Nora’s Pantry

This is the place where I put the things I think and make; leaving myself totally exposed to

anyone who stops by to look.

This is where the train derails.

Great Escape

Got a womb for rent

going cheap

for a tired grown man

who needs a place to sleep

It’s got red velvet curtains

heated floors, so much more

adorned in fleshy luxury

and free of oozing sores

Hide away, deep in my belly

away from the sour world

and coo to the sound of heart beats

and lullaby gurgles, sublimly swirled

The walls so thick, slick

ne’er impenetrable, few exits

make for a retreat, sweet and Freudish.

Dry up and die

On these Autumn days, I wonder

as I look at the colorful trees,

if I too am to be so colorful

when I dry up and die.

partially executed bravery ususally results in painful failure

examples:

the time when I thought I could spring up very high on a diving board and curve my body up and over like a rainbow, to get in to the water pin straight and diagonal, hands pointed above my head. The classic dive. Whilst midair I realized it was not going to work or I got scared. Whatever the reason was, I belly flopped HARD! It jolted my neck like sedan whiplash. That plane of water slapped me hard and taught me a lesson. That lesson is the title of this blog.

One time I thought about making a snappy comeback in jest by using the voice and words of Eric Cartman. I chickened out on the voice, and what I said didn’t come across as being a quote from a foul mouthed cartoon character, but rather as my own feeling about the situation. That lead to a big misundestanding later, and a great deal of awkwardness.

I was in the spelling bee when I was in sixth grade. I studied my ass off. I was so sure that I was going to do great. So many times I had stood on the stage at church and sang, my knees quivering, and would go cry after I was done. Not because I had done poorly, but just from the sheer terror of being watched by so many people made my nerves fray. When I went to the spelling bee, I had unusual courage. I bombed. I was the third one out. The word that was the nail in my coffin was one that my mom gave me a pneumonic device to remember. It was wrong though, so I had memorized it wrong. I wasn’t mad at my mom. I was mad at myself for having been so bold, brave and confident. Never again, I vowed, would I ever be so sure of myself.

If you ever feel like putting yourself on the line, make sure you go full balls out and see it through, or have the wills or skills to do it in the first place. Otherwise, it’s gonna hurt. Have you ever seen a tattoo where the person chickened out half way through?

Snapshot conversation

“Yes, I can’t remember your name, but I remember your face.”

“Oh, that’s funny. You should be remembering my legs, breasts and the small of my back.”

Mellowfluous

On days like these

ink creeps down the confessing page

rain slides down the windows

and blood weeps slow through my polar veins

the coffee perks and drips in sync

and someday soon

all these liquids will efface

amalgamize in a swirl in the palm of my hand

and I will smear them down my sullen face

Maritime Melancholy

Months lost at sea

with all these knots

and thoughts

that will not hold tight

slipping and giving the wind my sails

.

The creaking sway

a lullaby of loneliness

a cradle

a heaping ladle

of maritime melancholy

my flag, a sun-bleached map

.

Is it a voyage when you are lost

and content to be tossed

upon the miles of tumultuous waves

praying for landlessness

hopelessness, a welcome compass?

Rendered Handsome

He is alabaster

with a sheen

and brass knob,

polished clean

chiseled brawn

catching the afternoon sun

How he glistens

smooth to touch

His sculpted curves

give me a rush

Apparently, the Lord’s work is done.

Under the Shade Oak Tree

I’m gonna spread myself out under that shade oak tree

and close my eyes;

feel the breeze flow across my cheeks

my arm flung on the ground behind my head

light and hollow inside,

heavy as wind chime lead

singing, clanging songs as it moves me

this serenity soothes me

If I could only squeeze

the essence of this peace

preserved into a vial for consumption

when the fires of hell are raging.

Harbor

No words can touch the tender love

of mother holding babe in arms

nursing, whispering, dreaming, singing

it is the harbor away from harm

.

The child’s heart, a seed

from the mother’s fruited tree

grows before her very eyes

into ripe maturity

.

With guarded heart, she tends his scrapes

wipes his nose and meets his teachers

watches him shave for the first time

and roots for him from the high school bleachers

.

The letting go comes very slow

if ever it should occur at all

she sees the man before her

yet to her, he’s still so very small

.

No words can touch the unspeakable grief

of mother holding babe in arms

an urn of ash from a horrid crash

her harbor utterly disarmed

Vulnerabull

Some people wear their vulnerability like a badge of honor.

