She planted jelly beans and licorice in hopes of growing her own candy-land. She read the back of cereal boxes as bed-time stories and made adventures out of nutritional information. She hung artwork framed by hula-hoops. She only drank water from the hose. Her wig was always worn askew. On purpose. She reveled in the stories of her youth, but only ones that were entirely fictional and involved unicorns and rainbows and cloud cities. Her favorite game to play with her children was leap-frog but when she played, she pretended she was a tadpole. She crafted makeup from flowers and Kool-Aid. When she was feeling a little too good, she would close her eyes, rock violently in a rocking chair for hours until she felt good and sea-sick. Her bed was a custom-made large matchbox, complete with a striker. She took a two-hour siesta every afternoon and wrote her best stories after awakening. Her house was lit by hoards of fireflies that happily supplied their light. Her children never wanted for hugs and kisses because her love for them was as boundless as her appetite for old movies and off-color jokes and brownie-filled doughnuts.
an intimate portrait
he saw me only in words and letters and not sounds or tastes but kept coming back just the same
when he needed to feel higher and better
he asked to sketch me and when he was done I was shocked for it was not my face I saw looking back at me
but a portrait of my most private thoughts and places
every nook, crevice, hill, texture
rendered in pencil so deftly and softly drawn
showing something raw and beautiful when I had never been beautiful
but when I looked closer I saw him looking back at me
as he saw himself
so it was never just me
but I was still beautiful because we are all mirrors to each other
and the reflection does not exactly lie
but just reflects everything backwards
so we have to look a bit differently to the familiar in others and ourselves
to find beauty and truth
whether gently drawn or roughly chiseled in stone
we are not lesser or lower than anyone to anyone for anyone
if we remember the reflection and the silhouette of the shadow in the afternoon glow
as it fades to evening as do we all
we are left with artist renderings or words and pictures
and we are beautiful and higher and better
but still words and letters will not describe
what we hear and taste but we can try
to be true
Ol’ Blues Man
He spoke to me only through the music we shared
The pain was evident in his eyes
The weariness was etched with every line on his face
His fingers strummed and sifted through my memories
I couldn’t let him down
We couldn’t let the stony silence win
So I started to sing
I felt my voice take over the room even softly they could feel it in the back
While he opened his eyes for the first time and saw me and we moved together through the blues
We traveled through some craggy slopes
All that need to be said was sung
And the guitar wailed on
Between verses were only muffled curses
But there was joy in the harmony
There was harmony in the words
The words that only came in a song
And the song was all we shared.
Electric Rather publishes The Rummager
Check out this new magazine full of vibrant poems, pictures, and stories that may help you feel you’re better read. You may (on page 19 specifically) find a familiar writer (that’s me).
Porphyria’s Season
She was fine with the solstice but the equinox got her every time.
He told her she was just the same as everyone else.
She thought that was not true all the time.
Someday she’d be someone’s The One and not a stand-in For Now.
She was an expert at transition
But could not abide consistency.
She didn’t see a calm pond but saw a stagnant cesspool.
She’d sing to the songs the breeze carried
He’d try to pin her like a moth to a board
When she really wanted the flame carried on the wires.
Had she really been told she could do anything
Or was that a daydream like the others?
What a lie if true, what a story if not.
There were constraints binding her to the Now but not her mind which delved into Then and Again.
For every change she built a pattern
For every room she’d create a space
In her vision he glowed like starlight
In her ears she sang for herself alone.
He thought he knew her seasons but she surprised him just the same.
The Word Rummager 