Love

Love is patient.
Love is kind.
Love never fails.

But, I do.

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

My Ex

My ex Stacy
is crazier than me.
Take her out and see
six new shades of lunacy.

She waylays me
at Starbucks and the mall.
It's like I'm being stalked,
and she doesn't know that she's an ex at all.

Ecstasy in 5 Minutes or Less for Play It Again at Real Toads

Doubting

"I think the world really boils down to two types of people - those who see shapes in cloud formations, and those who just see clouds."

Danae Pace

There were buds in the funeral bouquet

closed tight as her casket.
One opened on Christmas Day -

and, I googled it.

I'd begged God for a sign.
Something small, anything at all.
But when that stem showed signs of life

I googled it.

There could have been comfort in that bloom.
Rest for an uneasy heart.
Instead, I put fingers to my wounds

and googled it.

For Margaret's prompt at Real Toads

If You Don't Know The Words

Hum, Bug, if you don't know the words.
It's honey suckling time
let me climb your D-fences.
You can take your sweet spriggin' thyme,
just don't blow
off my kisses

like you're wishing on some dandy lion -
my pride's

in my teeth.

For Izy's prompt at Real Toads

Marie Aquanet

Marie Aquanet
of Paris, Texas made a bet

with a girl
about a boy.
We'll call the joker "Floyd."

When Marie couldn't get
Floyd to let her drive his Vette,

she lost her head of hair.
The Glee Club buzzed her bare.
But when people stared, Marie just hollered

"Eat my cake!"

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

Silver Tells

I look like bad road, country bad road;
at least forty miles.
Oh, how the season
has aged me.
I grab make-up
and some lip plump -
go camouflage style.
But I can't do a thing with my hair.

Silver tells.
The silver tells.
I'm getting grey hair
for Christmas.
Not a sprinkling.
The whole damn thing.
Soon I'll be old lady grey.

I've got wrinkles
and I tinkle
when I laugh hard or sneeze.
My knees pop and crack their own rhythm.
I've got Depends,
Spanx with sequins,
and handfuls of Aleve.
But I can't do a thing with my hair.

Silver tells.
The silver tells.
I'm getting grey hair
for Christmas.
Not a sprinkling.
The whole damn thing.
Soon I'll be old lady grey.

A bit of parody for Kerry's prompt at Real Toads.  Hope this qualifies, Kerry!

Fast Dogs / Slow Rabbits

This year of fast dogs
and slow rabbits
we've all taken the teeth
and bruise.
But with the Good Lord and a few
bad habits,
we've managed to get ourselves through.

I burned with resolutions
till I used them
to feed fire for you.
In a year of fast dogs
and slow rabbits,
I did the best
any rabbit could do.

For Marian's prompt at Real Toads

Still Here

I made deals with the devil
and peace with God -
flattery and fear.
Mama's still here.
Mama's still here.

Then I settled for each second
as it came along
and held each one dear.
Mama's still here.
Mama's still here.

There were riots in the streets
here in America
where it matters.
Some terrible disease
came to America
where it matters.
But my world
was a small world -
just a mother
and a daughter
this year.

And Mama's still here.

A couple of weeks ago, I was reflecting on the past year and I wrote this draft.  I was thinking about how the world was falling apart right outside my door, but it didn't matter and I didn't care.  My world was the whoosh of an oxygen machine.  Mama was still here.

After a long illness, my mother passed away yesterday morning.  Some of you know me quite well; I thought that you'd want to know.

Red Wheelbarrow 2014

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William Carlos Williams in binary code for Open Link Monday at Real Toads

The Waning

There they are, the moon's young, trying
Their wings

--- Beginnings, James Wright

 

The moon
wanes weak
in heaven's wet, hollow eye.
Black iris night
steals stars
from her beside.
I'm
being orphaned
by a swallowing sky.
Who will I
be
in the morning?

For Grace's prompt at Real Toads

Ekphrasis

 

 

It's been a week since my last poem.

I have a picture of a pretty pink lake.

I'm thinking of cheerleaders

 

and full immersion baptism.

Cotton candy choirs and bubble

breasts breaking the surface

 

like Cold War submarines . . .

. . . giant stomach shaped holes

full of Pepto Bismol.

 

Meccas for the mildly

nauseated . . . puddles

of prehistoric piss

 

left by the last

pink elephant . . . a bulimic

Disney princess riding a unicorn

 

in a blender . . .

It's been a week

since my last poem.

 

I have a picture of a pretty pink lake.

 

I'm thinking.

 

For Hannah's prompt at Real Toads

Deadhead

I don't deadhead anymore.
I leave leavings for the birds.
There's beauty in decay
if you look at it that way.

I don't deathbed anymore.
I crawl up right beside you.
There's beauty in the way
we still fit together.

No, I don't deadhead anymore.
Dust gathers on the vinyl.
There's beauty in what stays
and what lets you go.

For Words Count at Real Toads

Godspeed, G-Man.

Got

Miranda on the radio.
Glass of sweet ice tea.
Bird dog at my feet.
Open windows.

Red dirt in the sunset.
Smallmouth on the line.
Green tomatoes fresh to fry.
Kids catching minnows

to let go.

Cucumbers in vinegar.
Ham hock in the beans.
Knees ripped out my jeans.
Cherokee eyes.

A truck that's almost paid for.
Most everything I need.
God for in between.
Kids catching fireflies

to let go.

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

See Mom Run

Run your hose.
Run to the bank.
Runny nosed kid.
Run over the sink.
Run out of coffee.
Run out of gas.
Run, Mama, run!
Fast!  Fast!

Run yourself ragged.
Run yourself raw.
Run one to school.
Run one to the mall.
Run yourself down.
Run yourself dry.
Wave to yourself
as you run by.

For Flash Fiction 55 at Real Toads

Elf On The Shelf, Terrorist

babyrabies.com

I feel felt 

scrape my thigh,

but I stay still

eyes closed tight,

faking sleep,

thinking he might . . .

just go away.

But I lose my last shred of hope

when a cinnamon stench fills my nose

and my wrists are wrapped in mistletoe;

"hush!" I hear him say.

"I've been whispering to your child

gift ideas so crazy wild

that you'll never, ever find them

to put beneath the tree.

I promised her a reindeer.

Then I vandalized the manger.

I would have sodomized the savior,

but he broke in 2003.

And I'm just getting started

with my holly jolly party.

