Scrounging local garage sales... near ten years past... I had found a flat, welded iron, rusty seahorse... 3 feet high... with a good seahorse shape and poise... edges welded and cut... after the haggle... twenty-five dollars..... perfectly added to my estate... covered rust in gold sheen... mounted upon a tree... to greet all comers... with a seahorse kiss!    
     Seller said it was made by the same artist... of the turtle lady statue... to be found in Corpus Christi!  Asked if I had seen it... my reply... No, but I liked the seahorse piece! He expounded... the artist... only had one leg... but was a surfer... well known for this trait... in Corpus Christi!  
     After I had mounted the seahorse... upon it's tree...I did an internet search... looking for anything about the one-legged surfer artist of Corpus Christi!  Found... nothing!  
     End of May, 2019... visiting my sister, Donna... we were wandering Corpus Christi!  She guided us to the surf museum... not knowing the story... of the one-legged surfer artist... creator of my mounted seahorse!  
     Girl at the front desk... Kyla... real nice and friendly... told her about the seahorse and questioned her... she didn’t know... she never heard of a surfer with one leg or the turtle lady statue!  Looking at us just a bit strangely... one legged surfer???
      Donna and I... started our stroll through the small museum!  Along the right side... stood a long row of surfboards... I’ve never surfed... but I was imagining trying it with just one leg!  
      Anyhow... I didn’t really stop to read or look in any detail at any of the exhibits until I reached the back... there was a glass case... which had a piece of simple letter paper...  8.5x11... taped to the front of the glass cabinet!  I started in reading the last paragraph...

     “Welch, 53, and his wife, Chelsea Louise, 23, died September 15, 2001, when their car plunged off the edge of South Padre Island’s Queen Isabella Causeway, which partially collapsed after a string of barges crashed into the bridge’s support pilings!

     Thought to myself... Wow... Who is this guy???  I jumped up to the middle paragraph...

     “Welch lost one of his lower legs in an auto accident in the 1970s, but he kept surfing with a prosthesis.  He wore a peg-like prosthesis at first, then got one with a foot.  He won the prosthesis division of the United States Surfing Championships on South Padre Island in 1998.”

     In the glass case was a welded metal sculpture of a beach scene... with waves, palm trees, and all!  The piece did have some resemblance in style to my seahorse sculpture!  Also, there was a picture on top of the case... of Harpoon Barry... striking a muscular, no shirt pose... in his tattoo shop... his torso covered in tattoos!  
    
     “It is said... he was on the verge of suicide after losing his leg. In one interview with the San Antonio Express News in 1992 he said;  "I may not make it to heaven, but you can be sure I made no deals with the devil to get where I'm at now, "  Looking down at his false leg stretched out in front of him, Welch said quietly: "It is a real empty feeling when you put one of these on for the first time, especially if you are an adult on your own. And your mama'a not there and your daddy's not there, and the people in the hospital tell you, 'This is the best it's going to get.  I made my first leg myself, out of Hi-C cans. I couldn't wait for my leg to get finished. I wanted to walk. I guess I got the idea from the Tin Woodsman in 'The Wizard of Oz.' That leg actually worked pretty well!”

     I had found my one-legged surfer artist!  I walked towards Donna... who was already half-way leaving the museum...  I hollered to her... she just had to come see this ... “I think I found the one-legged surfer!”  She had recently had partial knee replacement... and was hobbling!  She said if I was fooling her... she better not walk back all that way for nothing!! She came back to the glass case... we read through the letter in it’s entirety!  
     Then we went... and told Kyla at the front desk... she again looked at us again a bit strange... but then reluctantly left her post to go with us to take a look... she was then astounded!  Said she never knew about the one-legged surfer... although she had worked at the museum for several years!  Said there were also a couple metal sculptures... at the front of the museum... she thought were also done... by Harpoon Barry!  We took pictures of those also!  

In the letter we also read...

     “Welch had numerous tattoos and body piercings.  He wore a tiny 14 carrot gold harpoon through one ******.  That is how he got his nick name according to a friend, Scott Gangel.”  

     "I am a unique, self-made sensation!” he said matter-of-factly... in the interview with the Express News!  
    
     It's been 18 years since eight people died when South Padre Island's Queen Isabella Memorial Causeway collapsed... sending 11 people into the water below... four days after the 9/11 attacks!  A string of tow barges had struck the supporting pilings!  A section of the roadway had collapsed...
     I promised Kyla... I would donate my seahorse piece to the museum upon my death!  I only hope my death... is as grand as Harpoon Barry’s plunge into the Gulf of Mexico with his young wife!  Wonder what they were doing during the plunge... what was Barry doing... yelling Yippee Ki Yay... or Surf’s up... Dude!!!... maybe???  
    
