Wordsmiths' Soiree

You hear me --

you don't? 

Ah, well,

so it rains. 

Words tasted,

words wasted --

no efforts,

no gains. 

We whisper, we shout,

we rhyme, we "prose" --

nuances layered

beyond what shows. 

So wrap your heart warm,

or wrap your heart cool

in words for the wise,

jests for the fool. 

Take your pick, or leave it,

it's all up to you --

evocative verse,

or straight dialogue for two. 

We write, we rest,

words wax, words wane --

shadowy haunt

or bright windowpane. 

You bring self to bear

on the false and the true: 

How will the words fare

when their beholder is you?

Deciphered

Her tests were long

and her riddles were cruel. 

He smiled and he bore it

like a carefree fool. 

But alone, he wept,

heart's river set free,

bursting out of its bounds --

mind tossed at sea.

She marked his work "F"

when it deserved a "B." 

She bestowed an "A"

when it called for a "C." 

She made no sense,

and he gave no sign

of love's fire burning

past reason or rhyme . . . 

while she gamely walked

a very fine line,

love twisting 'round

her heart like a vine. 

Into his eyes

she refused to look;

a declaration of love

his fear would not brook. 

'Round and 'round each spun

the other, insane

with love incognito,

consuming flame. 

Then, one fine day,

the spinning stopped: 

Into his arms,

mad schoolmistress dropped. 

He embraced her and asked,

"What 'grade' will this be?" 

She replied, looking stern,

"An 'F' or a 'D.'" 

With that, he knew

love had won the day --

and never again

did she give him an "A."

Keeping My Chin Up (the MCS files)*

And so I went to get the verdict.  On the ailing shoulder.  I didn't want to go.  This reluctance made no sense to me, because I really did like the doctor.  

I got lost twice on the way then entered the wrong building, whose hallways smelled like an overdose of disinfectant.  A counselor in one of its offices told me that the doctor had probably moved laterally to the next building over, but now I felt like staying right where I was . . . the counselor was so nice, so forgiving -- we can never have too much forgiveness . . . . .

I wanted to go home, but I didn't go.  I tried the next building.  It didn't smell, but the elevator squealed and heaved and the stairwell was dark and desolate, with ominous splotches on the cement.  With the elevator out of the question and the stairwell looking menacing, that was it.  What if the entry and exit doors locked me in?  I was going home.

I started to go.

Nearly to the front door, I pondered the shame of it all.  A 49-year-old woman afraid of a stairwell.  I imagined myself hunched over, some 10 years later, with an immobilized shoulder; a gnarled, useless hand;  back bent, neck twisted from all the compensating contortions I would have had to assume, having chosen to avoid the stairwell that could have led to my deliverance.

I turned back, acted purposeful (there was now a lady in the hallway), and jammed myself into the stairwell, racing up the stairs with my eyes nearly shut.  The doors did not lock me in at top or bottom.  This was fortunate.  Having reached my destination, I met the lady from the downstairs hallway now exiting the elevator.  It apparently had not trapped her or sucked all the air out of her lungs.  Things were looking up.

Colognes wafted through the waiting room . . . but even this was better than the dank, stained stairwell, so I sat and inhaled.  Ushered finally into the doctor's office, a sense of relief came over me.  Now I felt like crying.  In my mind's eye, I pictured my tears drenching the room, dripping off the examining table, pouring over the countertops, causing the chair to float.  Salt water pooled in my eyes.  I wiped it away.  What on earth.  This was an orthopedist.

The shoulder was fine, fine -- just rotator-cuff tendonitis, solved easily with the equivalent of a buffalo-sized dose of anti-inflammatories twice per day for two weeks.  I already knew this wasn't going to happen -- I can't take most prescription medications -- but I stayed agreeable because, as doctors go, this one was a patient's dream.  Prompt, calm, cheerful, uncomplicated.  (He told me I could keep the paper gown -- said it looked good on me.  This brought forth a giggle.) 

