Sunday, October 2, 2011
Monday, August 22, 2011
Unfinished Buisness
Some poems that I have been working on. They are rough, but I feel like sharing anyway.
Shadows Dance
White lines glide by
One after the other
Stars shine in the dark sky
The road seems never ending
The night ever descending
Everyday objects wear disguises
On abandoned barns shadows dance
Every mile brings new surprises
The radio buzzes in the old Chevy
With each new song, eyes grow heavy
Guiding like a heavenly mother
The moon slowly rises
Empty roads threaten to smother
No destination in mind
Home left far behind.
One Way Conversation
When I was younger
We’d have this conversation
I’d plan it word for word
Only you were never there
It was easier this way
You always knew just what to say.
There was never any risk
Of feelings getting hurt
Though mine already were.
My tears flowed easily
No need to wipe my eyes
Hide you from my cries
I always thought that someday
When I was older, braver
I’d finally face you.
Someday is finally here
But you are not
And try as I might all is not forgot.
I write these words
Hoping it will somehow help
Provide closure
Take my pain away
Free me from the guilt
Help break the walls you built.
A Taste of Summer
Some summer photos I took during the last week. I have spent the summer with a 9 and 11 year old. They have really helped me remember what summer should be. Water balloons, chalk, jump rope, catch, bubbles, long walks, flowers, and never ending laughter. It's good to be a kid...or at least ast like one.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Grandma's Poem
Since I was a little girl I remember my grandma reciting a poem every Halloween. I finally got it in writing so I will never forget. She wrote this back when she was in school.
It's on Halloween night
That the Boogie men bite
And give all the children a terrible fright.
You'd better be good
And you better not cry
Because when the ghost comes to get you
You won't feel so good.
It's on Halloween night
That the Boogie men bite
And give all the children a terrible fright.
You'd better be good
And you better not cry
Because when the ghost comes to get you
You won't feel so good.
Childhood Poetry
I was going through some old papers and found a book of poems that I wrote. I thought I would share a few. Enjoy the work of my 10-11 year old self.
Just to Say
I'm sorry that your house burnt down.
I did not think gasoline
could do that much harm
at least you had a fire alarm.
Though it was kind of neat
how you jumped out of your seat
I did not believe you jumped that far.
Oh, that reminds me
I'm sorry about your car.
Intimate Conversation
Dear Grandpa,
I remember the things we used to do.
How I bugged you
but you never said a word.
I will never forget
how you played the harmonica
told many jokes.
I remember
how you would scratch lottery tickets
and never really win.
You used to mess with your hair
for hours at a time,
it had to be perfect
just like you.
I love you
and always will.
I feel like rhyming
Don't you?
It's just about timing
and it's fun to do.
I wish
I could rhyme like you.
Fish rhymes with dish.
And blue with two.
Friends and family
Unadulterated glee
Never stops for you and me.
Just to Say
I'm sorry that your house burnt down.
I did not think gasoline
could do that much harm
at least you had a fire alarm.
Though it was kind of neat
how you jumped out of your seat
I did not believe you jumped that far.
Oh, that reminds me
I'm sorry about your car.
Intimate Conversation
Dear Grandpa,
I remember the things we used to do.
How I bugged you
but you never said a word.
I will never forget
how you played the harmonica
told many jokes.
I remember
how you would scratch lottery tickets
and never really win.
You used to mess with your hair
for hours at a time,
it had to be perfect
just like you.
I love you
and always will.
I feel like rhyming
Don't you?
It's just about timing
and it's fun to do.
I wish
I could rhyme like you.
Fish rhymes with dish.
And blue with two.
Friends and family
Unadulterated glee
Never stops for you and me.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Dear Diary
I'm tired of being closed off and hiding things. I want to be an open book and share my thoughts, feeling, experiences. Instead of doing homework I typed up some things I've been thinking about today. And given that I'm the only one that will read this what's the harm?
My parents were to never meant to be parents. They couldn't give up drinking and drugs long enough to make dinner let alone care for a child. I was lucky enough to have grandparents that were willing to take me in. They were amazing, but it didn't stop me from questioning whether or not my parents loved me.