Even the toughest broad can feel little and scared

when you strip away her shell,

but there are those that sell it, work it, milk it,

wearing their mushy soft armor,

seemingly begging

to be poked, tripped, hustled, fooled, ripped-off,

hurt, offended, insulted, worn-out ragged

a stage of sagas

strung along like snot-soaked pearls

to confirm their view of this unfair world

“I am too weak” or “This is too hard”

is the speech

that echoes on the avoiding crowd

How proud they are to share their woes

and retell the victimization by their foes

Leia said “Help me Obi Wan Knobi, you’re my only hope”

but took gun in hand, killed clone or man

because she CAN

We remember Annie Oakley, Mae West

but not the name of the damsel in distress

Happy Blogaversary

Today is the one year anniversary of my blog. I’ve stuck my first post up on the top for the occasion. Last Halloween, I had thoughts coursing through my head like nobody’s business there was so much to do as there is every Halloween. I needed a place for overflow. I wanted a place to explore provocative themes; experiences both tender and contemptuous; variations on meter, alliteration, adjective use, tone; to dump all the gobbledy gook that clutters my thoughts. I basically set this thing up for me. I didn’t expect too many visitors, and really, haven’t had tons. That’s okay.

I’ve been writing poetry since 1991. I would doodle pictures in spiral bound books to go along with the poems. I felt it was time to centralize all (almost all) of my material, keep it better organized and move it into the 21st century. I’ve never essayed to publish them. I do not care about being famous or recognized. My only hopes are to meet people who may understand it, or who write in a way that I appreciate and understand. I used to show my work to people I thought might appreciate it. Only a few have. I really don’t show it to anyone anymore.

My local circle of influence is shallow, and I really don’t want to expose what I consider my best talent for fear of rejection…or worse, indifference. I am content to be perceived as a mediocre hack who doesn’t do much of anything talent-wise. When asked what I am up to lately, there isn’t much to report aside from the daily chores of life. What I put here represents one of my very few hobbies. If I were to continue announcing what I do to people around me, I would continue to get their eyes glazing over, or if they are interested, perhaps it’s not the type of work they find inspiring to them. There is good writing out there that bores me. It’s still good and skillful, but not of interest to me. So I fear that if someone is actually genuinely interested at first, they may ultimately be let down. In a way, the last year writing here has been cathartic.

I am finally learning to keep my mouth shut, and keep parts of myself hidden, whereas, usually, I am an open book, honest and shamelessly revealing. I’ve learned that people don’t appreciate honesty, even if it’s me being honest about myself good or bad. I’ve learned that social graces require a level of superficiality that I cannot muster. But it’s gotta go somewhere outside of me, and if there is an audience for that, cool. But I hadn’t intended this blog to be a platform for anything but a shelf for my brain.

I appreciate all the people who check in regularly, leave comments, or even silently read, enjoy and leave. I appreciate all the good work I have managed to find on WordPress. I wish I had the time to sort through everything more thoroughly to find the diamonds in the rough. I love referrals to good work if you have them. I love it when people drop in for some healthy discourse, even if we don’t agree. As a toast to the anniversary I had thought about writing a macabre Halloween type poem, but there’s too much to do at the moment. Perhaps tonight…. perhaps.

The Sunday Blahg-Crush Trends

No poetry today-

Below is a chronology of my celebrity crushes. I can see the uncanny trends. Of course, I’ve already figured out what I like by now.I hooked one of the good ones.

Everyone has to root for the quarterback…right? I was about 6 yrs. old.

My favorite teacher from 5th grade bought a dynamite magazine and left it in my desk (when I was in 6th grade and he wasn’t even my teacher anymore) with a note as if Kirk himself had left it for me. He was on the cover, and my former teacher knew i had the hots for him. I liked Leo even better once he came on the show. I liked him up until Titanic and still respect his work, except for Titanic. But I guess an actor’s gotta concede to get a little bankroll to fund projects.

Joe Elliott, of Def Leppard, was a short lived crush. He winked at me during the “Pour Some Sugar on Me” video. He looked old to me then. He looks horrible now.

I always like the underdogs and nerds. Brian Austin Green was off my list when he started getting ghetto.