I've a dozen days and a million ways

to give you holi-hell.

Now sleep and dream of sugar plums,

but don't forget, when morning comes

and you're up staggering before the sun,

you gotta move this fucking elf!"

For Shay's prompt at Real Toads

A Night Bloom

Bird in the belly of a worm.
Blue of a dead man's dreaming.
Initials in a heart
carved in a hangman's tree.

A Breeze through broken glass
teasing tatters in a suicide's window.
Home is where there's horror;
I bloom in unnatural things.

For Suzy's prompt at Real Toads

Like Apples

Bond of Union, 1956, by M.C. Escher

God peels us

like the apple we ate.

Peels us with snakebite

and birth.

Through fruit flesh rotten

and sweet

to heirloom seeds

for the garden.

For The Mag

Blackberries

Wild fruit won't wait
for your hands to harden.
A little flesh for the thorns is fair.
Reach deep
back where the birds haven't gotten
before ripe runs to rotten,
and Fall claims its share.

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

Simpletons

Past TENSE -
the language of our stories.
Present TENSE -
our anxious little lives.
Future TENSE -
words we give our worries.
Simple tense -
frightened all the time.

For the mini-challenge at Real Toads

I Don't Feel Right

I don't know if I was born ambivalent
or became that way when my brain
broke in the street or my daddy
beat feet or, or, or . . .

but, I don't feel right anymore.

Joy might be a boy
dark haired and dumb
who doesn't call.
Grief tastes
like the novels
I haven't read.
I have all these signs,
sounds, and symbols
in my head;
but what are they for?

I don't feel right anymore.

My take on Corey's prompt at Real Toads

Thanksgiving In Flyover

The menu skews southern,
as does the company,

gathering like clouds
in a November sky.

Football on the living room tv,
NASCAR in the kitchen -

tight, small circles
and swapping paint.

We gossip sinners from saints
while we're waiting for the crescent rolls.

We plan futures and funerals
while the ice tea brews.

Finally, it's time for blessing the food.
Grannie gives us pure, born again Baptist,

but Mama always slips
a little Native in there.

I share a grin with my little sister
and mutter my own prayer.

Oh, Great Spirit, 
work the wishbone in my favor.
I cheat like a white man, 
but my sister cheats better!

***

For Grapeling's prompt at Real Toads.  Have a wonderful Thanksgiving!

Sleeve

Peering at her dinner plate
my only child intones
mournfully,
"You have died of dysentery."

If Emily were here and me
I wonder, would she know
how to make poetry
from the beautiful misery

of a snot smeared sleeve.

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

Fruit

"Still Life with Fruit," Severin Roesen, 1852.  iPhone image by M. Bednar.

When none of the fruit was forbidden,

I tasted as I pleased,

but none of it pleased me.

It was too easy.

And when some of the fruit was forbidden,

I got tangled in my choice

for the choicest piece

and couldn't eat.

But when all of the fruit was forbidden,

I fell fast to the feast.

More left me hungry.

Less left me replete

and choking to chew and swallow

another sickly sweet

seed and slice

of rich, ripe vice.

I'm no wiser than Eve.

For Margaret's Artistic Interpretations prompt at Real Toads

Use Your Words

A four-year-old Baby Puppy pretending to be me

"Use your words," I tell her.

God knows I use mine.

Long, stretched out sentences

with places I can hide

and syllables to squeeze between till I

get lost inside my mess/age.

"Use your words," she tells me.

"The small ones are the best.

Yes, no, stop, go,

love you more, and bless.

If you keep the truest ones,

you won't need all the rest

to dress up your MESSage.

Mama, talk like me.

For Kerry's prompt at Real Toads.  Hope it fits!

Driving

Driving teaches the shit and skin of it.

Road rage guy blows past.
By the next red light you're sitting side by side.
I get it.

But getting it doesn't grow the lotus.

For The Mag

Blackbird

I choked on the bones of a blackbird
you'd baked into a pie.
You pried my locked jaws open,
held me in your vise-like thighs,
and slinked your fingers down my throat
till they willowed; now they won't
unring the bell.

Star scorned ribs
Sugar skin.
Hammer heart
with the nail half in
the hickory tree dressed in a noose
swinging -

I turned that blackbird loose.

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

The World According To

The world according to a fly
is the picnic you insisted I
join you on
spread upon
the shores of Getsome Lake.

The world according to a worm
is churn and turn,
turn and squirm
through my eyes
buried in the berm
between the lake and the interstate.

For Kerry's mini-challenge at Real Toads

Going To Water

For every moon,
there is a dance.
For every dream,
there is a sickness.
Words are a witch's womb and water.

To fill your eyes with fire and sunrise,
face the east.
To get clean,
get naked.
To walk the wet depths,
release your father's fear of drowning.

Go under.
Go under.
Go under.

There is more than one way to breathe.

Note: Going to Water is the name of a Cherokee purification ritual.

Inspired by Freddie Mercury, Marian offers up some thought -provoking prompt / questions at Real Toads.  I chose to work with "how you think about your stage and how and why you have put yourself on one."

Bad Day

Because I'm feeling generous,
I'm going to assume
that the school counselor was having a bad day.
I'll give her the benefit of the doubt
that dragging middle-schoolers out
in the blazing August sun sounded fun.
But telling them to scream and throw stress balls at each other?
"It was supposed to be a metaphor," explained my daughter.

Really?
Lady, leave that
to the poets.

***

Just ran across this in my drafts.  It really happened!

The Day Before Veteran's Day Observed

On the day before
our veteran's day
of free haircuts
and Main Street parades
Captain America called the cops

to negotiate.

He had taken a gun
and a hostage to
a locked corner office
with a downtown view,
but if everyone did
what he told them to do,

there was no need to be afraid.

I just want you to put me away
in a quiet place
for the rest of my days.
I'm not the man I was before,
and I can't live with me anymore.

As a grateful nation
held its breath
and the Captain's handlers
quickly left,
the SWAT team stoned
a hero to death.
Hey, all give some -

some give all.

---

Process Note:  I know this is really rough, but I wanted to work with it while my feelings and impressions were still fresh.  On the day before Veteran's Day, a veteran in my community stormed a random building and took hostages.  Details are still pretty sketchy, but his only "demand" was to be taken to jail so that he could spend the rest of his life in solitary confinement.  We claim to hold our soldiers up as heroes (our real life Captain Americas), but we do a damn poor job of giving them what they need when their hero work is done.