Now I just have to hunt down the natural ("alternative") equivalent of 16 (yes, sixteen!) 200-mg ibuprofen tablets per day.  This shouldn't be hard . . . . . 

Upon exiting the building, the source of my mad apprehension was realized in full.  The surrounding air and lawn, which had previously smelled like air and lawn, were now overtaken by something I would have to call at least the equivalent of dry-cleaning fluid.  It was just everywhere.  To myself, I called it, "Perflourocholoromanganate," because that's exactly what it smelled like.   

To my horror, small children were outside next door playing under the watch of their day-care teachers -- with the air smelling as though the little town had just been the victim of chemical warfare.  

The headache is coming now, and I'm getting ready to meet it.

                                                                     *MCS = Multiple Chemical Sensitivity 

Late-Night Newsflash

Having just bashed the top of my skull into the lurking arm of an unrepaired towel rack (the equivalent of a faucet spout hanging out of the wall), I am incensed.

This indignity calls for Dvorak's New World Symphony -- the Finale.

Feel free to listen in:  New World Symphony - Movement 4 (10 min.)

Really gets the blood moving.  :)

Slant of Sun

Humor and melancholy intertwine

like lacy tendrils on a vine

expressing themselves, each in his way,

obscured, at times, by shadows at play. 

No Mathing Blather

Two plus two equals four . . . . .

If a liar affirms, am I sore?

At his assent, should I laugh -- forsaking all math?

Or has truth triumphed yet once more?

They Made Me Do It

Girl scout cookies,

chocolate peppermint, fair,

once again you have captured us

in your lair . . . . . 

Smooth-coated brown

in plastic wrap,

one column plundered --

alas, a huge gap!  

And now a new gap

to join the first -- 

two minutes' pillage

by "yours truly" . . . 

the worst.

(Speaking Colloquially) 1st Step: "Yo"

Yo . . . . .

or

Hey . . . . .

Yes, that would work. 

I mean it very nicely, not intending to be rude or disrespectful at all.  I have trouble, in certain cases which remain mysterious even to me, uttering first names.  This difficulty, when it arises, also carries over into email -- email being a parallel genre.

I've tried writing, "Hello, So-and-So [first name]."  This, however, doesn't fit because, due to my difficulty, I don't habitually greet people by their first names.  I've then tried writing plain old "Hello."   But that just hangs there. 

Of course, I can always resort to my no-fail tactic of simply launching into dialogue.  But this has its drawbacks, such as when my intended recipient occasionally must ask (when I do this in person), "Are you talking to me?"  And, in email -- well, I don't know how this tactic comes across in email.  I probably don't want to know.

Now, "Yo" -- humble, perhaps even despised, monosyllable of slang though it may be -- would really help to ease me through this challenge.  Sometimes I can even manage a first name after the "Yo."  (Fringe benefit:  The "Yo" helps you slide right into the first name painlessly.  Like anesthesia.  You don't even know you've done it, but there you are.)  

Of course, there are those who simply will not tolerate "Yo" or "Hey," or whose age or status clearly forbids such relaxation of expression.  In similar category are those with whom we are newly or more professionally acquainted, either in person or in writing. One must obviously retain common sense in such circumstances and obey the higher standards -- no matter what.  However, there are other, more fluid circumstances which might actually permit one some degree of slow, steady progress from the bottom up.  

It's not "new" for me, this "Yo."  It's old.  I eased out of it over time, thinking that age, alone, had conferred the readiness to give it up.  But, honestly, the freedom to slip into "Yo" or "Hey" with forbearing others, when needed, would make speech and emails so much easier.  After all, I can't expect to move upward on this ladder of difficulty unless I first meet myself where I really am.  And, as you can see, I'm at "Yo."

~ Turquoise

The Bell-Ringer

Boy rings the bell,

then runs away.

(Does he wish to see you?

Yea? or Nay?)

He might like to know
that the doorbell can ring,
that the lady comes running
when she hears it sing.