I still think Dave Gahan is pretty cool. I mean, Depeche Mode’s music is timeless is it not? But I only liked him during his goatee sporting “Songs of Faith and Devotion” era. That skinny, rough bad boy look gets me revved. Any rail-thin guy who rocks the Jesus look gets a second look from me. I had the hots for just such a guy while in college. We spent a little time together, and he turned out to be a gross, dirty, almost bum-like slacker. Ew.

Jon Stewart was a big crush for a long time. Kinda still is. Except he is too liberal for my taste. But, nonetheless, he is ruthlessly funny, and I still do like him. I liked him since the good ol’ days when he was on MTV. Smart funny nerd. Veddy nize.

Then there was the nerdy kid from Mars Attacks. Yum.

It’s not so much James Spader’s looks, as it is his presence. As I saw films with him in it, I began to see a trend in what I think is his real life behavior crossing over into his work. I love his teasing, perverted, defiling nature. All the while he is not loud or domineering, but rather quiet and commanding with his body language.

I know just about everybody loves Johnny. I appreciate him as an actor just like Leo. He’s got amazing range! His stuff with Tim Burton are some of my hands down favorite movies! His looks, since they change so drastically, are not always sexy. I mostly dig the Jack Sparrow thing. Debauchery? Check. Quirkiness? Yeah baby! And there’s something about how he said “Watch the goods, darlin’”. Mmmmmm…

Speaking of Johnny- When Willy Wonka was remade, all I heard for months was how I look like Johnny as Mr. Wonka.

of course, usually, I was not smiling so much. This picture is a rare exception. Probably because it was nearing Halloween.

Mike Rowe is an unusual pick for me. He’s got dreamy blue eyes and a ripped middle age working guy physique. That is not usually what I pine for. He seems to have a respectable personality, his butt looks good in jeans and he does some dirty, dirty work. Maybe he satisfies my farm girl need for a strengthy provider.

All in all, I like the skinny nerds, tall and geeky as possible. I’ve even threatened to lock one in my basement, just to borrow his tech skills at my whim. I also like a rogue bad ass, tattoos and facial hair either resembling a devilish goatee or jesus style black locks. I won a nerd minus the tech skills. He’s a classy Stephen Colbert type conservative, with a wit to match.

Which brings me to the latest. Colbert’s hair is awesome. Shiny, suave and classic. He doesn’t get me hot, but he’s damn handsome to look at. And dare I say he’s funnier than Stewart?

The Clock Struck 2

everything is different than what you know from the last time

because the clock has chimed

it’s erased, replaced

somehow effaced

a gray blob in the heart of everyman getting thicker

it cuts quicker

thin-skinned

a mysterious trend

prodding wonder, inexplicable, unanswerable damnation

god-forsaken, fucking taken

alien invasion

Cold, quiet, pit, icy despair

no, just not fair

but there it is

tick

tick

BOOM

gone too soon

grab yer bottle and follow me to the tomb

sigh and sit

cry and shit,

doesn’t make sense, does it?

along the same incision… okay gash

another account rehash ash ash

stupid echo silence sobs

train-wreck moms

the blob barely throbs

and we wonder what we did wrong

we can lean on each other, like switch-stick huts

barely up and mostly numb

and weather this bastard storm

and for what?

It’s bad art, Lord, those boys

strewn out like Christmas lights on mangled metal

Would YOU settle

for an answer

that answers nothing at all?

Deep Autumn Waltz

There’s a madness blowing in the wind

A kind of sadness forcing it’s way in

A single note striking again… and again… and again

There’s a darkness that smears down sky’s walls

A dreary smirchness in ev’ry leaf’s fall

And the settling house, creaking calls… and calls… and calls

There’s a haziness from the farmer’s burned brush

set to drown from the oncoming drizzly gush

And the scarecrow has no choice but stay hush, hush, hush.

Get ready for a long weary shade,

a blanket cloaked in ashen frigid gray,

wrapped around us and bound with rusty chains

spatterbrain- or my windbag ode to my faulty memory

In the best way I possibly know, I think I can express the reason why I’m such a social failure. Or at least one of the reasons anyway.