No one was injured in Monday's incident. 

"All gave some; some gave all."  --- Howard William Osterkamp, Korean War veteran

Written for (and highly influenced by) Kerry's prompt at Real Toads.

Curly Haired Boy

I caught a curly haired boy in a dream and called him mine.
Taught him history and tear gas;
dressed him down in prison stripes.
Churched him never look the devil
straight in the black and white.
Now, he strides

soft and sober as a deacon,
but I

still don't sleep at night.

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

If All The Stars

If all the stars
of a constellation fall

but one,

will that single star wrestle back
the black of night

alone?

Will it fire its fragment of heaven?
Will it shine in the remade sky?

Or without its constellation,
will it die?

For Grace's prompt at Real Toads

Id Witch

image by Mark Byzewski

My id witch rubs against the rocks

and leaves them smooth and wet with longing.

She works at night -

eroding me sure as sunrise

till some small thing that I've buried

in a hurried cat scratch hole

has a cathedral to call home.

I grow

more hollow all the time. 

A rough draft for Hannah's Antelope Canyon prompt at Real Toads.

Charming Man

Such a charming man
singing, swaying with his sword
lily in his hand.

Lily in his hand -
sharp enough to pierce a heart -
doesn't give a damn.

Doesn't give a damn.
He's a jumped up pantry boy.
Never knew his place.

Circus LIfe

I juggle stars and deal cons-
tellations from the soft side
of the deck.
Where there are elephants,
there is elephant shit;
watch where you step.

I once had the knees for the flying trapeze,
but I fell
and couldn't forget.
Now I order the world
of the come-after girl -
needle and thread for her net.

For Words Count at Real Toads

Ground

I tried to pass through the looking glass
and busted my nose.

I think I'm stuck here.
Don't think I belong here.

The clouds are cramping down
too heavy, too close.

There's no sky at all.
Nowhere to fall.

I'm flat on the ground.

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

Control

I am in control.
You're a shadow hanging back
and recording your observations
of the sugar in my sap.
Measuring the heat
held deep in my ceramic bones.
Watching clouds creep clockwise
to make my stormy mouth their home.

You are just a variable.
You're an ex in search of why.
Record your observations.
Hypothesize.

A Flash Fiction 55 for Real Toads

Medicine

There's a lawman on my step,
filling my door with white worries,
bending my ear with white noise,
but hesitant.

Three little girls, just little girls, messed with, murdered down at the camp.  We got the son of a bitch that did it

I am wrinkled and old and I piss myself.

sure as shooting, he did it, but no one saw nothing, no one heard nothing. All the evidence was circumstantial

I am blind, but for my dreams.

and he was acquitted.  Got off scot free.  And, well, there's been talk that he used the Medicine.

Liquor swishes sweet in a bottle.  Tobacco press prickles my hand.

And, we'd like a little, too.

***

I could have told the lawman to take his white

worries and whiskey and leave,

but I didn't.

Yes, I am old and wrinkled and I piss myself.

I have one ratty room, government cheese, and no teeth.

Dead white girls are nothing to me, but the Medicine . . .

the Medicine is my last breath,

and blasphemy is a blackened lung.

***

There is no dance; I'm too old for that.

There is no chant; I haven't the voice.

That's all just tourist trap trappings, anyway.

It's just will

to be wind,

smoke 

to be smoke,

and letting

the leaving

stop the breathing

and stop a heart.

I start.

***

And in other news, accused killer, Joey Elkhart, was found dead in his home last night.  Elkhart, as you may remember, was tried and acquitted for the grisly murders of three young girls at Camp Morgan last year.  Elkhart died of an apparent heart attack.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Process Notes:  This piece is based VERY loosely on the 1977 Girl Scout Murders that took place at Camp Scott here in Oklahoma.  The prime suspect in the killings was a Cherokee Indian named Gene Hart.  Hart eluded capture for ten months, and rumors began to circulate that Hart was using Cherokee Medicine to elude capture (he was eventually captured in the home of a Cherokee Medicine Man).  Hart was tried and acquitted of the crimes in March, 1979.  

At the time of the trial, a local (different) Medicine Man that had been assisting the police prophesied that the Great Spirit would strike Hart down if he were guilty and acquitted by the white man's court.  On June 4, 1979, Hart suffered a fatal heart attack.  He was only 35 years old.

For Shay's prompt at Real Toads.  Happy Halloween!   

Sleeping Dog

Sleeping dog, I'll let you lie
if you'll do the same for me.
Don't wake me with your whine soaked breath;
don't pretend you need to pee.
Don't wet nose my ear
or take my covers in your teeth.
Sleeping dog, I'll let you lie -
now, do the same for me!

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

Crybaby Bridge

I had scarcely made it home, wet with rain,
shivering, cold,
when my lover's longed for steps
creaked across the porch.
Hurriedly, I dried my eyes,
smoothed my hair, grabbed the wine;
then, took a breath and took my time
strolling to the door.

I'd met him not that long ago,
but it was before I'd begun to show,
and his travels quickly took him
safely far away.
So, he never saw the belly.
I never felt the need to tell him
that another man had had me
and had me in the family way.

He's a gentleman of quality;
wealthy and above me.
No trick with a mewling bastard
could ever wear his ring.
So I hid myself away
from prying eyes; no one could say
that I was anything less than a lady
or hint at impropriety.

I labored and delivered
all alone in early winter.
Christmas brought his letter;
he'd return on New Year's Eve.
Infant at my breast,
I counted myself blessed
that I'd get what I deserved - the best!
Just like I'd dreamed.

But what of my mistake?
I knew he'd never take
me and some farmboy's leavings
to his mansion on the hill.
Should I weep and beg forgiveness,
or, knowing there's no witness,
should I resolve this ugly business
in whatever way I will?

I waited for a wicked night
to keep all ears and eyes inside,
and when the countryside was quiet,
I took the ice kissed road
and made my way to rot wood bridge
just the other side of the ridge
took my sacrifice to the edge
and let it fall to the dark below.

Now, the future's at my door.
Everything I've waited for.
Nothing binds me anymore.
I slowly turn the knob.
But standing there instead
of my love is old Sheriff Ned;
hat pulled from his head, he says,
"I'm sorry for your loss.