As I got a little older I would visit my parents on the weekends. I would wake up on Saturday morning eager to have fun with them, never learning that fun would not be had. My parents instead would sleep in all day. My dad would eventually get up and pour a beer. Maybe walk me to the store where he would ‘borrow’ the money in my little pink purse, money I won from my grandpa’s scratch tickets, to buy beer and cigarettes. Hours later my mother would open her eyes and stumble to the kitchen to get her pink pain medication. I was essentially left on my own. It was better this way.
Some days I would wake my mom to ask for food or complain about a headache and I was always greeted with an unpredictable answer. I was told that the Easter Bunny would come take my headache. The Ninja Turtles were going to make me dinner. At the time I thought this was hilarious, laughed until juice flew out of my nose. It didn’t take long for me to see that funny was the wrong word to describe the situation.
On the rare occasion that both parents were awake and sober enough to make sense, the apartment turned into World War III. They screamed and yelled about the silliest things. I remember them arguing over the state bird and how to pronounce a word. More often than not they were both wrong and I was right. I remember days when my mom and I hid in the laundry room to escape flying beer bottles. We’d come back full of fear to find the phone in the middle of the floor and my dad gone. He’d stumble in later with a bottle of beer in his hand.
No matter where I went with my dad beer was by his side. It was the one thing I could always count on. I learned at a young age all the ways to disguise beer so you can carry it around it public. I knew about the fruity colored beers that could pass for soda unless inspected, I learned about the advantages of a colored water bottle, and coffee mugs, and let’s not forget the wonder of a brown paper bag. Even at 5 or 6 years old I knew that my dad loved that bottle more than he could ever love me.
As I went into the third grade my mother suffered a massive stroke. She was paralyzed on one side of her body. She was forced into a rehab. I will never forget the day that it happened and the look on her face. It was a Saturday or Sunday afternoon and I was visiting my parents. My mom went into the bathroom and came teetering out with her pants still around her ankles. My mother was very modest and always covered, so it was an unusual sight to see. She was talking nonsense as she made her way to sit on the coffee table that was covered in magazines that stuck to her bare skin. At first I thought it was kind of funny, amusing, a joke. But her eyes said otherwise.
Strokes were something that I was very familiar with. My grandpa had been in and out of the hospital for years. I had seen him have stroke after stoke. Spent hours sitting in the emergency room. Zoomed through ice-covered streets in the front on the ambulance as we tried to get him to the hospital. I knew what a stoke was and I knew that was what was happening to my mom.
I remember begging my dad to call 911. Crying and grabbing his arm as my mom slipped more and more into her own world. I grabbed the phone out of his had and ran to the bedroom threatening to call myself. I couldn’t understand why he didn’t want to get her help. Why he was so afraid? I sat on the bed, phone clenched tight in my hand, tears running down my face, screaming at my fathers that I didn’t want to make the call myself. I remember feeling so scared. Terrified. Angry. He was the adult, not me. He should know what to do better than a 9-year-old girl. He finally gave in to his daughter as I dialed the first two numbers. People said that I saved her that day, but that is never how I saw it. I was too afraid to actually make the call. Afraid of making my father mad.
That day I essentially lost my mother and father. Both were still physically there, but mentally gone. My mom could barely remember her own name. My dad slipped further into drugs. I went from seeing him every weekend to once a month, then holidays only if that, and finally not at all. As a child I couldn’t understand why he had left me. Why he didn’t want to see me. Why he stopped coming to Christmas. Why he stopped calling on my birthday.
I’m not sure I fully understand today. I know more about the drugs and the life he lived now. I know about addiction and how if changes you. I know about the health problems he had from drinking. I understand a lot about where he was coming from, but I don’t comprehend it. I don’t think I could ever just give up on myself like that and abandon someone I love.
I’ve always heard people say that you are who you are because of your parents. I’ve been told that your early childhood experiences have a lot of influence on who you are. I always tried to deny it. Claiming that I made me the person that I am and if anybody did influence me it was my grandparents. As I get older I can’t deny the dramatic effect these experiences have had on my life.
Since I have turned 21 I have been confronted more and more with the world that my parents knew so well. It is almost impossible for me to be around any of my friends with alcohol being discussed or consumed. I try and be open about it, but in truth I despise the stuff. I don’t understand the constant need to be in a chemically altered state of mind. I am capable of having fun, relaxing, and coping without alcohol so why can’t they?
To be totally honest I think it is fear that really influences my thoughts on alcohol. I am terrified that another person that I care about and love is going to get sucked into alcoholism. Terrified that I will get sucked into it. I know that most of my friends are responsible about how they drink and control it, but the voice in the back of my head still worries that someday they won’t be in control.
