“Take the gun. Better to have it and not need it…”
She shook her head no, as she sharpened her knife and slipped it back into her pocket. “You know I detest violence, but a girl does have to defend herself.”
“Well, until something drastic happens in this world to change things, it is never safe out there. Especially alone. Especially at night. Especially if you are a woman.”
“Exactly right. I’ll call you when I get there so you can stop worrying.”
“I’ll never stop worrying cause you, my love, were born a girl.”
sunshine, salty breeze
siren song beseeching me-
troubles melt away
scrunching sand under bare feet-
ocean waves hello
beauty surrounds me
swimming into the sunset-
please don’t follow me
A week ago we were driving down the road in Missouri when we spotted something up ahead that was a bit alarming… a wee orange baby on the back bumper of a pickup truck going at least 65 miles an hour down the road. We sped up and changed lanes in hope of catching up to the truck, getting in front of it and getting it to stop, all the while keeping an eye on the wee one. But, before we could do that we watched in horror as it jumped off the bumper!
We then quickly changed lanes and backed up a bit and stopped to look for the poor thing. We were certain it was seriously injured…fearing a broken back or broken limbs… but when we found him on the side of the road he ran from us at first which was a good sign but we were afraid we would lose sight of him and he would either end up getting run over in traffic or left in the woods to starve or be eaten. But luckily for him and for us we were able to coax him over.
Miraculously he only had suffered minor injuries, he had a bloody eye and nose and had some road rash on his behind. We got him to the car and wrapped him in a towel and i held him for a very long car ride back to West Virginia.
He has promptly made himself at home and won our hearts.
So meet Splat! Our new baby boy 🙂
the patient spider
intricately weaves by night
Filed under haiku, Poetry
she is a prisoner to poetry
drinking in words as dark and delicious as coffee
listening to lyrical lines of joy or passion
to rhythms as soft as a breath brushing her cheek
or as fast and hard as hoof-beats
intoxicating rhymes tickle her tongue like champagne
she is a prisoner to poetry
and she need never be free
Have you ever mourned someone who is still very much alive?
In the end we all become stories.
That doesn’t mean that the stories are true.
It doesn’t mean that the stories accurately reflect you.
And when the last person that knew you dies your story fades…
Until the last person that they shared pieces of you with then dies
And so on until your story evaporates into the ether.
I remember you
but through rose-colored glasses
you, only better
and with my last breath
I hope someone remembers
a much better me