rocking is good. so is sitting in the surf. try it.

My son never slows down. Here, he may be in a hammock, but he is not relaxing. He is pumping, swinging, rocking, swaying. Perpetual motion, even at rest.

My daughter likes nothing better than plopping down where she is and playing in the sand. Water be damned. Muck be damned. Sun, sand, water. Sit & enjoy. She plays it where it lays. And her favorite color is orange. She is an individual.

I could take some advice from these diminutive muses. Play it where it lays. Write the poem in the sand. Write it on the peanut butter and fluff sandwich. Utter and fluff it. Get wet. Get sand in my pants. Take off my pants and write a poem on my thighs. OK. My kids definitely didn't give me that idea. Although, one did write all over the other's stomach in purple marker one day. Hey. Why not write a poem on my arm and let it all hang out.

Still feeling anxious about not writing. I'm not blocked. I have ideas. They flow in and out, flow in like the tide, and I summarily dismiss them like so much flotsam. Out seaweed. Out cracked shell.

A poet friend of mine said it is the change of seasons. I remember that this happens every few months, every turn of the seasons. I forget until I remember. This time around, my head feelsl like it might explode. I have not only got poetry running rampant in my head, with no outlet, now I've got art projects screaming and shrieking.

I have discovered art trading cards, and while I love, absolutley love the idea, the freedom of expression, I am having so many strange feelings. Art card lust. I look at the fine, fine work of others and I want it to be mine. I used to have this feeling about poetry, until I became confident with my work. I think constantly about potential art card ideas. When I finally made one, I felt release. Sweet release. But, now it is not enough. I need to make more. But, mine may not be good enough. They need to be better.

Augh. I need to read the Artist's Way again. Maybe? Maybe I just need to see the first leaves fall, feel the air change from humid to crisp. I need to eat an apple. Need to indulge my Eve. Eat an apple, see myself naked, revealed. Revel in my wet, orange uniqueness. Hmmm....

I Promise to Write Every Day

Because my blog has been a long time alone, because I feel guilty, not only for choosing dust bunnies over my children today, but for chossing dust bunnies over my writing, I have made a New Month Resolution. Well, it's almost a new month, almost windy, windy March, so what better time to let the winds of change sweep over my blog, over my writing life!

So, to get back into the swing of things, to crawl that much closer to my goal of sending out a manuscript this year (hey, who knew that was my goal for the year? Writing really works!), I am going to try to write daily on my blog. I have every intention of writing from the daily prompts in A Writer's Book of Days by Judy Reeves. We shall see. Please feel free to join me on my quest for writing nirvana.

Today's prompt is: Once, in the midst of all the recklessness...


Domestic Dispute

Once, in the midst of all the recklessness
I took the tiny clothes of all the Barbies
and lined them up along the window sill
for all the neighbors to see.

The man with the pugs wanted to know
when the garage sale started.
The man with the young daughter wondered
how much for the blond on the far left,
his daughter wants a doll.

My husband came home after leaving for milk.
He was really just running away. A woman with a gun,
even a glue gun, even a camera, or a handful
of miniature miniskirts can scare a man.
So here he comes with the milk and a Snickers bar,
but he is not snickering because he knows better
and I say, Which Barbie do I look like?

My husband has not come home in three days.
The milk soaked into the carpet has turned
to crust and odor. The Barbies are fading into
the white sill, the babies are hungry.
We are all losing our hair, blonde tufts
falling out in fistfuls, when we remember
to reach up, to pull.

The sun is pale in the sky,
the peonies have lost their pink.
In the midst of all the recklessness,
I wish I had not told my husband to go to Hell.