Found your man's rig in a ditch
just t'other side of the ridge.
He was standing on the edge of the bridge;
I tried to talk him down.
But he didn't seem to hear me.
He kept hollering about a baby.
Then he jumped, and he went under
and, God bless the man, he drowned."

Of course, they ruled it suicide.
No one else heard a child that night,
and none was found though they dragged
the river edge to edge.
But late at night ever since
I went mad and he went in,
you can hear that brat wail witness
beneath Crybaby Bridge.

Process Note: Nearly every state has at least one Crybaby Bridge, it seems.  Versions vary, but the tale usually involves some sort of accident on the bridge that results in the death of a child.  The cries of the child can then be heard on dark, stormy nights, etc.  This is my take on the Crybaby story for Grapeling's prompt at Real Toads.

Fey

Sunrise sweetens the old ash tree;
brightens the blonde autumn fall of its leaves;
lightens the face living heartwood deep
till I swear I can hear a laugh

drifting past
playfully
four winds free.

A Grain Of

A grain of need
nestled
in the oyster.

A grain, a seed
that germs
a sick soil weed.

A grain that bleeds
blue black
cloistered commerce

and feeds hunger
to swollen hunger
to harvest greed.

Written for Kerry's Mini-Challenge and submitted to Open Link Monday at Real Toads.

Greek Slave

Beauty makes me angry,

the way it crawls inside my head,

the way the things it leaves unsaid

echo.

She

stands like a summer full of shine,

all thighs and fine

sinuous lines;

a soft, curved belly,

fed well breasts -

blemishless.

There's no suggestion

of stink,

starvation,

an itchy cunt,

a blunted scream,

or anything

to shame a deep pocket

or blink an appreciative eye.

She

is flawless,

voiceless,

and naked,

but not by choice,
so it's all right.

Process Note:  If you're the less cynical sort, you may believe the Greek Slave's back story.  Powers claimed her to be a Christian woman stripped to be sold as a slave by infidels.  Viewing her nudity is not scandalous or immoral because she is not naked by choice.  However, you may take a more jaundiced view and believe that Powers doth protest too much, that the Greek Slave was accompanied by such an extensively thought out tale only to provide moral cover for prudish Americans who wanted to look at a hot, naked woman without feeling any guilt, and that the notion that it was okay to look at her naked body because she wasn't naked by choice is deeply disturbing on more levels than can be named in one sitting.

I'll let you decide which side of the feminist bed I woke up on this morning.

For Margaret's prompt at Real Toads

Climate Change

I thought the angst of my 30s was long gone,
and I was feeling mighty fine.
Looking at 50 and soaking up the sun,
forgetting

there's a storm for every season.

Worse

Barricaded in a basement with beer belly guy
(he hopes "that the dark meat gets et first"),
two smokers, and seven
upstanding members
of Rev'rend Revelation's
End Times Church -

the zombies are bad,
but this is worse.

Holed up in a house with a half can of decaf
and a blonde with a yippy little Pom in her purse
that she baby talks
until each "puppy wuppy"
scrapes and scalpels the stretch of my nerves -

the zombies are bad,
but, damn!

This is worse.

For Izy's prompt at Real Toads

Freak Flag

Got my freak flag wrapped
round me like a cloak
of visibility.
Can you see me?

I'm a mutiny
of sexes and shades

on the periphery,
but steady making my way

to that righteous place -
that sweet spot

in the center.

Rut

"Buy One Pair,
Get One Free!"
"Do You Know Roy Random
or Suzy Who?"
No lust.
No thrust.
No throbbing member.
Even my SPAM is boring.

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

Oklahoma Made

Prairie grass hair.
Storm season eyes.
Flatland meeting sky;
you can see forever.

A pulling unit heart
steady, slow, and strong.
More guts than brains -
can change quick as weather.

I'm Oklahoma made
and made better.

Kittens Coming

Poor little thing!  How sad you seem!
Not a runt, but sick in some part.
Perhaps, it's an ache in your heart.
Let's nap here
in the quiet dark.

I have kittens coming.

Child, I've watched you prowl at night,
and test your tentative milk teeth bite.
You're not quite like
the rest of your kind.
More like

my kittens coming.

I think I'll curl in the soft of your side.
Steady myself on the steel of your spine -
the strength that you have yet to find,
but will.
Now, feel

the kittens coming.

Process Note: The summer I was 9 or 10 years old, I was sick and had to stay in bed for what felt like an eternity (it was probably 2 or 3 days).  One of those sick day afternoons, I woke from a nap and found my cat Tutu curled up at my side and giving birth.  If you know anything about cats, you know that this behavior is pretty much unheard of.  I've never forgotten the wonder of it, and I've always felt that Tutu honored me with an incredible gift.

For Kerry's prompt at Real Toads

Peel

This poem is an impossible thing;
a hummingbird hover,
an orbiting sun.
Peel it to find
the fruit of my heart.
Peel it to find
the worm.

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

Faithless

I will pray with you.
I will speak
in the tongue you taught me.
I will stitch supplications
from stars and half-remembered psalms.

I'll offer the alms,
and bait the switch.

I'll be faith
in your faithless night.

The Blues Singer

Got a shiver scream that shatters the scale-
a banshee wail rising up from the blues,

but it's the breath behind the beat
that havens truth.

So, I give gravel and guts to the girls up front -
I've walked in their high heeled shoes.

And the barefoot sigh on the B-side,
I save for you.

A Flash Fiction 55 Real Toads

Explorers

We stumble into a marriage of wind and teeth
and call it discovery,
even as we're tripping over altars
and Buddhas left behind.
We love to find.
We love to name.
We've claimed the moon,
and soon we'll claim heaven;
displacing God,
parleying with the saints,
and sending all the angels to reservations.
Repentance and reparations
are for after the smallpox.
Today, we are explorers,
and every world is new.

For Hannah's prompt at Real Toads

Watermelon Festival

Royal Sweets and Black Diamonds
under every shade tree.
Sticky faced kids and
hallelujah bluegrass bands.

Spit your seeds to win a
prize. Flies on the
rind;
I still want a slice.
Nothing beats a home-
grown melon come
summertime.

Upon October

Once upon October
(she lets me be on top),
I lean into her full moon lips
and lose September in her kiss.

For Words Count at Real Toads

To Keep The World Turning

I'm cleaning the clouds from the sky we share
so you can feel the warmth of the sun still there
and burning.

Is that enough to keep the world turning?

