Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Pigs, chickens, goats, ducks, geese, turkeys;
feed them all.

Always as a girl she walked without shoes.
She played in the mud and yet was still beautiful.
Up and down she chased that boy.
The painter boy;
the one who did not all that much care for mud.

The big man with the heavy boots stopped coming here;
many years ago he stopped.
The three ladies with the pointy shoes came then.
I became ridden with new holes  and dips daily.
I became even more worn and torn up.

One would think I spent all my time with the likes of chickens;
continuously pecking and clawing and picking.
Ripping me away from myself layer by layer.

Mostly I waited;
waited for all of them to just leave.
Leave her to her farm.
To her animals.
To her life.

One night,
just as the sun decided to sleep,
she left; slipping away.
The ladies with the pointed shoes were gone.
She was leaving too.

But mercy!
Her feet were not bare and her calluses were hidden.
I knew soon life for us all would change.
For on her feet there was something new.

Glass slippers soft as silk caressed my face.
The hems of white satin and silk slipped over my eyes carefully.
She was afraid but anticipation shook her breath,
and weighed her feet.
I wished her luck and sent warm prayers up through me.

I waited patiently,
the rain pounded rudely upon me and
the night raced on.
It held feelings of pain but also of hope,
and I waited.

After humiliation and hurt passed,
carrying defiance and anger with them,
joy and happiness exploded in the air
as forgiveness spread silently around.
Satisfaction crept slyly in and decided to stay.

With petty arrogance the three of them pranced;
down the steps and across my face, stabbing me
with every new step.
They laughed and taunted and gossiped,
reveling in what splendor they thought they had,
and the royalty they believed they deservedly were to receive.
With false fragility they were lifted into the coach
where they sat with straight backs, gloved hands, bejeweled
everywhere they could be...

The ladies with the pointed shoes didn’t come back.
No, but she did.
Of course she did, she had to say
So long for now, even though
every once and awhile she’d be back.

Now someone else would tend the pigs,
the chickens, the goats and ducks and geese and turkeys.
Someone else with calloused feet and a ragged dress
would walk me over each morning.
But I didn’t care.
I smiled, that is, if dirt can do such things.
Cause as sure as anything in the world,
she was happy.

Many hands had flipped my pages;
none so cold and tiny as hers.
She was a little girl when her father picked me up;
stuck me in his saddle bag and brought me to her.

At first, it was he who would speak the words
that my weakening pages provided.
He would read them confidently;
a voice for every character and dramatic pauses  when he deemed it necessary.

Always she listened intently.
As if her father could truly create
the world that only my pages would ever hold;
my pages and her imagination.

Her little face would peer over her father’s arm.
She could read, but she liked it better when she could hear him.
She liked his voice.
I liked his fingers.

He was so gentle;
Never tore a single page,
and every night, after he’d tucked her in her bed,
he’d tuck me inside the bedside drawer to await another night.

I remember her eyes; how they’d shine.
And her little laugh and her smile,
sometimes quivering as the story strayed from a happy ending.
She loved it all the same.

Then, the father with the gentle hands and loud voice didn’t come back.
The girl held me to her chest under the bed clothes and cried.
Not a sobbing, feel-sorry-for-me cry;
a still and silent cry.
A cry where the tears just seem to have been willed out of nowhere;
only to pour down her face.

Beginning that night, I was the only thing she read.
My pages became stained with the work of her day;
as I always remained tucked inside her apron pocket.
She never set me down.

As the years carried by,
wretched people entered the house.
They sold the fine things of the gentle-handed man.
The girl with the bright eyes grew dim;
She worked, she read. she slept.

She slept in the ash.
As close to the fire as she could without burning.
There was no bed left in the barons’ house;
just a fireplace full of cinder and ash.

My spine crackled and snapped,
my pages frayed and fanned out.
My corners yellowed and curled.
The fire scorched small fibers of me;
and I earned the name well-loved.

But I as myself was not loved;
no, I was loved as the gentle-handed man.
It pained me to feel the hands that should have been so dainty,
pass coarsely across my paper, as if made of leather.

