poetry prompt

Stuck

Good intentions
and some motivation.
Yet the body resists,
a voice says,
"not now".

"Tomorrow," a voice says.

What is waiting to be done
presses in.
Obligations object to the delays.
"Later," the voice says

The mind says,
"I want'.
The body gives in.
Hope abandoned.
Good intentions are put away
for tomorrow or another day.

Good-bye Love

My love left me the other day
It was a slow exit,

not sudden.

It started with a hurtful word,
a roll of the eyes,
a look of contempt.

It ended with disregard.
It ended with lack of interest.
It ended with being taken for granted.

And finally,
it ended when,

wondering why I’m still with you,
You turned away from my kiss.

Good-bye love.

Meeting Needs

The body dies without nourishment.
The spirit withers without love.
Love fades without respect.
Motivation falters without recognition.
Hope perishes without acceptance.
Interest wanes without encouragement.

photo from: http://www.marcenglishdesign.com/NEW/images/profile_images/good-(intentions).jpg

arrested development

Dale rolled over, grabbed the bottle of stale beer from the floor next to the bed and took a long swig before opening his eyes. He ran his other hand over the bed next to him, checking to see if he was alone and heaved a sigh of relief to find no one there. Waiting for his brain to kick in, he lit a butt from the ashtray and lay back down on the bed. Taking a drag, he held the smoke in his lungs until he found his memory. "Ah yeah," he thought, picturing sweet Cheryl in his mind, "she's the one." He'd had to make his way through a lot of women, going younger and younger to find her... a woman without expectation.

He laughed, thinking, "I'm the same as a rich man who wants to know he's loved for himself instead of his money". Though sweet Cheryl was only 18, she loved him, he was sure. She loved him in spite of the fact that he didn't want to work. She loved him even though he had no car, or even a license for that matter. She loved him in spite of the fact that his life was moving nowhere and that he didn't care about making anything of himself. At 31, he'd never moved from home and lived off his parents' good will or ineptness, depending on how you looked at it.

Cheryl didn't mind, which made it that much easier for Dale to not think about what he ought to be doing, or about the fact that Cheryl wouldn't stick around for very long.

He closed his eyes and heard his mom upstairs, moving around in the kitchen.

Feeling annoyed, he yelled up to her from the basement, "hey Ma, are you making pancakes today or what"?

photos from: http://images.medicinenet.com/images/SlideShow/foods_and_sleep_s12_nicotine.jpg

http://beginningwithbread.files.wordpress.com/2009/06/moms-sourdough-pancakes.jpg

Lenny Never Said Much

Lenny puts his head back and laughs low and long. It’s a forced laugh that brings tears to his eyes – it’s the kind of laugh that most of us don’t want to go too far into because it could make you start sobbing or maybe even lay down and die. I don’t understand Lenny enough to know where it comes from.

His greasy blond hair falls sideways over one eye in a way that makes him look at you sideways out of the other. It’s a look that asks a question and it’s up to you to come up with what it is… “want to fight? make love? would you like a drink?” He lets you decide.
He isn’t handsome, but there is a roughness about him that creates the illusion of good-looking. His blue, Paul Newman eyes help pull his overall appeal together. They’re the kind of eyes that suspend your good judgment while he carries you off to his bed without a prayer of saying no.

He never says much or offers much of anything, to me or to anyone else for that matter. There isn’t a kind bone in his body, but there aren’t any mean ones either.

I watch him as he gets up and starts to wander around the room like he does every night. Finally he picks up his keys, pulls his boots on, and mutters to himself as he looks for his wallet.
“I’m going to get some smokes,” he yells as the door is slamming. “Get me some too, will ya?…,” my voice trails off in response. He’s headed down to O’Reiley’s for a few drinks and maybe a game of pool before he comes back.

All his drinking buddies are married now, so he’s never out too late. I've never married, but from what I can figure, it either makes you more considerate, more afraid of losing what you’ve got or maybe it just wears you out having to think of someone else all the time.
I don’t expect to tie the knot anytime soon and I don’t care much about finding out the answer to that one anyway.