I'm scrubbing the stars from each near miss night
till the moon nestles close
and its light falls full on your face.

Is that another day?
If not,

I'll do it again.

Mother's Tongue

My daughter speaks her mother's tongue -
a sugar syrup southern drawl
that softens words that shouldn't be said,
shouldn't be said at all.

A sugar syrup southern drawl
that hints at lemon in the tea,
but softens words that shouldn't be said;
she learned that from me.

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

Migration

My chakras are migrating south,
and I am fall
                     i
                       n
                         g.

My third eye is in my throat.
My heart is in my toes.

I'm sinking to the ground.
Winter is call
                      i
                        n
                          g,

My crown is on my knees.
My roots are out of reach

and growing numb.

Inspired by Ella's Poetic Exercise (Chakras).  Submitted to Play it Again at Real Toads.

The Universal Truth

is a book
of painted savages
and a view of the river.
Whispers
and the taste of a new tattoo.
It is American;
pregnant, pretty, and dead
but for the love of a woman.

It is fever and frailty;
a marriage of convenience.
It is martyrs and bankers and mid-life's God.
It's a birthright
and a diploma.
It's a bottle of Job's tears,
shaken, not stirred.

For Corey's prompt at Real Toads

Telling Time

seconds skitter
minutes rush
she is an hour hand now

winding down
unwound
winding down.

Blue Sky Mind

I keep looking up
for something on high
to bless me with
a blue sky mind.
Cloudless and clear.
Doubtless and clean.
Then, I'll know what I think,
and I'll say what I mean

out loud,
inside,
and outside-

if I had a blue sky mind.

I keep looking down
for relics and roots.
Real as red dirt
native truth.
A sure as spirit sign to follow.
A shaman's sugared pill to swallow

to seed me
and lead me
to the holy ground

I'm looking for when I look down.

Looking out.
Looking in.
I'm substantial as cirrus
and steady as wind.
Tell me, friend,
how do you know
you're who you are;
will you show

the trick to me?
Then,
show me again.

I'm looking out to look within.

For Susie's prompt at Real Toads

Why I Clean On Wednesdays

Wednesday mornings I sweep
my prescriptions into a drawer,

black folder my lists
and rituals,

make happy beds,
and strip the couch

so my maid can clean
without seeing my dirt.

To

To feel girly,
I wear pink pretties
beneath my practical pants.

To seem smarter,
I buy heavy books;
I have educated shelves.

To summon a smile,
I pretend
that I'm much more than I seem;

more
like anybody else.

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

This Place

I'll not offer you this place
of darkened mirrors and pictures too
pale to be seen.

I'll not offer you this place
of creaking stairs and walls
prone to talk.

This place
is a skeleton key on a ring
that severs the finger.

This place
shames you
when you bleed.

For the Mini-Challenge at Real Toads

Checks And Imbalances

I check the front page
for sightings
of Jesus.
I check the classifieds
for directions from the Lord.

I never miss the weather;
there's words inside the thunder
crashing like a deadbolt -
six times -
to lock a door.

For Kerry's prompt (superstition) at Real Toads

Dahlias Dying

I dream of dahlias dying;
wake up half past late
and a quarter from crying.

Every joint is grinding.
Every bone is an ache.
I dream of dahlias dying.

I have a fear of flying.
I hesitate to medicate
till I'm a quarter from crying.

I have a fear of flying
and becoming what I hate -
a dahlia dying.

The work of untying
all the knots of me you've made -
all the talking and crying

I'm finding
to be a waste.
I dream of dahlias dying
and wake a quarter from crying.

Ceasefire

When no one is neglected
but myself
and everyone is satisfied
but myself,
I sometimes call a truce
with myself.

Ceasefire.

Only then do I notice that my thighs
are trembling silk,
and my eyes capture green
in certain light.

But my ardor for me cools
quick as shower wet skin,
and, hair wrapped like a swami,
I can easily crystal future hostilities.

Self and love is an uneasy alliance,
and even temporary tenderness is an art.

I'm no artist, yet.

For Grapeling's Get Listed at Real Toads

Privacy Of A Dog

Today,

I was photographed and fingerprinted at the bank,

videotaped buying tampons at the grocery store,

and tracked by GPS through my iPhone.

I left emails floating like angels in the cloud.

I received recommendations from Amazon,

suggestions from Netflix,

and friends from Facebook.

I must be safe and somebody, now.

Eyes covered -

the privacy of a dog.

For The Mag

Soft Science

Sampling the cells
of your sweet science.
The chemistry of skin.

The sweet heat calorie
of a kiss-

wet equation of a wish.

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

How To Bear The Blue

Squinting is impractical.
An eye-patch is doubly impractical
unless you are a pirate.
Not a pirate?
Then spread yourself wide as the drum major's cape,
and let trumpet trills
thrill you / fill you
with fat, unmuted September.
Leave August shades to the flute section
and the threat of October to your dreams.
Don't be that awkward stillness that stalls the wave.
Throw your head back and scream.
It's the least you can do
to bear your share of the blue.

For Grace's prompt at Real Toads

Ratna Dweepa

Can't hear rumors of a modern world -

mud in my ears.

I dig all day to eat -

mud in my teeth.

Dig for bits of colored glass -

mud in my ass.

A share of nothing there -

dead on my feet.

Note: Ratna Dweepa (Island of Jewels) is the Sanskrit nickname for the island of Sri Lanka.  The wide variety of gems found on the island have been mined for at least 2500 years.  For the most part, the mining process has remained unchanged.  Even today, most mines are small, community efforts. Miners work from dawn to dusk in exchange for food and an eventual 3% share of  any stones found.  

For Margaret's prompt at Real Toads

The Nerd Gene

for my daughter

Girlie got a Gameboy
Gen One Pokemon
8 bit sing along
double jointed thumbs

Girlie got a retro
throwback way cool
vintage vibe old school
is her idea of fun

It's in her genes
her helix strings
the nerd is strong in this one.

How To Serve Woman

Don't truss her or fuss her;
open her and let her breathe.
Simmer gently until tender.
Whip to increase volume.

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

The Dig

We uncovered sacraments
of a strange God -

peppermint candles
and sacred texts
left behind by ancient prophets -
and we learned

to banish foul smelling darkness
and troubleshoot a toaster.
With bread,

we fed
the electric Lazarus.

A third Great Awakening began.