Then something happened.
Something happened that made the coarse-handed girl
with the ***** apron become careless.
She went away for hours and left me crunched in the apron pocket.
I never knew where she was,
but when she would return she held me close,
but did not read a word before falling asleep.
At night her dreams flowed from her pointed fingertips.
A boy danced there. A handsome one.
One who wore a crown.

On one such day,
I was forgotten upon the table;
I waited.
I wondered if she would read today.
Would she remember the world inside my
wilting pages?
As I thought this I heard cries and screams;
feet stamped over the floorboards.

A new hand picked me up.
Her fingers were long and soft.
But were they warm or cold?
She swung me through the air and held me high over her head.
I could not see, but the sound of heavy breathing  blocked out the world.

Begging;
she was begging.
They both were begging, at least one was.
The other was demanding, the fingers that held me shook ever so slightly.
And I was flying.
I was flying down.
And she was screaming.
Sobs, hard crashing screaming sobs.
I was burning.
God help me;
I was burning.

One toe, then all five, and then ten.
She’s come, stepping carefully into the bed that I create.

Soft, but terribly hard.
Every night it is this way.
I smile, wishing she could see;
that she could know, I would wrap her up, had I the arms to do so.

Heat; the allure.
Sinking carefully to her knees, then to lay on her side.
Her feet, calloused, and blackened with resistance face towards the flames.

Her dreams are peaceful; wait, they are not.
Her toes clench.
I rub into her as the pressure of her dreams forces her legs to move.

I feel sad.
Her dainty feet, tainted now, yet I cannot pull away.
The grey of me stains her.
Shaking the nightmare away she moves closer to the fire.

Her dishwater hair passing ignorantly through me.
I cling tightly to every strand.
Particle by tiny particle, pieces of my heart leave the hearth.
Painting her cheeks dull, and her feet rough.

As she sleeps, I analyze her.
As she turns her face into the ground I see her eyes.
Behind her swollen lids her eyes do not move quickly.
Her sleep is light.
Shame twists within me.
Laced through her lashes, I see myself.
Almost like snow, but not quite good enough;
not beautiful or crisp enough.
This night will be no different than the rest.

I attempt to cover her knowing the fire isn’t enough.
I tarnish her clothes when all I wish is to make her warm!
Frustrated and unhappy for another night, I do not move.

When the rooster awakens and he screeches his nasty alarm;
I feel her sigh.
She is aware enough to know that although it is yet dark the day has begun.
With a certain mock fluidity she sits, kneels, and then stands.
Making no sound I scream as I break.

Leaning back she shakes out her hair, letting it fall past her waist.
I fall to the cold floor, warm in places from where she heated it.
She braids the strands together, sometimes enveloping me.
As she stretches I continue to drop; from her arms, her shoulders, her back.
Bending forwards she shakes me from her apron.
I fly far and close and smash into the floor.

She throws more wood into the fire;
blowing the coals to recreate the flame.
As she turns her braid whips  air behind her,
and she walks away.
Leaving me with myself as the air slowly leaves me,
and I dissipate, every molecule of me settling somewhere else,
upon the floor where she slept.

Today was meant for happiness
for giving and remembrance
time spent with the people you love
your family.

Time to cook and bake
sing songs and share news
get out the old photo albums
laugh together.

A day when things are thrown away
past is the past and smiles are wide
snowflakes snow globe around the house
church bells ring.

Its supposed to be warm
comfortable the music is soft
candles burn and glow
my dog sleeps.

Yet, I can't stay there
I can't look at their faces
I seclude myself
alone.

It hurts to be here
where I haven't been
and try to pretend
that its nice.

I'm not happy here
but today is for the present
today is for giving thanks
today is about smiles.