I won’t remember a name. We just met, or we’ve met before. I know a lot of people who can’t remember a name. I’m getting better at just admitting that, and finding the person I’m talking to is in the same boat, so there is some improvement in that my penchant for honesty is not always screwing me in the end. But, I think that what my brain requires is that I say it over and over to myself. That is what all the memory experts say to do. But when I do that, this is what is happening: I say it until it links to some other concrete fixture in my memory. It’s like playing the 6 degrees of separation or the Kevin Bacon Game. So while the person keeps on talking, I am not listening .This just thrusts me deeper into the oblivion that will have made my slim chance at remembering their name a pointless venture anyway, because I will totally understand if they find someone else more interesting to talk to and avoid me like the plague at the next social function.

Instead, the synapses in my brain are firing, the little cells, vibrate and fidget, divide, switch partners and rejoin in a wild orgy until finally it latches on to something that helps it make sense to me.

It’s not just with names, either. It’s with every facet of a conversation.

If the person is speaking about something to which I can relate, I am engaged. I volley the ball back across the net. I say things that help prove that I understand, and really, I am overjoyed not to be having another dull conversation that I can’t relate to, and that I’m not the only weirdo in this vast world who feels a certain way.

If the conversation is something which I know nothing about, I slip into the usual habit of trying futily, again,  to linking it with an existing knowledge within me. Still, behind in what they were just saying, maybe 10 degrees of separation apart by now, (their planned trip to mexico, chiclets, gum, gums, dentist, numbing, pain, shoulders, shoulder pads, 80’s, Boy George, white people with braids and dreads…”Do Mexican’s ever wear dreadlocks?”  ) my response comes out… something totally unrelated, and the person may start to think I’m crazy.(Jury’s out.)

What I SHOULD be doing, as Dale Carnegie suggests, is asking questions about the thing I know nothing about, not only to gain more info and expand my knowledge, but also to be engaged what the person is saying. Their ego will be satisfied that someone is interested in what they are saying. In some weird way, they will like me better, because I am (sometimes pretending to be) interested in what they have to say.

Somehow, and without intention, this does not come naturally for me. I have to have a past experience to relate to. This is my best volley. Otherwise, I sit there in an awkward silence, and then grasp for anything to say, or a quick exit.

Sometimes I actually care, and want to make an attempt at having a new friend. But more often than not, I am stuck in a social situation, where I will not be making a friend. I am making a social acquaintance that I will either never see again, or will only see at other mundane mandatory life-sucking social events in the future, in which another dreadful deja-vous will play out in all it’s fumbling glory. So, really, why should I try?

On the rare occasion, I embrace the moment, gleaning the juicy tidbits of a glance into a stranger’s life. But people are usually not so interesting or honestly candid. It’s really just the same old superficial bullshit, and here I am in this squandered moment-leathering from the dry lack of substance. I know it’s my fault, due to my cynicism and critical and intense nature. What fool am I to think I could find depth amongst the masses? But as I attempt to do well at everything I undertake, I only end up feeling like the geek at the school dance.

The same glorious inanity occurs when I am reading. I am very visually oriented, so there is a greater chance of something sticking when I read. Yet, as I interpret one line of text, my mind starts the same hokey-pokey, flitting on a solitary word or idea to an experience of my own. My eyes, still scanning the text, as if to fool myself that I am still reading; my brain drifts to my interior of some past or future planned event. Is that some sort of form of ADD?! It surely explains why I read so seldomly. Or why poetry is just brief enough to sustain my attention, walloping big punchy words and meatiness into a very small space.

Interesting, though, is that when I am in a meeting, or when I was being schooled, I would doodle. It would appear as if I was not listening, when, in fact, I was. Doodling somehow helped me retain more of what I heard. I’m sure there is a textbook term for this phenomenon. That must be why I feel vulnerable without a pencil, besides the fact that I must jot down my fleeting random thoughts befoer they flitter away.

Since I am very alone in my experiences, and at that, have a uniqueness that instantly turns off a listener, I often resort to siphoning tidbits from my very shallow pool of pop culture. Trying to recount something I have read or seen is agonizing. It was there in my head, while I was there experiencing it. I can vaguely pull the framework from my mind, but my mouth keeps going, as the person tries to actually focus on the subject I just teased. But I come up empty, like a premature ejaculation, forgetting the important parts. It usually ends with, “Oh, nevermind. Maybe it’ll come back to me later. But, really it was _______(awful, rad, amazing, weird, messed-up, fascinating)”

All in all, I really do try to be a good person, and make every moment count. I want to converse and relate. But my brain is all screwy, and I must seem like a total asshat. I don’t intend for it to happen that way. It just does.

I pity da fool that has to interface with me.