Surfed waves on one leg
Young wife... crazy life... grand death
Harpooned by Barry

©  2019 Jim Davis

Kind
Yachting with my dad and other family members on a lake
Lying down and reading a descriptive book
A**dventurous, a wondering mind

Its so much easier searching Google or Pinterest looking for the perfect quote to effortlessly upload to the world.

So much easier letting another speak your words you can't seem to ever find.

So much faster to copy and paste, than forge your own complex emotions onto paper; no take backs, no rough draft.

So much harder to find the words that feed your soul, that truly illustrate your passions, your desires, your wants, your needs, your love.

This poem is for all the quotes that just don't suffice, for all the poems that aren't raw enough to deliver your missive. The ones that barely scratch the surface of your iceburg:

I don't have a problem with love; I love lots of things; I love babies and puppies, thunderstorms and laughing.

I love my job, my coworkers and kids, I love their tiny hands and developing brains, I love their arguments, and their ten second future careers. 

I love ten second future careers.

I love dancing and singing, I love being surrounded by trees that reach the skies and long walks on the beach where there's nothing around for miles.  

I love being uncomfortable, I love learning, I love awkward feelings of vulnerability.

I love being scared, but the kind of scared where I know I'm safe, but I allow my self to forget.

I love allowing myself to forget.

I love cliché and cheesy, I love pick up lines, and jokes that make your stomach hurt from laughter. Don't get me started on vulgarity and cursing; they're my drug of choice.

I love risky conversations and dark secrets, almost as much as I love life stories and scars. Man do I love scars! The narratives, the memories, the reminiscing.

I love reminiscing.

I love silence and I love noise, but mainly the kind of noise that echos joy and content. The noise that feels like home. The noise that eases my nerves like gabapentin never could.

I love meaningless drives and getting lost, or at least trying to, and finding myself in unknown territory that takes my breath away.

I love things that take my breath away.

I love hearing of your love for your son and your daughter, and how because you're a dad, you can french braid.

I love asking random questions from your jar that let me know you sentence by sentence, as we lay on your bed, just us in the room.

I love when it's just us in the room.

I love the feelings I get when I read your book; knowing that your hands have flipped these very pages.

I love staring at you while you strum your guitar and you smile sheepishly as I record you for later. I love watching your hands slightly tremble with everything you touch. 

I love everything you touch.

See, I know what love is. I know how to love, I know what to love, and who. I don't need help to love, or motivation, or reason, or rhyme. 

I'm a lover.

So if I slip, if I fall flat on my face and spew love from my pores, flicker love off my tongue, don't run. Don't be burdened with the fear of breaking my poor heart, or hurting my soul.
us lovers have enough love to balance out the pain, we have enough love to share and hoard all the same. 

So when I call you my lover, or love, or heaven forbid, say I love you, know that's part of my identity, it's my mark on the world, my rendition  on Charles Bukowskis words, "if you’re going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don’t even start."

-kyla Goodson

From the time I arrived-
             I realized
That although the world around me hadn't changed
I could see things differently
From Math to challenges everyone else can't face on their own
I travel my own path, headstrong into the wind
*I look back to the past, scared of what I have been through
I let the strength that resides in my soul take hold of my heart,
and I continue on."

Someone else comes into bloom
blossoming bold and brilliant
Running straight toward me, as if that bloom had known me
belonged to me, and was mine
As I watched her dart towards me, I knew there was urgent news to be said
whistling whispers in my ear, I listened...





By Kyla and **Amanda

"Your father he's...."
an ache in her heart caused a shake in her voice
" Your father is Dead--
I know how you feel."
my heart stopped for only a moment, it froze.
A moment of calm before I felt like it was
beating
pounding
against the ribs that caged it within.
"I.. This is impossible." Does she know anything about my mother?
I did not know her
not her name
not her eyes
not her lips
but I felt her spirit
and she was mine
"And your mother is fine." The girl said
I could sense more news on her breath, my chest tightened"
The news felt as if a new spirit, a seed was planted.
I watched her turn away and fade into the distance

She stopped,and thought, started breaking back toward me in her thoughts. And said" By the way, your mother will bear another child."...




By *Kyla and Amanda

He had told me that my body was beautiful...
He said that his favorite part about me was my stomach...
As I sat before him, bare skin, one hand covering my midsection.
He then proceeded to joke about the way my lower stomach 'jiggles'...
As if I wasn't already aware.

And I know he was just trying to encourage "body confidence".
But in my mind I heard the words of ex-boyfriends
And concerned family members echoing his comments.
So, even though he never said it, or even came close...
All I heard was the same thing that had been drilled into my esteem for 19 years;
"Well, maybe if she'd lose a little weight..."

At 13, My grandmother smacked my stomach.
While laughing, she said to me,
"You're getting fat."

As a freshman, my grandfather placed a hand on my shoulder,
Looked at my stomach in disapproval, and said,
"Ky, you know, you're getting pretty big."

I could wear my dad's pants by age 12,
And then grew into my mom's by the time I turned 14.