Perhaps he believes that
the lady is silly,
her brain pricked by hairpins,
mind fluffy and frilly.

Or maybe he wishes to
test the door,
to ensure that each ring
flings it open once more.

Bell and door proven sound,
he never stays --
just bolts like the wind
in a dusty haze.

What bell-ringer seeks,
nobody knows.
But he tests bells and doors
wherever he goes.

Restorative

Worn down easily

by the frivolous and excessive,

I take frequent siestas

of solid, unmoving print.

I am surprised

when people find this rude.

I see it as a polite form of rest,

as there is no snoring involved.

The Poet Laughs

The greatest meaning often occurs

between the lines,
or sometimes off the page
entirely --
an extremely poetic
phenomenon.

Art

Sweetheart staunchly cut her bangs,

spiky roof on her forehead now hangs

crooked and quirky, all little-girl style,

her dear handiwork -- and beneath it,

bright smile.

Book Troubles (or Strong Scents Clinging to Paper - The MCS Files)

I'm reading a story about a girl whose boyfriend broke up with her because she was reading a book at a funeral.  Prior to that, she'd walked into a lamppost while reading.  Reading while cooking, she'd accidentally started a kitchen fire.

As for myself, I was caught sniffing a book Saturday at the library, checking for absorbed scents too strong to bring home.  The pretty, petite librarian clicked by happily in her high heels when I heard -- and saw, out of the corner of my eye -- the sudden catch in her step.  It was then that I realized the book in my hand was still held up to my nose.

She picked up speed again, thankfully . . . . .

By Itself

Thanksgiving alone

might be my fate --

goat yogurt and cranberry

marooned on my plate.

Dandelion tea

might offer a perk . . . . .

No coffee -- but chicory!

Now that would work.

But then, chicory comes

with barley mixed in --

Can someone find me chicory

by itself,

in a tin?

I Worry

Organs ailing within and I worry,

worry about what it all might mean.

Doctor's office makes me sick

between disinfectant and candlewick,

but the pain remains constant and keen.

Writer's Holiday

Unwell, I write,

and write all the more,

distress pouring out of me.

Well, I write,

but in measured dose,

more conscious of heart's lock and key.

Thoughts During an October Illness

In the breathtaking 

sunlight

(so beautiful!)

approaching noon,

eyes cringing from the

brightness,

ears buzzing softly,

head in a misty daze . . .

I had the fervent desire

to cry.

********************************************************

 

Sometimes,

it's just games.

Even a smile 

can lie,

when there is no 

real warmth

behind it.

Sometimes,

for the sake of honesty,

we would do much better

to frown.

*********************************************************

If you have one person

who really cares about you,

consider yourself

rich,

because many people find

caring

to be a burden.

I don't know why.

*****************************************************************

Eyes stiff,
vision wobbly,
inflamed brain nearly pounding out of my skull,
I finally gave up writing
to watch an idiosyncratic romance,
laughing my head off
like a crazy person . . . . .
Maybe tonight I'll watch
the Weather Channel.

Ode to Garlic

Dearest Garlic,

How I thank thee,

sweetly sulfuric friend,

dome-shaped "Russian penicillin,"

stalwart annihilator of germs,

hardy bulb enfolding all

in the pungent embrace of your scent,

lifter of mood,

bringer of warmth,

strengthener of bonds,

nurturer of families,

giver of robust health!

Those of delicate nose, sadly,

run from you,

and now they will run from me!

But how can I not sing

your praises?

They must not know --

those who try to mute your perfume

or deodorize you out of their homes --

how sweet and tangy you smell and taste,

roasted in the oven,

lavished as butter

upon potatoes!

Ah, you are exquisitely preferable

to all the plastic scents of the

synthetic world,

which prefer themselves

and their toxic glitter

to the chubby, stubby,

wondrous creation called

"Garlic." 

Shy Struggles

"Say 'hello!'"

Can't do it.

I'll look the other way.