I can’t deny that jealously comes into play on occasion. I wish that I could go out to drinks with friends. I wish that I could have pretty drink on the beach, or a beer with dinner like they do. I miss out on a lot by not taking part in the alcohol related festivities especially being a 22-year-old college student. In theory I could do it. There is a chance that it would be fine and I could control it. With my determination to not follow in my father’s footsteps and my stubbornness I just might be able to avoid addiction issues. But every single time I take a sip of a friends drink that voice is in the back of my head screaming, “DON’T DO IT! STOP NOW BEFORE YOU CAN’T.” I can’t get rid of the voice.
The worst part about it is that nobody understands. I can tell them I don’t drink and they question me. They don’t believe me. Some even try harder to get me to drink. I can tell them why and they still don’t get it. Alcohol to them is fun and games. To me it is pain, pressure, and fear.
Also was thinking about how I really do have a strong fear of abandonment that I can blame my father for, but that's another days topic...
My parents were to never meant to be parents. They couldn't give up drinking and drugs long enough to make dinner let alone care for a child. I was lucky enough to have grandparents that were willing to take me in. They were amazing, but it didn't stop me from questioning whether or not my parents loved me.
As I got a little older I would visit my parents on the weekends. I would wake up on Saturday morning eager to have fun with them, never learning that fun would not be had. My parents instead would sleep in all day. My dad would eventually get up and pour a beer. Maybe walk me to the store where he would ‘borrow’ the money in my little pink purse, money I won from my grandpa’s scratch tickets, to buy beer and cigarettes. Hours later my mother would open her eyes and stumble to the kitchen to get her pink pain medication. I was essentially left on my own. It was better this way.
Some days I would wake my mom to ask for food or complain about a headache and I was always greeted with an unpredictable answer. I was told that the Easter Bunny would come take my headache. The Ninja Turtles were going to make me dinner. At the time I thought this was hilarious, laughed until juice flew out of my nose. It didn’t take long for me to see that funny was the wrong word to describe the situation.
On the rare occasion that both parents were awake and sober enough to make sense, the apartment turned into World War III. They screamed and yelled about the silliest things. I remember them arguing over the state bird and how to pronounce a word. More often than not they were both wrong and I was right. I remember days when my mom and I hid in the laundry room to escape flying beer bottles. We’d come back full of fear to find the phone in the middle of the floor and my dad gone. He’d stumble in later with a bottle of beer in his hand.
No matter where I went with my dad beer was by his side. It was the one thing I could always count on. I learned at a young age all the ways to disguise beer so you can carry it around it public. I knew about the fruity colored beers that could pass for soda unless inspected, I learned about the advantages of a colored water bottle, and coffee mugs, and let’s not forget the wonder of a brown paper bag. Even at 5 or 6 years old I knew that my dad loved that bottle more than he could ever love me.
As I went into the third grade my mother suffered a massive stroke. She was paralyzed on one side of her body. She was forced into a rehab. I will never forget the day that it happened and the look on her face. It was a Saturday or Sunday afternoon and I was visiting my parents. My mom went into the bathroom and came teetering out with her pants still around her ankles. My mother was very modest and always covered, so it was an unusual sight to see. She was talking nonsense as she made her way to sit on the coffee table that was covered in magazines that stuck to her bare skin. At first I thought it was kind of funny, amusing, a joke. But her eyes said otherwise.
Strokes were something that I was very familiar with. My grandpa had been in and out of the hospital for years. I had seen him have stroke after stoke. Spent hours sitting in the emergency room. Zoomed through ice-covered streets in the front on the ambulance as we tried to get him to the hospital. I knew what a stoke was and I knew that was what was happening to my mom.
I remember begging my dad to call 911. Crying and grabbing his arm as my mom slipped more and more into her own world. I grabbed the phone out of his had and ran to the bedroom threatening to call myself. I couldn’t understand why he didn’t want to get her help. Why he was so afraid? I sat on the bed, phone clenched tight in my hand, tears running down my face, screaming at my fathers that I didn’t want to make the call myself. I remember feeling so scared. Terrified. Angry. He was the adult, not me. He should know what to do better than a 9-year-old girl. He finally gave in to his daughter as I dialed the first two numbers. People said that I saved her that day, but that is never how I saw it. I was too afraid to actually make the call. Afraid of making my father mad.