White Dog / Black Dog

It's a game,
just a stupid video game,
but the white dog is more powerful than the black dog,
and my daughter notices the difference.
"That's racist," she says.

Is it?  I don't know.
I mean, it's just a stupid video game.
But she's eleven,
and she notices.

Maybe there's hope for us after all.

For Flash Fiction 55 at Real Toads

The Second Flood

The second flood is coming; we must gather
them by twos and twos against the rain.

The men of sweat and diesel.
The women with calloused hands.

The makers, menders,
builders, and tenders of fields.

These are our workhorses and hunting dogs.
They can live on mud and remake fire.

Maybe they'll save a few of our worthless kind
with their duct tape and baling wire.

Inspired by Marian's prompt at Real Toads

Intelligent Life

I go out at night
in search of intelligent life
only to find
myself empty-headed.

The dumber I become,
the less me and more like someone
I can't be for very long,
the more I'm wanted.

So I soothe my synapses to sleep.
Drown my dendrites in another drink.
Another smart girl ashamed to think.
Another dumbing down.

I go out at night
in search of intelligent life,
but I'm afraid
to let myself be found.

A little dichotomy for Kerry's prompt at Real Toads

Charmed Work

Calling down the fireflies
female in the grass

in my hands
homespun glass

charmed work
of wet, nested fingers.

And Wait

My metal turtle has tinted skin.
I can see out,
but you can't see in.
I guide from the belly
and inch chase a place in the shade.

And wait.

The school pick-up line
is society small.
Should I act civilized
or middle finger it all?
Be a beast in a tank
or the lady my mama raised

and wait, and wait, and wait?

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

Mother River

We found her blue-faced as a pict.
I became "Gall," my sister, "Bile,"
linguistics, the lace of our fingers.
Blood

is the mother river,
bone banked and senseless.
Pulse is census and legends of Lazarus
recited as I wade in

hoping to be counted.
Hoping to swim.

A rough bit of something for mood wings

Hiway 9

The Road to Somewhere

Kelly Letky

When you're young, the road is wide.

Wide enough you walk side by side.

When you're old,

it gets narrow as your veins.

On your way to the drooling chair.

White coat Jesus gonna meet you there.

Just follow the steeple sign

to Hiway 9.

Let our friendly, helpful staff

drip the morphine in your mask.

Rest your cyanotic skin.

Wet your lips with Ativan.

Inner peace is PRN.

Ring the bell, I'll be right in.

Just follow the steeple sign

to Hiway 9.

When you're young your lungs are wide.

Air's a sweet rush without trying.

When you're old,

they narrow to a strain.

On your way through the symptoms list,

pray for miracles you might have missed.

And follow the steeple sign

to Hiway 9.

***

PRN - "as needed"

Inspired by mood wings' word list and Kelly Letky's photography.  Submitted to Real Toads.

Fearing that y'all really think I don't know how to spell, I added the bottom image. That's the cheesy, tacky feel I was going for.

Hundred Mile Wild

The first step into a hundred mile wild
sets you trembling like a child.
It's a pathless place that pulls you along.
Look back - the way you came is gone.
It's gone.

The first breath into a hundred mile wild
sings with the smoke of a thousand fires
drifting dark from the bridges you've burned.
The wildfire wind, it never turns.
Never turns.

The first day into a hundred mile wild
you take bones for bit and bridle.
The spurs that shred your skin are your own.
You bleed the lie that you're not alone.
Bleed alone.

The first night into a hundred mile wild
the constellations gather round
to whisper back all the wishes you made
on falling stars you couldn't save.
Couldn't save.

The other side of a hundred mile wild
is the missing verses of the Bible,
the lover you can't live without,
the sermon come down from the mount.
Come down.

It's the only way out.

For Hannah's prompt at Real Toads

First Trip To The Beach

Hawaii, 2005

I tried 

to hold you high above the tide;

I tried.

Terror tasted salt and blue.

Once you were dry

and satisfied with solid ground,

I cried

for seashells lost

and the best I couldn't do.

Stoplight

I've left my little girl unchurched, but we pray
everyday
at the corner of 24th and Main -
a stoplight prayer
for God's grace
and a green light.

For Words Count at Real Toads

Baby Me

Baby me bright
as the sunniest night
oh, radiant redhead of mine;
you know my kind

doesn't sleep much anyway.

Directions For A Photo Album

Admire the pictures of babies and brides.
Tender touch
pressed funeral flowers.
Then turn to the pages in-between;
everything's in the nothing much hours.

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

Fecundity

Got a one word letter from a man
who shouldn't have sent me a letter at all.

FECUNDITY - didn't know what it meant,
but it dirtied me.

Instead of looking it up, I looked over my shoulder.

Unfolding

Folded

the birds are singing
the sun's on its way
not a cloud in the sky
what a beautiful day

Unfolded

the birds are singing

Death likes to whistle

the sun's on its way

interrogation light

not a cloud in the sky

heat will beat down

what a beautiful day

for a riot

***

Note: I'm trying to get across the idea of an accordion fold where alternating lines are hidden until the paper is unfolded.  Is it coming across at all?

Inspired by Kerry's Jorge Luis Borges prompt at Play It Again, Toads

8 Shades Of White Girl

"We are all of us stars, and we deserve to twinkle."

---Marilyn Monroe

Katy Perry in her cloud.

Ugg boots on her feet.

Venti in her left hand.

She's a star; watch her twinkle.

Pinterest is next to godliness.

Rhythm's a one cup beat.

North Face in a shopping bag;

real face rarely seen.

Kind of a wacky list poem for Shay at Real Toads.  Forgive me; I'm suffering from sudden immersion in middle school girl culture.

Class Of

No one I came up with
grew up to be anything
but older.

Nobody made good
or did bad enough
to get on the news.

We didn't get famous,
and no one will name us
reciting history.

The Class of Whenever -
whatever
the best we could do.

Jane Q. Poet

I don't hear
angel wings.  My mind's full
of things to do.  No one's doing with me
what spring does with cherry trees.  I'm small words, quiet
needs; this world's loud, tall.  I canary
out of the coalmine -sing
what I saw.

A very rough triquain for Kerry's Sunday challenge at Real Toads

Constellations

We've killed the constellations -
all but one.

Scorpius slid down Detroit's slurry throat.
Leo dimmed over Tokyo.

Aries, Libra, and the rest
were strangle shined to death;

Only the Little Bear is left,

hibernating, here,
in my right hand.