The image here
is but a skeleton of me
the person that everyone remembers
wishes was still here.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Rambling on
The houses ring
With the voices
That try and claim
This is their home

It is
As it always will
be a safe place
One where each of us
Will hold memories

Memories that bring
Tears
Joy
Pain

....And
Happiness

Outside still clouds gather
Here inside I don’t understand
What hole I am
And what it means
On the leaves and grass the mist clings
I hurt
And try to find
What reason I have
For this anger
I hold
Shaken by the breeze,
Drops of water fall
I want it to leave
And not say goodbye
I have no love for it
Here it hurts and eats away

At all I have made
Of my heart and soul
But now this anger
Deep and awful
Rumbles along
With approaching thunder
Haunts
And I try
To rid myself of the pain
Look away from the quick flashes
But without a source
A reason why
I cannot solve
This mess inside and
Lightning slashes, branches bow and
I hurt

Cause it won’t go away
And I feel as if all
I have to say is
To hell with
Everything and everyone
As precipitation swirls and clouds darken further
Because all that matters
Is the tornado that holds
All my organs and emotions
Crashing and churning
In one same whirling vortex
But I know that it’s wrong
To me so self-righteous
As wind breaks and takes

I cannot stand
The ones who seem to
Indeed share my own fault
For the ones with whom you share
Are the souls upon whom you are the harshest
And I do not like to admit
To the things that make me
Like all the rest

I am cruel
I do bad things
I am mean
I hurt
I am human
I am caring
I am soft
I hold
I break
I am ashamed

To be who I am
walking a two way street
I attempt to hold my head high
Because I know what is right
But other minds won’t agree
The trees who’s leaves the storm has taken
Yearn for them once more
My head chases me in circles
So to confuse me
And I begin to cry out
But the storm recedes
In frustration and fury
At my own head’s distaste
And demure
I am not who I want to be
This storm has changed
And I am not the perfection
That is trained into the lines
That wind and rain have worn

On my personality
Perfection for me and all is impossible
As the definition of human is
As it may be imperfection
Created as rain falls
Only to be replaced by sun
As fate would have it
And so my anger flows slower
The pound of the thunder stole my force
In naught but words
One might read
And empathize
Although I do not ask it
As this is what I have brought
Down upon the back of myself
With all the things that I have done
And through this rambling anger
And broken chaos swirling leaves, water and dirt
I find my answer
And no longer feel the sick
Stone in the pit of my soul
That a flash and rumbling boom removed
Perhaps I am no longer as angry and sick
Or perhaps I just cannot feel it as strongly
For I fear that I am angry
With myself
For my own imperfection
As I have moved from the clouds
For that is who and what I am
As fate may have it
I have been centered
In the eye
However, I am human

June eighth:
That random warm summer day
I heard
That in the hospital, an hour away
There was a room where my father lay;
Surrounded by doctors and nurses,
Conscious as they pushed, a wire up and into his brain;
To remove the thing, that awful thing
That could take my father away forever.
A blood clot that sat unaware in his vein;
One stroke that minimized everything.

From the time of the phone call
I sat in my room
Isolating myself
Coping with my thoughts as best I could
I wondered if he was ok

We went to see him for the first time,
On Father’s Day:
My 11 year old little sister and I
Balloons and cake and presents.
All smiles so as not to make it worse.
When I saw him I bit my lip,
That warm coppery taste filled my mouth
Instead of the tears that would have been.

When he talked his words slurred, uneven
He saw the pain in my eyes and tried to seem more himself,
He tried to sit up and straighten,
But he had lost much of his strength and could not.
I sat with him, next to his bed
My mind numb and afraid

The only noise the underlining sound of the TV
After a time he reached over with his good arm and squeezed mine
Just like he always does
But his voice wavered,
And something new became clear to me.

Even as he was still my father and alive
He was no longer the father
Made to be immortal to a small child:
Someone that is always there
No matter what, never going away,

But that is not an immortal idea.
It is but what it is
What people want it to be;

Its not truth.
For, at any second anywhere
My father can be taken from me.
Now life tells me that my father is mortal.
Just like any other
He works to regain what was lost;
Step by step,
New things return.
But still some evade him
And he sometimes saddens,
Mourning his taste, or strength in a hand or finger.

Ideas are immortal and ever changing
Their creators however, meet their own end,
And one time or another are taught why…
Perhaps for my father this is but a life lesson.
And perhaps he will learn from it.
Perhaps the lesson wasn’t only for him.