That day I essentially lost my mother and father. Both were still physically there, but mentally gone. My mom could barely remember her own name. My dad slipped further into drugs. I went from seeing him every weekend to once a month, then holidays only if that, and finally not at all. As a child I couldn’t understand why he had left me. Why he didn’t want to see me. Why he stopped coming to Christmas. Why he stopped calling on my birthday.
I’m not sure I fully understand today. I know more about the drugs and the life he lived now. I know about addiction and how if changes you. I know about the health problems he had from drinking. I understand a lot about where he was coming from, but I don’t comprehend it. I don’t think I could ever just give up on myself like that and abandon someone I love.
I’ve always heard people say that you are who you are because of your parents. I’ve been told that your early childhood experiences have a lot of influence on who you are. I always tried to deny it. Claiming that I made me the person that I am and if anybody did influence me it was my grandparents. As I get older I can’t deny the dramatic effect these experiences have had on my life.
Since I have turned 21 I have been confronted more and more with the world that my parents knew so well. It is almost impossible for me to be around any of my friends with alcohol being discussed or consumed. I try and be open about it, but in truth I despise the stuff. I don’t understand the constant need to be in a chemically altered state of mind. I am capable of having fun, relaxing, and coping without alcohol so why can’t they?
To be totally honest I think it is fear that really influences my thoughts on alcohol. I am terrified that another person that I care about and love is going to get sucked into alcoholism. Terrified that I will get sucked into it. I know that most of my friends are responsible about how they drink and control it, but the voice in the back of my head still worries that someday they won’t be in control.
I can’t deny that jealously comes into play on occasion. I wish that I could go out to drinks with friends. I wish that I could have pretty drink on the beach, or a beer with dinner like they do. I miss out on a lot by not taking part in the alcohol related festivities especially being a 22-year-old college student. In theory I could do it. There is a chance that it would be fine and I could control it. With my determination to not follow in my father’s footsteps and my stubbornness I just might be able to avoid addiction issues. But every single time I take a sip of a friends drink that voice is in the back of my head screaming, “DON’T DO IT! STOP NOW BEFORE YOU CAN’T.” I can’t get rid of the voice.
The worst part about it is that nobody understands. I can tell them I don’t drink and they question me. They don’t believe me. Some even try harder to get me to drink. I can tell them why and they still don’t get it. Alcohol to them is fun and games. To me it is pain, pressure, and fear.
Also was thinking about how I really do have a strong fear of abandonment that I can blame my father for, but that's another days topic...
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Dinner Chant
I began chanting this as I was eating dinner. Inspired by my friend's famous phrase "every potato has its wings." It's a silly little poem that came out of nowhere.
Every potato has its wings
Flying high in the northern sky
Watching Idaho roll by
Listening as the robin sings
Oh every potato has its wings.
Every orange has its fins
Swimming like an ocean ghost
Moving along the Florida coast
Spying as the politician sins
Oh every orange has its fins.
Every apple has its claws
Climbing high in every tree
Washington as far as it can see
Avoiding the cougar's batting paws
Oh every apple has its claws.
Every potato has its wings
Flying high in the northern sky
Watching Idaho roll by
Listening as the robin sings
Oh every potato has its wings.
Every orange has its fins
Swimming like an ocean ghost
Moving along the Florida coast
Spying as the politician sins
Oh every orange has its fins.
Every apple has its claws
Climbing high in every tree
Washington as far as it can see
Avoiding the cougar's batting paws
Oh every apple has its claws.
Random Photos
Going through some old photos of mine and came across these. They were taken at Pike Place Market in Seattle.
This first one was accidental, but I like the look. Seems almost ghost like.
Lived in Seattle for 20+ years before I ever head about the gum wall. Gross. Next time I'm there I will contribute to it. :)
This last one is just a shot of the Market at night.
I love photos. Will be sharing more in the future. That's all for now. Talk to you later. :)
This first one was accidental, but I like the look. Seems almost ghost like.
Lived in Seattle for 20+ years before I ever head about the gum wall. Gross. Next time I'm there I will contribute to it. :)
This last one is just a shot of the Market at night.
I love photos. Will be sharing more in the future. That's all for now. Talk to you later. :)
Cake!