I want
shattering,

rending,
end to the beginning,

but there's none.

Just a silent suffocation,
flicker,

gone.

And, we've killed the constellations -
every one.

For Corey's prompt at Real Toads

A Very American Sentence

I see your NO TWERKING sign, but I'm not making any promises.

The Rancher's Widow Hires A Hand

Ridin's all in the hips;
don't be bouncin' in the saddle.
Ropin's in the wrist;
keep it loose, and let it roll.

Here at Desperation,
you don't touch a gal's tequila
unless you're gonna eat the worm -
it won't kill you, son!

Just suck it slow.

For Grapeling's word list at Real Toads.  Check out M's beautiful tribute to Robin Williams.

Husk

I'm tired
of all these needy people.
I've been sucked to a husk
of mean eyes and sharp tongue.
Gone is the skintight of my shadow.
It drags reluctant six steps behind.

Bastet

I approach her like a penitent -
palm open
to be sniffed or scored.

I murmur baby talk
and prayers
in praise of her beauty.

She twitches an ear - or not.
Switches her tail - or not.
Goddess choice:

reward me,
ignore me,
or take me to task.

Bastet - Egyptian protector deity represented as a cat.

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

Where I Am Not

I cannot be
where I am not;

a simple thought,
but true.

I cannot be
where I am not,

so I cannot be
with you.

Where Night Falls

From streets lined with bed bound zinnias
to back roads of broomweed and clay -
where night falls

a woman waits for a lover.

From wine wisp sips of the iris
to a scissortail smoke in the hay -
where night falls

a woman waits for a man.

For Grace's prompt at Real Toads

Alas . . .

Alas, poor Tigger!  I knew him well, Piglet; a fine fellow of infinite bouncie; of forever trouncie; a thousand times he hath sung of his rubbery top and springy bottom; I can still hear the song!  "Fun, fun, fun, fun, fun!"  But, where is the fun now? Where? It's gone.  The most wonderful thing about Tigger was Tigger was the only one.

 

 

For Margaret's prompt at Real Toads

Never Was

Once upon a time
that never was,

I wore white gloves and danced
with a gentleman from France.

Once upon a time
that never was,

I loved a lady from Peru.
And, we danced, too.

Heads, I lie;
fairy tales, I'm true.

Shadows

A Hiroshima Shadow

August sun.
One Little Boy.
Ten thousand shadows.

Note: On August 6, 1945, the U.S. dropped the first atomic bomb ever used in war on Hiroshima, Japan.  Nicknamed "Little Boy," the bomb exploded with the force of 16 kilotons of TNT.  An estimated 70,000 to 80,000 people were killed instantly by the blast and a resultant firestorm so intense that "shadows" of some victims were permanently etched into stone. 

At Real Toads, Izy has asked for an incomplete poem.  Well, I'll be damned if I can tell if this is complete or not!  Help me out, fellow Toads; how does this come across?  Does the irony of a killing machine having such an innocent name strike you as much as it strikes me?  Is this horrifying, moving?  Or, is it just disaster poetry of the worst kind and completely useless without the explanatory note?  Help!

Friend Fishing

Line in the water.
A nibble on the bait.
I'm slow to set the hook -
another gets away.

Indian Summer

Indian Summer dissolve
peyote sun
upon my tongue;
get me high
on jumbled sound
and appetite.

Signal sigh
me soft inside

your compass point.

Lullaby
till your southern star

is mine.

Bring me bones and bells and bliss.
Bring me blue and God's last kiss.
Tire me of you.

Tire me twice of this.

Some Sunday Whirl words for Open Link Monday at Real Toads

Orbit

In the noose's
twirling orbit

is a picket fence
with pretty girls

climbing over
digging under

the goddamn dog days.

For The Mag

Sundial

Walking from my mailbox back to my door,
I could be plodding an elephant path.
I could be wading through wild, white water.
I am a sundial striding.

There's cottonwood fluff beneath my feet;
bee sting and birdsong behind my ear.
My six o'clock hands are sieves for the sand
spilled from my hourglass eyes.

55 words for Shay at Real Toads

Ishmael And Isaac

Ishmael has a shovel.
Isaac has a spade.
Can't share the land of Canaan.
Rather share a grave.

Brothers of the Book.
Seeds of Abraham.
Rather share a grave
than share the Promised Land.

A simplistic view of a complicated conflict.  Written for Marian's prompt at Real Toads.

Girlfriend

Just
when I thought
I'd never laugh
again,
you call
and then -

thank you.

Remainder

Numbers never lie.
There is always a deeper shade of blue,
a darker down to the drowning.
Take your typical Saturday night

(the kind you secretly swear
is stultifying your soul)
times the shrill ringing of a phone -
that's misery multiplied.
Or, the grit in your eye,

the blink, blur, blindspot
that comes and goes -
a square root that wends and winds
through cortex and lobe
subtracting sight.
The earth shakes,

but, still, you rotate,
hour added to hour,
day, night, day,
sleep, wake, do it again.
Living

is a curious, tender equation -
unbalanced,
unsolved,
infinite.

Divide.
Multiply.
Subtract.

Carry the remainder.

I'm supposed to be packing for my vacation, so this is a bit rough.  I just couldn't leave without working up something for Play It Again (Grapeling's Word List) at Real Toads.

Weird

I saw a stegosaurus in a barbed wire yard.

Scrap metal art.

A Jurassic trailer park.

A Clash song later,

I saw a rocket car.

Shit is getting weird.

Turns out, I'm not crazy.  The "rocket car" was actually Oregon State University's solar race car.  It was being driven cross country for a race.

If you're interested, you can view the scrap metal dinosaurs just north of Rush Springs, Oklahoma!

Sister To The Sky

Photo Credit: Zulo

Kept sinking

till I swore off gravity,

stopped thinking,

and realized

that falling

is flying without wings;

the ground

is open wide

and sister to the sky.

For Hannah's prompt at Real Toads

Miss Terri

Miss Terri tells the time
by the wine left in the bottle.

Miss Terri knows where all good wishes go.

Miss Terri is the wick and waste
of an unlit candle.

Miss Terri is the shadow on a soul.

Creation

 

 

It seems solid enough to the naked eye,

but brought up close and magnified,

the smallest sliver of ancient life

has more holes than the theory of creation.