Somewhere around the time I was 15,
My depression swallowed me, and my waistline grew.
I weighed 185lbs by my 17th birthday.

That was the first time a guy I was talking to,
Pulled up to my house, took one look at me,
Called me a "Pig", and left my sight.

Online, A guy commented on my picture,
"Who let the dogs out?"

I gradually sunk even deeper into depression...
In turn - I had slowly gained more weight...
And took fewer body pictures.

Freshly 18, and I thought I had found love.
I thought the size of my waist was finally overlooked...

But then the man I had almost gave my name for,
Began to tell me to put my clothes on after I showered...
Or after we had ***.
I was 5'9", 215lbs, and had just turned 19 years old.
And when that same man broke my heart...
I was devastated, destroyed,
And had been left feeling unattractive.

I went on a search to be wanted...
But it wasn't until I was finally wanted,
that I realized I didn't want it...
I wanted to be hurt.
I wanted someone I wanted to destroy me.
I needed to feel some sort of pain.
It was all I knew.

So I chased after men that i knew would hurt me,
But I always ran away if it didn't hurt just right,
And then blamed them when I ran, for hurting me.

That was when I smoked crystals...
They made me numb to my emotions,
And in turn, made me lax on my ideals.
Still... Those crystals quickly tore away my weight...
I fell from 215lbs to 150lbs in as few as 5 months;
And convinced myself that my thinner waistline
Is ultimately what had defined my happiness.

I told myself, 'I am finally pretty',
And began to take pictures of my body.
I fed off the flattery on social sites to build my ego.
I had expected to finally stay happy...
I was no longer 'fat' and I had thought,
"I'm finally pretty enough to be loved."

All growing up...
Visiting my grandparents had meant:
Being ashamed of the numbers on the scale.
I'd be reminded of my growing waistline...
Or how pretty I would be if it shrunk.

I just wanted them to say I was pretty enough.
I needed them to, so I could justify my new diet...

While blowing smoke and inhaling diamonds;
It was like I had been breathing out the pounds and ounces in each cloud of smoke -
Or putting sharpened rocks into my nostrils...
Until they fell to my waist and shredded away every inch.

When my grandfather lost his memories,
I made the 3 hours drive to care for my grandparents...
I was feeding my Grandfather,
And I was called on by his wife.

You can imagine my surprise,
When my grandmother snapped my attention from her husband -
Despite Alzheimer's always causing her to forget my name -
She looked into my eyes and said to me:

"Kyla, You need to gain some more weight."

You know...
Now I think I understand
What Melanie Martinez meant,
When she asked the question,

"Is it true that pain is beauty?"

Written with the lovely Kyla

This grove of insanity, perhaps it is that you wish to get lucky?
We walk hand in hand. Luck, being so subjective we forget to define.
Ultimatums come hitherto, I'm afraid your luck has run dry.
I can't buy any more time to convince you or I that someday we may see eye to eye.
My, oh my, please don't cry.

Who's really winning when everyone's sinning?
Yet the world keeps on spinning amidst our wrecked hearts.

I crave the fire and yet don't like to get burned.
As we undress, we softly caress each our scars.
We avoid the pain by closing our eyes,
but it's something we both can't stop feeling.
And yet we continue invariably denying.

And the silence we share speaks more words than would be divulged had we done otherwise.

The words sent in secret go unnoticed by everything, but my heart has made it difficult to look in the mirror and see the beauty of anything we ever had.

Mirrors show nothing of the pain that pictures do, because then I have to see your shining face with your sparkling eyes, always your eyes.

But you never felt the tears that fell from them. We don't know the touch of each others pain.

Your pained words take on more than you are. And yet we find peace at lust's end. And it is with that end that we are no more.

We've known all along that all we have ever wanted to be is more than the silence that echos in the sliver of space left between our fast beating hearts. I could see it in your eyes when you forgot to guard the doors in.

And now my door opens to a new light.
Silence is golden, but what was once a sliver could become silver, oh so easily.

However lighthearted pennies are,
the trouble is not worth the pain.
She smiles quietly watching him walk away from penny lane.

"Labas...Labas!"
"Malonu...Kaip sekasi? Džiugu"
O kas toliau?
Aš nežinau
Pomėgių nežinom, tai sėdim tylom
Bet tada kyla nuostabi įdėją
"Rodyk veidą!"
O kam?
Ar čia vienintelis tavo noras?
Sužinot ar turim bendrą dalyką kaip galva, oda, akys?
Kas čia darosi?
Kodėl taip paviršutiniška?
Ajajaj...

O ar žinai, kad vanduo tamprus?
Lyg kokia plėvelė įtempta virš pilnos stiklinės
Jis laikosi, jis kyla
Ir galiausiai it ašarom per kraštą pabyra

O kas mums reikalo?
Toliau žvanginkim absurdiško tosto taurėmis
Tegu pylasi emocijos, tegu pylasi alus
Dalinkimės kolektyviai savo bėdomis