Tuesday, June 2, 2015

Excuses and Poetry

I know my posting has become a little erratic as of late, and I apologize for that. I hope my apology doesn't come off as a presumption that anyone actually cares when I don't post for a while. I would like to think I have at least a few loyal followers out there. Besides my cats, of course. But I get the impression they aren't really "reading" when they come sit in front of the computer as they are not-so-subtly reminding me that it's time to be fed. 

There are a few reasons I haven't been posting as often. They are as follows:

1. My family just returned from two months in Indiana, and I've been busy unpacking all of our shit, putting it away, and then putting it away again after the minions pull it back out.

2. Texas is freaking hot, and I think my brain is melting and escaping through the ever-oozing pores all over my body. I'm considering putting it into vials and selling it on eBay. Let me know if you're interested.

3. I've been doing a fair amount of writing for Scary Mommy and Mamalode. The more of my writing that's published there, the less of it that's published here (simple subtraction, folks). If you've not yet checked out my stuff there, please do so. AND TELL ALL YOUR FRIENDS AND ENEMIES AND RANDOM PASSERSBY ON THE STREET. AND TELL THEM TO "LIKE" AND "SHARE."

4. And, umm, these guys:


They are awesomesauciness to the extreme, but they are also a handful. And mischievous. And quite fast. And since I'm a Mama first, sometimes writing gets tossed on the back burner (where, coincidentally, Trystan's hand almost ended up recently, when he decided it'd be fun to "help Mama cook egg.")

Alrighty, enough of my stodgy excuses. I did actually intend on posting something a little more polished today.

Which brings us to....(drum roll, please) (Hey, that was pretty awesome; I just heard an actual drumro—nope. Shit. Oliver just stuck a piece of his Hot Wheels race track in our box fan).

Ah, screw it. Here's the poem:


Pas de Deux
(Dance for Two)

His shadow dances
to an internal composition,
pulsing to the drum-
beats of a buoyant heart.
A figure born of light

and substance, it caresses
the fading opacity
of antiquated walls, hugging
corners and bounding
upward. It gracefully jet├ęs

to the aged ceiling,
kissing radial cracks
in the moulding. It undermines
the pull of gravity. Falling
stars for feet,

it pirouettes on wishes,
tiny toenails like crescent
moons, suspended
in the enigmatic
intersection of time and space.

He dances with one foot
in each world, maintaining
a vital balance:
He pulls from the light
to bring life to the darkness.

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