Savory Things

dewdrops on eyelids and spellbinding black kittens

ascension on alabaster clouds and shameless admittance

auburn leaves in windstorms violently rustling

these are a few of my savory things

.

chalk colored spirits and cream in my coffee

string quartet sunsets and possessions with apostrophes

ravens that fly with full moon on their wings

these are a few of my savory things

.

Men in white collars with red paisley neckties

his finger tracing softly up black stocking’d thighs

blessings abundant, for we have our rings

These are a few of my savory things.

.

When you take things for granted

When you get in a cycle of drudgery

When you lack common joys

Take notice of your list of savory things

and life will be more enjoyed

Skyfuck- A haiku about something we humans will never experience in this lifetime, and it’s a shame.

(by the way. I really detest haiku. Nevertheless, I am too lazy to write a real poem today)

dragonflies mating in tandem

riding the wind, in rhythm with the currents’

air like coaster hills

No Rules

I don’t follow the rules, here.

I make it how I want it, see it, feel it…

This is a cosmic little galaxy commandeered by yours truly. I am the creator, and every speck that exists has come from within my own vision. There is very little in life we have control over. This small kingdom is all to my own. If you’re reading this, consider yourself a deep space tourist. I encourage you to leave a comment about your stay.

If you come across a word that you don’t recognize, look it up. I do not intend to misspell, but sometimes I bend meanings or fabricate words to suit my own personal fancies. Why? Because I can, and it fits what I am thinking. If you want a definition of my made-up words, just ask… Have fun in here.

The Dead Dyad

My friend, he came

to drag a boy

to my doorstep

sure that we should

know one another

And so we did,

from the tips of our very souls

to every ripple of our brains

to the soft curves of our hearts

It was history

in our own books

like a hieroglyph

of important events

“The world is atrocious”

we would say

Together, we piled

our soft clay emotions, views

melded into a lumpy heap,

working, forlorn, as one unit

towards the formation into something

functional and beautiful

The pain, the truth

which could have nearly paralyzed us,

exercised through poetry and song

let us bleed in monochromatic synchronicity,

a freedom from the bulging strain

in our adolescent brains

from realizing the repulsive side of humankind

We discovered a golden force

glowing within, an ability

to forget our woes

and accept every fleeting moment

as a euphoric one

Many magical moments followed,

steeped in ultra-cognifizance,

a sparkling wonder of intense awareness

I have had to let go

of him

and the puzzle

as to how he could just

walk away and be

the antithesis of

it all-

all we felt

learned,

lived,

loved,

discovered

as if all along,

he was just an imaginary friend

Cocoa Puff

The family and I went to the local electronics store to make a big purchase. We marched in, fingered the product we saw advertised and went to the desk to seal the deal.

There were 3-4 Associates buzzing around serving customers, and the same amount of people or family clusters receiving said service. One salesperson buzzes by, stops and turns around scanning all the faces and asks, “Who smells like Cocoa Puffs? “. He turns to another associate, “Do you smell that?” The guy nods. He continues to sniff and survey the crowd.

I look around, and it seems as though there’s an interrogation going on and nobody’s fessing up. I know it’s me. I know that I dusted myself with Victoria’s Secret Beauty Rush Slice of Heaven Vanilla body mist in every nook and cranny. I don’t use it to cover stink, but it does have a purpose- one, just to smell pleasant as every woman should; and two, for the benefit of my darling husband, as I like to entice all of his 5 senses. I had  no expectation or intention of this becoming a public discussion among strangers. None.

When in public, aren’t those things to be smelt and not heard? And I’m not entirely sure it smelled like Cocoa Puffs, but now everybody it looking around and hoisting their nose into the air to have a whiff and looking at the surrounding demographic to see who the likely culprit might be.

The salesclerk goes on, “Or maybe it’s kinda like Count Chocula, or Lucky Charms. It smells good.” This guy is not giving it up!

I sheepishly raise my hand in hopes to silence the fool. All eyes shift over to me. “Yeah, that smells nice.” he says, and finally goes back to his JOB. My husband hooks his hand firm around my waist, draws me in close. He thrusts his nose into the dark space in between my neck and my bouncy, black curls, inhaling long and slow. Then he queries in a whisper, “Will you be needing some milk on that cereal later?” He wryly lifts his head back to it’s normal position, and smears a lovesick grin across his goofy face.