for Rudyard Kipling's The Jungle Book. This is what came of that discussion and my continuing frustration with my zodiac sign.

Finn or Rex or Bagheera (Angel Face)
Dark as ebony is your coat - it is the coal from the very bowels of the Earth,
A fossil from the Carboniferous, and it douses your fur.
Yet all anyone can see is your eyes.

They are sickly sweet orbs, green like growth and goodness, wondering,
You are bewildered, full of desire to understand.
They betray the child in you.

Your fur, how it covers you in sinful shadows, dark like sobriety and pain,
angry, growling, stewing, consuming all light to fester.
It is a splotch of something sinister and forbidden in the daylight.
Yet, all they can see is your eyes.

Soft with love, a light in the blanket of night, your eyes,
They whisper duets of innocence, genuine caring.
They are your virgin traitors - they reveal your naïveté.

Every part of you screams of your haunted past,
Yet no one can get past your angel face.

Introduction

My name is Elizabeth Sawyer, and I am an amateur poet.

This blog is not about getting me published (although I won't object if someone would like to put my words in print). This blog is not about me whining about the follies of my life. This is about one human being trying to make sense of her own emotions, and in the process, if you are out there, I hope it helps you make sense of yours. People are vulnerable and scared, and we build walls to protect ourselves, and sometimes we are so closed off from ourselves that we forget how to understand what we're feeling. This is where I put my foot down.

My name is Ellie, and this is my attempt to understand my feelings.

Vying for Freedom
A girl with golden tresses looks out of the window of her tower
--a place her adopted mother stuck her long ago
with the adhesive effect of pine sap--
and she thinks about how through all the years she's spent,
exploring and hiding and learning,
that she's discovered, memorized, grown complacent to
all the nooks and corners and spots hidden away in her little world,
her little prison.

One day, she asks her mother,
when will I get to see more of the out-of-doors?
The old woman laughs, a cynical chuckle meant for more sinister intent,
and pats the girl's head of sunshine and buttercups to say,
when you are ready.

A robin's hatchling never learns to fly until he gains a certain curiosity
--what's beyond the ledge of my downy nest?
He'll never know unless he's very brave, unless he's very daring.
(Bold is a color best worn with your chin held high.)

So while his father is out, snooping in the tall wheat and grasses
for worms, juicy and succulent, the fuel for the flight to be had someday,
he leaps, and despite a wholehearted thrust towards the sky, he tumbles.
Aerial acrobatics must wait for another day.
Nevertheless, his father, all pomp and red-breasted pride, says,
There's always another day; try again tomorrow, dear heart.
The hatchling's bruised ego is cooled and tempered, and
he is readied for a new day.

I'm in the parking lot when I hear the tortured scream
of a beater truck that seen too many halting stoplights.
My hair has fallen out of its restraints, and the wind catches it,
Zephyr playing with the copper brown strands in his fingers,
tugging me back east, teasing me with thoughts of a home back
somewhere on the other side of the mountains, underneath a Big Sky.
Someday.
I'll return someday.