When he’s gone, I wonder why we ended up together. I don’t have an answer to that either. Maybe it’s pity or loneliness? Sometimes it seems you just find someone that you fit with. There’s a space available and you move right in and sit down and make yourself at home. That’s kind of how it was with Lenny and me. Because I’m not such a great listener and I don’t, even remotely resemble the kind, compassionate, mothering kind of woman, I usually don’t last too long with any man. My nature works against me, but it makes sense with Lenny. We mostly hang out together, listen to Clapton, the Rolling Stones or Jack Johnson and fuck. A shit-load of tequila brought us together one night about a year ago and he’s been at my place ever since.

Lenny doesn’t ever say anything about my coming out to meet him, but it’s understood that at 11 I always go for a drink and walk him back home.
Before I leave I try to do a few dishes and straighten up a bit. I never cared much about how things looked when it was just me, but now I fuss a bit for his sake. I don’t quite recognize this feeling that I have, but I suspect it must be something like happiness.

Just as I’m about to go, I hear a fight break out in the street. It’s Lenny’s voice and there’s a lot of loud, angry swearing. I take a quick look out the window just in time to see him taking a swing at his best friend Paul. I hate when he fights with Paul. They love each other with a fierceness that sometimes turns into dangerous hate. I run down the stairs and out into the street in time to see Paul running away. “Lenny, what the fu…” I start to say as I turn to see him sitting on the curb in a growing pool of blood.
He looks up at me and grins. A few teeth are loose and he has a gaping hole above his right eye. I can’t tell where all the blood is coming from so when a kid from the neighborhood asks if he should call an ambulance and I say yes. Lenny doesn’t even complain when the EMTs pick him up off the pavement and put him in the van. He’s looking at me as they close the doors and then I see his eyes roll back in his head and he’s out.

“Does anyone know if Paul’s OK?” I ask the people who’ve come out to check out the action. Someone says, “yeah, Paul’s OK. He knocked Lenny pretty good with a broken bottle …arguing over the Yankees and Red Sox again”. "Idiots," I mutter.

I go back to the apartment, deciding to take my time getting over to the hospital because I know I’ll just be waiting around while they stitch him up. I’m thinking about how to kill some time when the phone rings. “This is Potsdam General Hospital, I’m trying to get a hold of Mr. John’s friend, Sally,” I hear on the other end. “This is she,” I say calmly, thinking that Lenny wants me to bring down an extra set of clothes or socks or something to him. “I’m calling to inform you that Mr. John has passed away.” “What the hell!’ I scream into the phone. “You have to be mistaken.”
“I’m afraid not ma’am, I’m sorry,” the small voice says and pauses.
I'm thinking, "What the hell do you say to that?" “Uh, thanks” I reply, and hang up.

"Dead?" I wonder how he can be dead. Confused, I look at the clock and think, "wasn’t it just 11 and wasn’t I just going to meet him at the bar like I do every night?' I look over at the clock and see that it’s 3am. “Damn, time sure flies when you’re having a good time,” I say out loud and then I start to laugh. It’s forced and painful. Just as my head tips back and tears spring to my eyes I realize that it’s Lenny's laugh coming out of me. I give into it and fall on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. It's hours when I finally open my eyes and see the sun's in the room. It’s 7am. I pull myself up and reality hits me again like a ton of bricks "or a broken bottle," I think as that laugh begins to stir up inside me again. I have to steady myself against the wall and that’s when I see an envelope on the stand with my name on it. It’s Lenny's writing. I tear it open and begin to read his careful words.

Dear Sally,
I don’t know if you’ve been noticing lately how I’ve been laughing out loud. I’ve been laughing at myself because if I don’t, I think I’d start crying and it’d be hard to stop.
I could cry because I’ve been wasting my life. I’ve been sleep walking for so long. I’ve just been going along in my life without much thought of being happy or even trying to be.
But I’ve been feeling something lately…have you been feeling it too? It feels good, like maybe I’m happy for the first time in my life.
You’ve been really good to me Sally, and I’m happy with you, and while I know that’s not enough for you to say you’ll marry me, I’m hoping we can work on that.
You’ve been breathing life into me for a year and now I want to try to give something back to you. You know I don’t have much to say and that consideration comes hard, but I do love you and I’m hoping that counts for something.
It’s probably almost 11 and you’re getting ready to meet me. I hope I see in your face that you feel the same way. If you don’t feel the same, I hope we can go on as we have and I promise to never, ever bring this up again. I'll love you just the same.

