Poetry

You all know I’m kind of a dork, right? If you didn’t already know, then consider this my coming out party. BYOB.

 

I love Halloween. I love horror movies. Especially horror movies with zombies.  hose shuffling creatures make me smile.

 

What better way to profess my love of the undead than with poetry? Specifically, the haiku.

 

it shuffles forward

broken leg dragging behind

no pain, just hunger

 

See? I told you I was a dork.

 

I got more. Want to hear them?  Well, you’re going to anyway ‘cause it’s my blog.

 

a crack of the bat

head explodes like a melon

zombie down for the count

 

Had enough? Too bad! I have more…

 

bite mark on my arm

growing hunger in my gut

are those brains I smell?

 

Okay, okay. I’m done. Once I started thinking about them, I just couldn’t stop. It’s just dorky fun! Oh, come on. Try it!

 

Remember the haiku format:

first line – 5 syllables

second line – 7 syllables

third line – 5 syllables

 

They don’t have to be about zombies. I understand that not everyone has such a deep, abiding love of them like I do.

 

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I’ve Got … Nothing

I should have things to say.

 

I should have much to say.

 

But I really don’t.

 

Once again, I’ve opened the screen and can’t think of anything to impart. My mojo’s gone. I have nothing to say.

 

I open the page to write up a post and I can’t come up with anything. I can’t think of what to say, and I can’t grab any thoughts long enough to pin their asses down to the post template. Seeing as this week is mad anyway, I think I’ll just close it back down again and take another shot at it another time.

 

I’ll be back as soon as the mojo ship sales back in. Hopefully you’re still here.

 

Great Expectations

I had a photo taken of me recently, I am looking at the camera and the wrinkles around my eyes are noticeable.


I have recently begun to notice that I am getting older.


Quickly.


I am aging, and it’s showing up. This is corresponding with the very real and swift acceptance that I am an adult. I’m a grown-up dealing with grown-up things in a grown-up world.


This doesn’t have to do with paying bills. I’ve done that since I was 20. It’s not about budgeting a paycheck and planning the deductions ahead of time. It’s not gassing the car. It’s not the lack of being carded anymore when I buy alcohol. It’s not even about going to work; I’ve been doing that for 27 years now (how shocking to write, shocking to read).


It’s not even a feeling. It’s like I’m a curio cabinet, you open the doors and there on the shelf is a small urn labelled “Adult”. It’s replaced the urn labelled “Child”.


Those things, they’re all responsibilities. There’s something more to this. It’s not having children, any teenager can pull that off. I think it’s more about being weary, to some extent. You operate on less sleep than you would like. It’s about routines – I write a blog post at 3AM am, I drink two cups of coffee before 4AM, I drive to work. It’s about being particular about things – like the countertop to be wiped whenever you see a ring on it. You want the dishwasher to be emptied when the cycle is done. You like the bed to be made when the last person exits it.


I see things that make me understand that I’m an adult.


Maybe that’s what it is. You see rebels shifting people from parts of their countries, their homes. You see children beaten, starved, abandoned. You see earthquakes burying people in mountains of rubble. You see your family being a dick about things because that’s all they know how to be. You see the unemployment figures soaring and the house prices plummeting. You see the veins and lines in your hands getting more prominent; you feel your joints as they start to fail.


You become an adult because the news, the world, the environment made you become one. You see the downfalls that we have, the failures, the successes, the joys, and you take them all in because your feet make sure you stay there and do so. You soak up the sun and think of skin cancer, you inhale the flowers and worry about the bees, you know in the back of your mind that you are a responsible person with obligations and people who depend on you. But above all, you read and see things that make you ache and which you know are things that are absolute, that are things you cannot change. Instead of being a kid and trying to find a way to build a time machine to go back and make things good again, you lower your shoulders in defeat and accept that these things are horrible, they’re unbearable, but you cannot create that time machine you wish you could, you cannot make things better.


You spend your life hoping to become the person you think you could become. And then you see a photo of yourself, and your wrinkles, and the toll that some things have taken on you (both positive and negative) and you realize that maybe you already are that person you hoped you could become.

 

It’s not what you’d expected.

It never is.

 

Happy Thankgiving

It is Thanksgiving weekend here in Canada, some people will celebrate today, some celebrated yesterday. Whatever day we choose it’s the time most of us reflect on the good things we have going for us. It’s a time to look on the bright side of life and list those things for which we are thankful. While pondering my own list, I realise I am grateful for many things in my life, too many to even begin listing.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Overflow

Confession: I am always writing in my head. All the time. Sentence formation or idea cooking is what I do. Watching for something miraculous in the mediocrity of life events. I always compare stories, anticipate endings, notice how strangers fight in a supermarket, smile at a child’s curiosity as they stick their heads from a car to get a better view of the world, or pay attention to my husband’s eyes when he smiles. What I write on this blog is just 2% of what I want to say. What I have on my drafts dungeon is just 20% of what I dare to write down or have the time to write down, for that matter. I think that writing is some kind of an overflowing of my thoughts.