"Knock on the door!"

Suddenly tired.

I'll come back another day.

"Use the phone!"

Please, no.

Somebody might answer.

(This fear is becoming

a spiritual cancer.)

"Smile and nod!"

I can't.

My head will get stuck

in some awkward position

with my kind of luck.

"Do nothing and wait."

Ah, thank you!

I will.

(And here I sit,

petrified, waiting

still.)

Learning to Read

Through the strange gymnastics of life, by the propulsion of seemingly random somersaults and flips, I landed without fanfare -- nay, without any applause at all -- on a mountaintop in a rugged abode, feeling strongly that this sudden and unusual placement was nothing short of a great mistake.

Anyone looking at me, after all, could see the magnitude of the error.  If they couldn't, I worked hard to ensure that they did.  I polished and buffed the gleaming marble chip on my shoulder, that sure sign of privilege (whereby dirt is outlawed); that reliable reminder of old honors, craved approval, and now, odious misunderstanding.

"Thou, Turquoise, of all beings," discriminating eyes would question, "how comest thou to live amongst mice, moles, snakes, and -- bears?  Why didst thou leave the trusted conglomerations of dryer vents, those picturesque, tidy arrangements of homes and lawns exuding fabric softener, pesticides, and all the fragrant toxins that make life hospital-sweet?"

"Perhaps," I would stammer, "because they give me -- migraines?"

Not good enough. This was not poetic.  This was not even prose.  This was so far beyond the pale, it failed to qualify even as "nonfiction."  The crowds were displeased.  No awards would be forthcoming.  One vocal objector even went so far as to declare, "The old Turquoise has died."

Indeed.  ("Felled by detergents and deodorizers.") 

My objectors having lost all interest in me, my fading suburban self was left to ponder, dumbly, the clicking of crickets, the chanting of cicadas, the grazing of deer, the shadows of flying hawks, the lumbering of bears, and the silence of the trees.

Each new morning, I'd rub my head and wonder, anew, exactly how and why I'd arrived here (something about not having been able to breathe properly -- having had to run, literally, out of our more suburbanized house to gasp some inhalable air -- but why, why, why?).  I rubbed my head in perplexity each new morning for almost five years straight.  Until . . .

One tender Spring day, the sun beaming on my face (as it had so often done "in the old days") allowed me to remember how it used to be.  Suddenly, I was "back there."  Time stopped for me, and a few moments of Eternity seeped in:

I remembered frolicking in the woods as a child, hunting for new and uncharted paths, digging for colonial treasures, scavenging for Indian arrowheads, devouring the history of the Lenni Lenape in the public library, feeling at one with the sun and the earth and the trees  . . .  and never, ever feeling afraid.

So confident was I of God's love and the possibility of miracles, I once took my cat into the woods, perched the two of us on my favorite fallen tree, and tried to make her talk.  If God could make this breathtaking forest, this wondrous day shimmering in green and gold, surely He could make my cat talk.  The question was, would He?

In His Wisdom, God chose to let my cat remain silent that day.  In that correspondingly docile wisdom peculiar to children, I understood.  Perhaps I wasn't worthy of this favor, perhaps my cat had nothing to say.  Or perhaps God preferred to keep my golden tabby cloaked in feline mystery.  I would continue to love this furry creature and to wonder what she thought, and the world would continue to be a resplendent garden made for a child.

My adult self breathed deeply as Eternity faded into the present.  Blanketed in peace, I listened to the the birds, felt the warmth of the sun on my arms.

Once again, it was all so . . . good.

Like Helen Keller, who in a burst of inner light, suddenly realized that meaning was being conveyed to her, that there was a message in her hand to be deciphered, so did I begin to realize that God has a message for me -- right here.

Now, when I awaken to the splendor of that orange fireball rising over the hills, I no longer rub my head in confusion.  My mind, instead, rushes to grasp what God has written to me today, this very morning, on this blessed mountain -- with trees, hawks, bears, and sky.