Tag Archives: poetry

Exotic eyes that feel like home

When I was a child I’d look around and see a sea of people just like me.
Eyes like stormy skies and hair washed in the light of the sun
Now, today, when I stand and glance at the colors of my world I look back at a childhood as whitewashed as Huck Finn’s fence
In my new, rainbow tinged world, I stand alone
In my solitude I think of the home I used to know
Filled with people who looked just like me
Then I look outward and see my new home
The home I built
It is full of people that I love
It’s full of exotic eyes
That feel like home


Where do babies come from?

When my daughter asked me where babies come from,
I lied.

Here’s what I didn’t say.

Babies come from hot nights and too many drinks.

Babies come from poor decisions, conversations with girlfriends in bathrooms packed with other women with makeup slowly running down their faces, and from packed clubs full of sweaty, straining bodies.

Babies come from broken condoms, and “I’m on the pill” and “I’ll pull out” and screams of “Oh God!! Do it!!!”

I won’t tell her that babies are made amidst moans of pleasure and hands sliding over bare skin, and open mouth kisses that taste of toothpaste and lust.

I didn’t mention that babies are created in a moment of fractured ecstasy where you belong to another; body and soul.

A time when a woman’s body is punctured and stroked and strains to join with that of a man.

Babies begin in online dating forums where lonely people look to meet each other for a night or a weekend or a lifetime and you can’t who is worth spending time with and who is going to become your next stalker.

Sometimes babies are made by ticking clocks, charts and graphs and monitors. Injections and schedules. Microscopes and doctors.

Babies can be made of desperation, “don’t leave me,” and empty marriages made of people with empty eyes who look to fill their lives with someone else’s.

Babies can be born of love, hate, loneliness, fear, boredom, and lust.

That’s where babies come from.

Good enough

I have to write today. Thanks keppra for making me a creative tripped out mess seeking redemption or at least a peace that is in short supply.

I’m laying here, boiling in a broth of my own making
Locked in my little corner of the world
Isolated as if this room were an island far removed from the “regular” world
And in this room I look and catalogue my faults
List my should do’s
Alphabetize my failures
And look at a unsure future in which I am terrified and tired of each and every moment of decision
I am paralyzed by my own mistakes
So sure I will face another moment of not being good enough
And what, if there is such a thing, is good enough?
Who has ever attained such an ideal?
Why can’t I accept my flaws and recognize that the lines on my face were earned by surviving happy times… And bitter ones.
I have survived but have I began to live?
Hallmark cards and travel magazines and commercials for penis hardening meds say I haven’t.
I’ve never had a picture perfect family, taken incredible journeys where the tour I take isn’t on any map but was created by knowledgeable 200 year old locals who, by virtue of their foreignness, are way cooler than I, or had a romance where, after a decade together, he still wants to cuddle me in the light of a dying sun.
I am not the girl you see in those ads.
Mine is the face of a single mother who has been perpetually heartbroken for years and sees each moment as another reason I will be heartbroken again.
Afraid of love yet stupidly open to it.
Hopeful in spite of myself… I plunge ahead dodging bullets as they pass.
People say “when will you marry?”
I wonder when it will end.
So sure am I that I am not the one for anyone.
I sigh to myself and move forward because certain death is the end of the story and I’m not going to waste the writing of it… Even if it means surviving the lines and the heartache.