Lenny

I let the letter fall to the floor, wait a moment to get a good, clear picture of him in my head, then I grab my coat and keys and head down to claim his body.

photo credit to: http://webpages.scu.edu/ftp/kmarume/images/coping%20with%20loss.jpg

Where in the world

Janie was flight without wings, pure energy, as she jumped from the point with fearless abandon. I made her wear a life jacket because I loved her more than I loved myself, but she really didn't need it. Just like my sister, she could do anything. They were both invincible - born with the effortless ability to embrace the world and let life in.

Four year old Janie's compassion and awareness of my lack was astounding. She would reassure me with sympathetic pats and soothing comments, "auntie Beth," she'd coo, "I'll be OK, there is no reason to worry."
She wore the life jacket for me. It was a loving gift that she gave me.

When alone, I often tried to stretch out my arms and fly, but there was no lift. My dreams were assigned to the mundane and I would always be looking in from the outside from what they shared.

When I was young I could take tandem flights with my sister's help. Jen would coax me from my bed and out the window after our parents had fallen asleep. We’d run barefoot, with nightgowns flowing out behind us, down to the orchard with only the moonlight to illuminate our future as we’d act out the fantasies of our lives.

“Beth”, my sister would whisper, “we’ll live together, with our husbands and children, near the ocean and we’ll swim out into the deep dark water every night...just like in a dream we'll swim to the bottom of the ocean and soar up and out at the last moment to breathe.”

“Yes Jen, we will,” I’d reply.

“Beth,” she’d continue, “sometimes the moonlight will help guide us but other nights we’ll have to hold hands and help each other move out and into the dark unknown.”

"I will be able to help," I assured her.

She’d take my hand and search my face to see if I believed what I said was true when all along she knew that I couldn't go with her. She made me believe that life would unfold just as she said because I wanted it so badly.

As we got older, my fears and inhibitions bound me tightly to the confines of my mind and limited my vision of where I could be in the world. I eventually let go of trying and lived with acceptance in the well of my anxious nature.
Jen, on the other hand, grew more and more fearless over time. Her travels were frequent and daring, and while she often tried to include me in her adventures, I never risked the safety of my fears to join her.
I slept with her postcards underneath my pillow. Worn and frayed at the edges from being held, they comforted me in her absence. I would take them out each night to search for her. Always, the same open, beautiful smile looked out at me, shocking me to tears everytime. In every photograph her body was poised as if she were about to leap into the unknown. That was how she lived.

Jen's mind gradually began to leave her. I didn't notice the change at first. She’d begun calling at all hours asking for my help. "Beth, it's Jen," she'd whisper furtively. "I know you're going to think I'm nuts but I can't think of where I've left my car keys." With each call, I felt a catch of dread in my throat and could only whisper in response, "of course I'll help you, Jen."
It was the day the police picked her up as she wandered around her neighbrhood, searching for her house, that I stopped deluding myself that nothing was wrong. Seeing the bewildered look in her eyes roused me from my unshakable belief in her capacity.
Her tumor's progress was heartless. When she wasn't moving in circles around the house muttering, “Where in the world did I put my…?" she was on the floor in relentless, uncontrollable spasms. I kept Janie with her for as long as I could. She calmed her mother by sitting quietly beside her holding her hand as she writhed helplessly on the floor. Her chant would lull Jen into a peaceful place for a short time. She'd repeat, "it's OK, it doesn't matter where in the world it is." It was a loving gift that she gave to her mother.

Jen left us quickly on a cool summer evening.
Looking into my eyes, seeing but not seeing, she whispered, “Beth, Beth,"
"Yes", I whispered. "I'm here"
"You'll take my hand at the edge of the ocean and we’ll swim together, out as far as we can?” she asked grasping for my hand.
“Yes Jen, we will,” I replied as I laced my fingers in hers.

Wonder

"How do you know if you're hallucinating?" Jerry yells from the kitchen.

I smile to myself. Jerry is always asking questions like that. "I think that if you can't turn a light bulb off or you can do something that you know couldn't possibly happen, like fly up and out through the ceiling, then you know that you're either having a dream or hallucinating," I yelled back."

