Alas the time has come...

To turn on word verification on the comments. Tonight I received my very first spam comments. If it had been one or two I would have just ignored them, but it was over 20 so the extra security is needed for now. I'll take it down again when I think those spamming bastards have lost interest in my site.

Again I'm really sorry.

Mother's Day - Part 2...

Since I promised Sweetest T here is the second poem I talked about yesterday.



seventeen minutes

a sound draws my attention
as i move towards it
i realize its a laugh
then i recognize it
and my heartbeat quickens
i turn the corner
to find her sitting
in her favorite chair
“grammy!” i cry
and throw myself
into her loving arms
“i’ve been waiting for you, angel baby”
she says with that smile i miss
i feel my chest tighten
a sound behind me
makes me turn
when i look back
she is gone again
then i wake up
and for just a moment
she is still alive
if i hurry to the phone
she’ll answer when i call
dazed, i walk into the kitchen
my sister asks what’s wrong
then holds me as i cry
listening as i tell her
my dream turned nightmare
and i wonder
will it ever stop hurting
will i ever stop missing her
is she watching me now
is she proud
does she know
that i loved her so much
my heart is still breaking
even though she’s been gone
for six years
one month
sixteen days
eleven hours
and seventeen minutes

Mother's Day...

Mother's Day is a holiday about mixed feelings for me. On the happy side I am very blessed to still have my Mom even if she lives over 1400 miles away. Until two years ago when my parents moved, I had never lived more than 225 miles from them. Okay, I know. I'm a big spoiled baby. On the not so happy side my Grammy (Mom's mother) passed away July of 1994.

Mother's Day weekend of '94 was hard. For the first time in her 21 year history of multiple strokes, my Grammy didn't recognize any of her loved ones. Over the previously mentioned 21 year history, my Grammy had an estimated 12 major strokes and 1,000 TIA's (mini-strokes). She had to learn how to walk, talk, write, eat, and speak all over again many, many times. But at no time did she ever forget who anyone was. We knew that weekend that this was the beginning of the end. As you can imagine it was not a very happy Mother's Day. And every one since then has been full of mixed feelings.

In honor of the woman that helped raise me, I'm pulling this poem out of the vault. I wrote this in September of 2000. Actually I wrote two poems that day. It was hours before dawn on my Mom's birthday and I was contemplating how she would make it through yet another birthday without her mother. I was also avoiding sleep due to a dream I'd had of my Grammy the previous night.

If anyone's interested I'll probably post the other poem tomorrow. In any case here's the first one.




her

i saw a woman the other day
with her hair colour
you know the one that
miss clairol makes
and i had this urge to
colour my hair that shade
so she would be with me
each and every day
but my eyes are all wrong
hers were brown
and mine are gray
i guess the hair colour
doesn’t really matter
besides a million things
every day
make me think of her
the smell of coffee brewing
the sound of christmas carols
the taste of peanut butter
the feel of her blue blanket
the last thing she ever touched
before she died
except for me
i just wish she had known me
those last months
i waited every day
for some sort of spark
or that light in her eyes
she always had for me
or the way she had
of calling me ‘baby’
that never bothered me
even though i hadn’t been one
for far too many years
but up until her last moment
i was a stranger
i would cry in the kitchen
so she couldn’t see
and worry
i only smiled in front of her
as i put her medicines
through her feeding tube
changed her sheets
bathed her tired body
rubbed lotion on her fragile skin
and brushed her gray hair
that was once that colour
you know the one that
miss clairol makes

vertigo

installed a new lock on my heart today
not to keep someone out
but to keep something in
feels like the flood gates will burst
then i'll cry myself to pieces
my life looks like it was painted
by salvador dali
confusion reigns supreme
even when i think with my head
not my wounded heart
so out, out dark spot
my heart and soul you cannot have
blessed sleep is more than fleeting
almost as rare as happiness
and the lack there of
leaves me babbling
stringing incoherent words together
launching them into cyberspace
waiting for their echo to reply
i can't remember the last time
what i wrote made any sense
or had any meaning
worth taking time to learn
it's artistic if it's vague
tragic and self-absorbed
no one buys it if it's less
than a poet bleeding upon the page



Vertigo, 1930
by Salvador Dali

A favor...

My bestest friend, Cleggy, has a fabulous blog called The White Horse. He's a very talented writer and yesterday he posted one of the stories he's written. It's one of my favs. Please go and take a look. Don't forget to leave a comment!

Thanks!!!

the game

i'm healing a broken heart
that i didn't know i had
wondering if morning will ever come
and scared the night will last forever

love is a complicated game
i never learned to play
i'm the last one left on the board
when the others are changing games

how can i possibly win
if i don't know the rules
won't someone stop and explain
or show me how to play

i keep rolling the dice
and moving forward
but i'm falling farther behind
with no hope of catching up

my heart can't keep up this pace
i'm frighten i'll end up alone
this game is hardly fair
and love plays with loaded dice