UR in Ruin

You’re in ruin.
Not from your doing.
Rejected, brokenhearted, beaten, betrayed
By brutal behavior–reckless and unstaid.

You don’t deserve that.

Rise from your ash.
Emerge from the crash.
Carefully remove the plunged-in knife.
Take control of your internal life.

No one else can.

Dig out the buried artifact
What was your heart, not just an act.
Discover the soul of who you are.
Soon you’ll erase that fading scar.

I believe in you.

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For Anyone Who’s Lonely

Be patient. Take your time.
Good friends are hard to find.
If relationships were easy?
You’d never mine your kind.

I waited a lifetime
To unbury my heart.
Then he came from nowhere.
The whole to my half-a part.

I used to think
I was just a lost cause.
Then along came my mister
Once I settled on who I was.

Then came my daughter.
My very best friend.
We’ll always have each other.
Every day, to the very end.

It’s more important
To know one’s self
Than to put your love
On the lowest shelf.

It’s oftentimes tumultuous–
Sometimes you run aground.
But there is no life-saver.
Everyone will let you drown.

The simple fact is this–
You have to pick your hurt.
Find the friends who deserve
To get everything you’re worth.

People will make a mess.
People will let you fall.
But good friends stitch you up
After toppling off that wall.

Don’t forget.
You’re loyal.
Kind.
Intelligent.
Loving.
Beautiful.
Unique.
Capable.
Worthy.
Valuable.
Patient.

If you give away who you are to the wrong person, the right person will miss you.
Good luck.

Scars

Haiku


Scars are proof that once
You were sick. And now you’re healed
All shiny, slick, thick.

Scars shine in the light.
The bleeding’s done, no more night.
Morning’s torn, all’s right.

I don’t mind scars now.
Reminders of my power
To heal deepest hurt.

Won’t be seen again
I’ve been wounded deep within
Hold it back with skin

kaleidoscopic

Distracted
Reactive
Didactic
Unattractive

I close my eyes
To listen for your words
They feather down on me
Like a flock of birds

When I find my still
And meditate on choice
I climb through clouds
And hear your voice

My sunglasses sprinkled
With drops of rain
I don’t mind
Transcend this plane

I open my eyes
And see your worlds
Kaleidoscopic prisms
Rainbow swirls

Colorful snowflakes
Buzzing like a hive
Dancing on my vision
Proof that you’re alive

I pray to you
Bring me peace
Only then
Does my calm increase

Thank you
For your amazing display
I am humbled and awed
By your magic every day

#Metoo

Grabbed in a corner.
Held without permission.
I am someone’s daughter,
But you won’t even listen.

I said no!
I don’t want to.
If this was your wife,
What would YOU do?

What turns you on
About fear and disgust?
What about sex
Makes abuse a must?

I don’t like this.
You need to stop!
Touch me again
And YOU’ll need the cop.

#Metoo

Pussytrap.

I was caught in a pussytrap once. That’s what my friend and I called it. We laughed about it later. Because it was so horrific and nothing to be done. No agency to report it to and no officer to tell.

Plus, when you’re young? You think the world is the way it is. And to squawk about it? Is unnecessary and useless. So laugh. So you don’t cry.

My friends and I went to a dance club in a university town. It was on a street with other clubs. Alcohol was served, but only to those with the over-21 stamp. I had the under-21 stamp.

We went to the bar to dance. Not to drink. We loved listening to music, dancing and laughing.

About 20 minutes in, we lined up to use the bathroom. The line stretched back to the bar and two young men started chatting us up.

We were young. Naive. We were friendly, inviting, charming, silly, laughing. We wanted boys to think we were cute. We wanted attention.

After a few moments, the line was going nowhere, and the boys started grabbing. First, my friend.

I was always the protector. The NO-sayer. The “Hey, watch it!” girl. So, I was laughing, but I said, “Hey! No!” Then they grabbed me.

First, my breasts. Quick, pinching, playful swipes and pokes. Then, my crotch. You can imagine that when someone grabs your breasts or tries to, you pull back. But that only presents your lower body for them to grab.

While all this was happening, another young man had positioned himself behind us. He would grab our butts when we tried to move away. Thus, the pussytrap. No way out. A vicious game of unwanted touching.

After a few moments of arms and punches and shuffling and finally just leaving without the use of the bathroom, we got away. We weren’t laughing any more. Just wide eyes and nothing to say.

That was it.

“Hey, why you leavin’?” They called after us.

No one ever taught me to stand up for myself. In fact, the lesson I learned was, “Take it.” But to be fair, my mother didn’t grow up in a time when young men acted this way. She didn’t know. And everyone else acted like it was no big deal. That this behavior was just “boys being boys”. Or locker room antics. Isn’t that what the president said to excuse his own behavior?

That should never happen. To anyone. It’s humilating. Not titillating. It’s meant to objectify and demean. It’s not foreplay. It’s degradation.

Especially to an actress. Especially to anyone who ever worked for or with the current POTUS.

These are your mothers, your sisters, your daughters, your friends, your neighbors, your coworkers, your fellow human beings. Your equals. Keep your hands to yourself. Or when we grab you back, you won’t like it.

If any man or boy ever touched my daughter like that, he’d be sorry. So would his balls.

Have I ever told you about the balltrap? LOL I’m older and wiser now.

Do something stupid. Again.

I just wrote an article about doing something stupid a few weeks ago. And I’m about to do another stupid thing.

Deep breath.

I have scheduled an open mic night at the local comedy club down here. No backing out. Nov. 15th.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! What have I done? I can’t not do it now. I’m weak in the knees just thinking about it. Freaking out a little.

I will try and tape it.

I’m sweating. Hard to breathe.

What am I doing??? I’m going to drive myself crazy for the next month. I was just practicing what I would say in the car on the way home.