A dream or hallucination," I hear him mumble as he works on dinner.

I laugh out loud at how being with Jerry makes me so damn curious. It's a wondering that starts with a little excited feeling growing in my chest until I can't contain it any longer and it has to shoot out through my fingertips and the top of my head. That excitement is just like when I was a child.

I wonder all the time now. I wonder about my dreams and about how they are so strong that I know I couldn't help what I would do if I could set them free.

I see that my wanting, burning is so overpowering that I cry myself to sleep at night to keep from bursting into flames.

I wonder about that unbending part of me that stands guard, keeping me from changing. Its power holds me down as I try to rise up against it and demolish it. An internal revolution has begun.

I almost lost my life with my ex, Gene. His life was over but he just wasn't dead yet. He was hollow and lifeless with only a pulse and shallow breath to determine his continued presence.

I stayed with him way too long, like some women do sometimes. I kept thinking that if I just worked harder or was a better person or if I could get smart enough to come up with a solution, I could save him.

I don't really wonder about how he started out or where he ended up. I just always keep a picture in my mind of sweet little babies and boundless potential for happiness ahead of them. Something went wrong when he grew up with two drunks for parents. They were the dangerous, functional kind that could hold jobs and pay the rent, all the while deluding themselves, in their drunken stupor, that they were good parents to Gene. Their mantra to their only son was, "you're nothing and that you'll always be nothing".

I've come to believe that ideas about ourselves get set up -like a guard -to protect us from pain and fear. The problem is that the part that protects us, also keeps us from changing and letting in light and joy.

I stood by, pretty helplessly, for 22 years watching him try to obliterate himself in order to survive.

I finally left him to find my wondering again. I was withered and dying inside yet had gathered enough wanting of a life that I got up and walked out and never looked back.

A lot of joy flooded back into me when I stopped working so hard to keep Gene alive.

I watch Jerry balance two plates of food in each hand with two bottles of Bud light tucked under his arm as he walks into the dining room. He looks up at me and smiles and I wonder what might come next.

photo from: http://www.pacedevelopments.co.uk/images/contactus.jpg

Plans

Josh and I had a standing date to meet down at the make-out bench behind the firehouse for a little Saturday afternoon smooching. The preacher would be at church, lost in tomorrow's sermon, until about 6 o'clock so Josh would look for my signal. Shade up -we were on, half-down daddy was home.

My daddy had the reputation and true ability of being able to know what someone was thinking or intending to do, maybe even before they did. It worked out great for him in his line of work. The congregation was mightily convinced that he had a direct line to God and salvation. He'd be up in the pulpit delivering one of his hell and damnation sermons when he'd spy a certain look in some one's eyes. Even a slight grimace or a wrinkled brow would be noticed. From 50 yards he could tell, not only that they had committed some grievous offense, but he could actually conjure from thin air, the humiliating specifics of their transgression.

Being that I'd never been able to get away with anything much my whole life I took my cue from the congregation early on... avoid eye contact and cultivate an unreadable nature of benign presence. Never feel your feelings too much or too often.

When Josh kissed me on that love seat, where so many had been kissed before, I abandoned my resolve. I let my feelings burst up and out of me. I watched as away they went, up, up into the atmosphere, across the fields and down the lane to the rectory where I know my father looked up in a rage and started running toward the firehouse. I can still see his blazing eyes as I walked up the hill toward him, defiantly grasping Josh's hand, realizing that there was nothing he could do to hold me back.

Photo from: http://s.bebo.com/app-image/7942275079/5411656627/PROFILE/i.quizzaz.com/img/q/u/08/04/06/Kissing_in_the_Rain_by_CrazyWingo.jpg

indulgence

whispers, sweet, in sea shell ears,

currents flow into whirlwind tunnels.

tantalized, quiescent limbs provoked

growing, moving,

in gentle rhythm.

heating, beating, sliding

slower, slowly, slow

over rocks, tumbling and rumbling down into deep desire.

in bursting gasps, a petulant dance

with secret longing.

embraced in dizzying, delicious space

circling, circling

round and round,

pushing in, invading,

moving on, over, around

between memories and indulgences.

following, following hopes

beckoning seductive dreams.

Art from: http://www.gallery-319.com/images/asencio/large-images/Desire.jpg