 

Having successfully meddled in healthcare, our good friends at Hobby Lobby have turned their attention to building a Bible museum in Washington, D.C. and designing a curriculum for the Oklahoma City Public Schools.  Jesus wept.

 

For Words Count at Real Toads

If We Had

If we had evenings
in companionable silence;
if we had nights
of discarded lace;
if we had mornings
as others have mornings,

think
of the poetry erased.

At The Drive-In

At the drive-in,
Schemer and Dreamer
are a stuck zipper away
from more than foreplay.
He's panting and printing
yellow grease on her bra.
There's popcorn in his teeth;
he's belching beer through a straw.
And her favorite romance novel
is a wishbone in her craw,
buried deep
as the gearshift in her back.

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

My Mother's Voice

In my mother's voice, I tell her
of the rabbit and the rain storm;
of God and green things growing;
of the cloud and thunder song.

And in my voice she answers,
"I''m glad for grass and garden,
but the sky is surely shattered;
must it last so long?"

This Poem Is No / Because I'm Your Mother / And I Said So

This poem is no.
This poem is because I'm your mother.
This poem is and I said so.

No.
No, you may not wear makeup.
No, you may not ride alone.
No, you may not have an iPhone to hide behind
or cliff jump with your friends.
This poem is no.

Because I'm your mother.
Egg-bearer.
Birth canal.
Other end of the umbilical cord.
Bringer of you, baby.
This poem is because I'm your mother.

And I said so.
I bribed gods to get you here.
I breathe prayers over you as you sleep.
I swore that I would always be an adult for you.
This poem is and I said so.

This poem is no.
This poem is mother.
This poem said so.

My attempt at Hannah's Boomerang Metaphors for Real Toads

The Other Me

Every week or so, I meet the Other Me
for catch-up, compromise, and coffee;
it's how we keep the road not taken out of the weeds.
She holds a juris doctorate.
I hold a poet laureate
between dishpan hands.
She has skyscraper eyes and heels to match.
I have red dirt between my toes.
We are have and half.

Every week or so, I meet the Other Me
for catch up, compromise, and coffee.
I have my bones in a briefcase.
She has a baby on her hip.
It's how we keep the road not taken out of the weeds.

For Fireblossom Friday at Real Toads

Quality Control At The Young American Factory

We're red, white, and graying fast,
baby booming past
any balance
of labor and leisure.
We need her

and her and her and him
to come here -
come in -
work-
spend-
but we send them back;

the blend's too brown,
too close to black,
down at the border.

Yellow Brick Stone

Give me a yellow brick stone
to mark the end of my road.
Don't bother with dates or a poem -
just  If

she'd only had a brain . . .

For Susie's prompt at Real Toads

Stumbling Stair

Joy was a sit
on the stumbling stair with
a cigarette lit
by your lips
by your kiss
back when everything meant
everything meant
everything.

For Magpie.

Tokens

Frippery,
finery,
all sorts of shinery -
tokens of pinery
are most welcome here.

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

Here, The Land

Here, the land
is a woman

soft curved in sleep
beneath switchgrass sheets.

Shale spined,
and prairie fleshed -

red skin
veined black

with dreams.

For Grace's prompt at Real Toads

Mudslide

Abalone in a buzzard's beak.
Crab's just a dollar, but the buzzard's cheap.
Donkey spends his days keeping coyotes from the sheep.
Elephants polish guns.

Foreigners follow fading stars
to bring gifts
and clean houses
where the illnesses are
jumping in the blood
like kangaroos licensed to fly.
Meanwhile,

the mud keeps sliding.

Nuts are cracking open, and the odor's strong -
patches and the quick fix left too long.
Three footed rabbits and a siren song.
Excuses on the tarmac again.

So, I'm watching CNN in my underwear.
Embracing vertigo till I just don't care.
There's Beyonce's new wig
and yak jamming xylophone.
The zoo feels like home,

and the mud keeps sliding.

For Corey's prompt at Real Toads

The Dinner Game

It's my turn at dinner
with the dead and famous;
it's a game I play to lose.
I don't need to know why Poe wrote rhyme
or what hand soap Pilate used.
The answers to my questions
were knotted in a noose,

and I'll never know
why you let go.

Why didn't you call me?

Obsessive Compulsive

You like things tidy and neat.
"I'm a little OCD," you giggle.
No, you're not.

Until you've ground
yourself fine and sifted
the dust, you're not.
Until you've ritualed moons

for a fresh thought or a forward
link in your chain, you're not.
Until you've burst your eyes

to find a white space
in the small print
that follows you close
as blood and bone,

you're not.
You prefer tidy.
You prefer neat.  But, you can
defy either.  You're not

OCD at all.

For Michael's word list at Real Toads

Right And Left

My right hand tinges
each word blue -
the hypoxic truths
of a hangman's heart.
But, my left hand laces
letters for you;
that's where the poetry starts.

Eagle, Eagle

Eagle, eagle,
bumblebee.
Hive up high -
aerie on my knee.
Can't hatch honey,
so I set the feathers free.
Eagle, eagle,
bumblebee.

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

These Homes

Home is where
the heart work is;
the washing of feet
turned tentative;
the argumentative patient;
the bargains struck with time.

And, home is where
the guilt grows large
and wash piles up
beside the machine;
where weeds green the garden
and tomatoes rot on the vine.

The ties that grind -
these homes of mine.

For Flash Fiction 55 at Real Toads

Independence Day

When I was a kid,

it never rained on Independence Day.

Ice cream didn't melt.

Burgers didn't burn.

Mama made left turns in traffic

without swearing.

The fair rides were free -

no lines.

The bathrooms were clean -

no lines.

The band stayed in tune -

glorious fine,

and the fireworks were water fire

lasting forever.

For Margaret's prompt at Real Toads

Für Therese

I'm sorry, my dearest, I'm sorry.

Sorry as I can be
that these fingers cramped by the bow and staff
pen notes clear to hear, not to see.
Sorry that the sweet slant and curl of your name
will be lost to history.
I'm sorry, my dearest, I'm sorry.
I don't even know an Elise!

Despite the title of his song “Für Elise,” Beethoven didn’t even know an Elise, at least according to most historians. Beethoven had hideous handwriting—to the point that some scholars speculate the song was actually written “for Therese,” one of several women who turned down a marriage proposal from the notoriously lovesick maestro.

- - - Mental Floss

This amazing and interesting fact brought to you by Izy at Real Toads.

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