After thinking about my bucket list (from my article this morning), I said to my husband, “I want to do an open mic night.” He found the website, dialed the number, handed me the phone. What???

OHHH! I can’t believe he did that. But thank you, Guy. I just didn’t expect you to be so spontaneous. I like it. But now I’m scared pantless.

He’s been helping me craft material this morning. EEEEK!

Wish me luck!

Me Questions (If you care. If you don’t, I totally get it.)

The Lupie Momma nominated me for a question/award sesh. I really like these. It’s fun and a great way to know me, see my blog and see other people and what they’re writing about. I’m breaking the rules a bit and just tagging her. Go check out her stuff! Thank you, BTW!! I love these questions!

Here are my answers.

1: Who do you consider a role model (celebrity or not) and why?

Jesus. He’s the only one who got it right. Right?

2: If you only had 1 week to live what would you spend your time doing?

Cleaning. LOL No. I would go lay on the beach and imagine heaven. Which isn’t hard on the beach. So I guess I’m already doing that mostly?

3: What is your guilty pleasure?

21 Pilots. 😀 “…don’t know half of the abuse…”

4: The greatest thing you’ve ever done for someone without them asking?

Giving birth? LOL “I didn’t ask to be born, Mom!” JK She does not say that. She does not say that seriously, I should say. LOL She does say it in a dumb, emo teen voice tho, as a joke.

5: What are the Top 3 things on your bucket list?

Mop, Lysol, rag. Oh, you mean a pre-death wish list…um, Mile High Club?? LOL I would like to go to one of those open outdoor pools that are warm like the thing in Iceland. Is it Iceland? That would be cool. Or go to the Bahamas or some place even more tropical than Florida. I would like to be a missionary before I die.

6: Team Iphone or Team Galaxy?

Team Cheapest Smart Phone-Sunrise LG from Walmart. LOL

7: What is your favorite thing about this time of year?

The beach. 😀 I do miss leaves, warm drinks and the campfires of Missouri. :*

Ghosts of Venice

There are ghosts here in Venice. It’s kinda spooky.

Every morning I take my daughter to school. It’s twilight and difficult to see.

BTW, high schoolers should start school at 9 am for everyone’s sake. Can we just agree on that?

They say the hardest time to see while driving is at dawn and dusk. It’s true.

Very often people (old people) will be out walking or biking at dawn with little or no reflective gear. We are by the coast, so it can get pretty foggy. I almost hit an elderly walker nearly every morning. You can’t see them until you’re right on their geriatric bones.

I almost hit a biker this morning. He was dressed all in black, going against the light.

Lilli and I have started calling them ghosts. You can barely make out their faint images wandering the lonely streets of Venice. Pale skin, white hair, gray shirts, drifting in and out of the fog. Old people are almost ghosts anyway, right? LOL Just kidding.

I think some of these people-ghosts have a death wish. It is pretty scary.

 

My past DOES define me.

I hear the buzz phrase, “Your past does not define you.” Even I thought this sounded like a good mantra. At first. I might have even said it a few times. But, my past DOES define me. For better or worse.

Running from your past is like that old saying, “Going nowhere in a hurry.” You can’t forward your future until you address the past.

I grew up poor. Near a small town, in the country on 20 acres, graduated from a class of 65 people.

Maybe not poor. Maybe just so far in debt that I had to choose between difficult things. And, I didn’t wear name brand clothes. My mom made most of my clothes by hand. That, at least, put me in a different category.

Other category pushers:
My father was emotionally and physically (infrequently) abusive. I was overweight (of course). Often teased. Often at the bottom of some chaotic, emotional barrel of feelings. Struggling to have a voice of any kind in a farm community full of rednecks and intellectual infants. I was (am) a girl/woman (not always a plus).

These things define me. They are my etymological birth. The source of all my words. I can write today because of what happened or didn’t happen in the past. I thank God for my past.

My whole youth can be summed up as the jump ball for the tip off of my adulthood/writing career. A frantic scrambling to find my voice in the elbows and sweaty armpits of rural America.

Now, I am free-throwing and making it swish from the top of the key. Thank God I had to scramble.


I lost my voice, the strength of it anyway, a coupla years ago when I had my thyroid removed. They cut through muscles and nerves to get through to the organ. It can effect your vocal cords. I was hoarse and genteel for months. Totally unlike me.

From a young age, I have been identified as the loud laugher, talker, whiner, live-r. When others tittered, I guffawed. When others whispered, I announced. When others went about their feelings in a shy, reserved way, I emoted all over the place.

So. To be made relatively mute for months on end? THAT was a struggle.

I joined a local community theatre production, even when my voice wasn’t fully healed, to exercise the shit out of said vocal cords. I struggled again, this time for my literal voice.

I honestly thought my voice was ruined. I had no volume and no ability to inflect. But it came. My voice emerged. I rebuilt my annoying, distinctive, loud, full-flavored signature.

But that’s what I was doing all those years ago. Fighting for air, time, attention, my voice. I certainly found it by exercising my mind. Flexing my writing muscles. Clearing my thoughts. Coughing up all the bad stuff to get to the sweet, well-trained music of good writing.

If you met me in person, you might think, she’s pretty tame, dull, quiet, shy. But that’s just the surface. That’s just the public wall that’s been graffiti’d by others. There’s a garden behind those gates. A well-tended garden kept by me. Plunking away at the keyboard, digging out rows, mining for richness, turning up the past. Seeds of words flowering into thoughts, emotions and ideas–volumes of deep-rooted life. This is my courtyard. The sign says WELCOME.

You have to push past that gate. Be patient enough to know me.

Welcome to my past. It defines me. All that you read here is real, honest, beautiful. Though some starts out as dirt, hurt and manure.