Trying to design a cake for the little girl I am babysitting next month. A couple years ago I made her this Hello Kitty cake. It was so hot that the frosting started melting on the car ride..that will not be a problem this year. Design ideas?
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
I'm Scared
Looking through old folders on my computer I stumbled across some old things I wrote. I'm going to post them, but it is a little scary. I'm not one that often let's people read my writing. I'm fairly certain I've only ever shared things I wrote for school assignments.
First up is a poem I wrote a long time ago, late one night when I couldn't sleep. This is the unedited version that I may work on later. Have yet to decide. Comments are welcome.
Ring
The phone rings
it’s her again, no surprise.
I roll my eyes and take a seat.
I know it’ll be a while.
13 year old me listens
the stories blend reality and fantasy
she really doesn’t know.
This will be her last call.
The phone rings.
The tears start flowing down her face
something I’ve never seen before.
Fear takes over
instantly I know.
The levee breaks
water floods my face.
The phone rings.
She is on the run again.
Lock the doors tight.
Ring, slam, ring, slam
into the early morning hours.
Headphones in, music blaring,
get some sleep.
The phone doesn’t ring.
I sit and stare.
The cake sits cut on the table,
ice cream melts on an abandoned plate.
People sing and laugh
the silence is all I hear.
He forgot.
The phone rings
Her face says it all.
He too is forever gone.
Tears don’t come…yet.
Full of anger, full of shock
I am alone now.
_______________________________________________________________
First up is a poem I wrote a long time ago, late one night when I couldn't sleep. This is the unedited version that I may work on later. Have yet to decide. Comments are welcome.
Ring
The phone rings
it’s her again, no surprise.
I roll my eyes and take a seat.
I know it’ll be a while.
13 year old me listens
the stories blend reality and fantasy
she really doesn’t know.
This will be her last call.
The phone rings.
The tears start flowing down her face
something I’ve never seen before.
Fear takes over
instantly I know.
The levee breaks
water floods my face.
The phone rings.
She is on the run again.
Lock the doors tight.
Ring, slam, ring, slam
into the early morning hours.
Headphones in, music blaring,
get some sleep.
The phone doesn’t ring.
I sit and stare.
The cake sits cut on the table,
ice cream melts on an abandoned plate.
People sing and laugh
the silence is all I hear.
He forgot.
The phone rings
Her face says it all.
He too is forever gone.
Tears don’t come…yet.
Full of anger, full of shock
I am alone now.
_______________________________________________________________
Next up is another poem. A little more recent. Again it is a work in progress and comments are welcome.
The Perfect Wedding
As a little girl I planned it all
like so many little girls do.
The white princess dress
sequins galore.
A bouquet of red and pink
clutched between shaking hands.
A row of gems
suffocating me as I force air
into tight lungs.
Dum dum da dum
I saw myself waiting
in a room full of girls
wearing matching pink gowns.
Huddled in the corner
a loving mother by my side
last minute words of wisdom
whispered in my ear.
Dum dum da dum.
Clutched between two loving parents,
a father near tears
not ready to give his baby girl away
we walk the aisle.
Me wobbling in heels too high
depending on the arms beside me
not to let me fall.
Dum dum da dum
After the vows, the I dos
comes the big event.
Once again in my father’s arms
we’d glide across the floor
all eyes on us.
My last moment as a child.
Dum dum da dum
Fate and I have never been friends
we never see eye to eye.
The wedding in this little girl’s dreams
is one that will never be.
Dum dum da dum.
The Perfect Wedding
As a little girl I planned it all
like so many little girls do.
The white princess dress
sequins galore.
A bouquet of red and pink
clutched between shaking hands.
A row of gems
suffocating me as I force air
into tight lungs.
Dum dum da dum
I saw myself waiting
in a room full of girls
wearing matching pink gowns.
Huddled in the corner
a loving mother by my side
last minute words of wisdom
whispered in my ear.
Dum dum da dum.
Clutched between two loving parents,
a father near tears
not ready to give his baby girl away
we walk the aisle.
Me wobbling in heels too high
depending on the arms beside me
not to let me fall.
Dum dum da dum
After the vows, the I dos
comes the big event.
Once again in my father’s arms
we’d glide across the floor
all eyes on us.
My last moment as a child.
Dum dum da dum
Fate and I have never been friends
we never see eye to eye.
The wedding in this little girl’s dreams
is one that will never be.
Dum dum da dum.
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