Lawnmower - Dixie2

The lawnmower is ankylosaurus
Close to the ground
low and sturdy
He rumbles deep from the earth

Not stomping, and angry, and look-at-me
That is t-rex

Not running and shrieking wildly
That is raptor

Not stocky, stern, and deliberate
That is stegosaurus

The lawnmower is ankylosaurus
roaring at me on Saturday morning
tamed by my dad
He eats grass
instead of cheerios


7/7/7 Jumpstart

A Dog's View- Cyndi

Oh no! I hear someone coming. The whole family had been out for the evening (except me). Aren’t I part of the family now? Sometimes I don’t really feel like it. I’ve heard the stories, of how the kids begged for years and years to have a dog. A family pet that they would all take care of and love. Why do I feel so ignored then? I guess the novelty of having me around has worn off. I’m still just as cute as ever! They tell me this when they bother to take the time to pet me and play with me. My ears are as soft as velvet and my plump wriggling puppy body like a living stuffed animal- so comforting to hug. In return I jump up and down, yipping my beagle barks, and slobbering my doggy kisses all over the ones that have claimed me for their own. Occasionally I get so excited that I piddle on the floor uncontrollably.

But they abandoned me for the evening to go off somewhere by themselves. What could I do to entertain myself? I know that bookcase is the thing they always point at and say “No, no”. But they remove the books and open them up. I thought it must be something fun that they were trying to deprive me of. Well, there was my chance. Alone in the house, I just had to see what I had been missing. I pulled a few out and left them lying on the floor. There didn’t seem to be anything too special about them. Then came the one with the extra paper around the outside of the book. Something more to chew- bonus!! I started in on it and just couldn’t stop. I’ve heard them say that it is hard to put a good book down. Well, that’s how it was. So good, that I took it out into the back yard through my doggie door. There I could let my puppy teeth go to town.

Now they have returned and have unhappy looks on their faces. I know they usually put the books back when they are done, but I can’t do that. No opposable thumbs to pick them up with, you know. The kids look disappointed, but the adults look outright mad! Uh oh. What to do? My head goes down and my tail hangs limp between my back legs. What will happen next? I guess I should have listened to the “No no’s” they told me. They are exploring, looking around and bringing in the evidence from the back yard. How was I to know that that particular book had been a special present- a book of stories, given to the children by their grandfather? There are no hugs and kisses now. Only “Bad dog” shouted over and over, as I’m dragged by the collar and locked in my pen. I sit dejectedly in the corner and ponder what has just happened. No-- that’s not right. I’m a dog! I can’t ponder anything, and I’m sure that the next time they all go out I will have forgotten everything. Wait-- what was I talking about anyway?!?

Prompt: My First Crisis of Conscience 8/25/07

Kids of Tonga- Cyndi

Kids- kids of Tonga. Their sweet smiling faces reflecting their joy and their innocence. Innocence- growing up without TV, movies, gameboy, playstation, or computers. What do they know of violence except for occasionally playing too rough in the schoolyard? Sure, they know life and death- they see it everyday in their families and with the pigs and chickens that wander the island only to wind up as dinner. And in the sea that yields its bounty for their meals. But it is different here, and they walk around the island without any fear of others from their village.

They look at me shyly when I first arrive, their big beautiful dark eyes peeking through their extremely long lashes. “What’s your name?” they call. And when I answer and smile back, they are encouraged to come closer to the strange foreigner. Soon they are constantly at my side, following me back and forth through the village. They are not asking for material things, but rather seeking answers to their questions, wanting hugs, piggyback rides, and an audience to sing their songs to. They skip along at my side enjoying their simple childhood pleasures.

The week passes quickly. On the last evening there I slip quietly into the end spot of the pew for the church service. But I am not alone for long- for I soon see a pair of eyes peering around the edge of the bench, and then disappearing. When I see them again I gesture to the small boy to come sit next to me. I scoot over to make room for him as he plops himself down. He starts inching closer and closer to me. He stares at my watch and I show him how it lights up when you hold the button down. We giggle with delight at our shared game, careful not to laugh too loudly. I try to concentrate and pay attention to the service but I notice him pulling strands out of the grass skirt of the woman sitting in front of us. “ No, No” I shake my head at him. But he is beaming because he has caught my attention yet again.

Smiling, laughing, happy kids, despite their poverty by our standards. You’ve touched my heart! So beautiful, so unforgettable! Kids of Tonga.

Prompt- pictures of kids from mission trip to Tonga 8/11/07

My favorite fruit - Melinda

Blueberries off the bush


Why does it seem I have to go somewhere to be somewhere?


Blueberry-peach pie


Could be baking a pie. Cutting butter into the flour rinsing and nibbling
and
wanted to stay home in that square of sun.


Blueberries in a green raku bowl, cold and wet

Would I actually bake the pie?
Is the house clean enough? No, to many cat hairs, vac and dust first and

Blueberry scones, egg white crystallized with a small teaspoon of sugar

The lull of the morning will be gone when I get home.

Blueberries next to strawberries next to raspberries, chilled, sprinkle of lemon

A soft comfortable chair, me, a pie in the oven, a cleaner house.

Blueberry buttermilk cobbler with crusty golden crumbled on top, warm, nests in soften vanilla ice cream.

Porching a breeze, the sky changing in the minutes that you sit and

Blueberries, Ecuadorian chocolate and a glass of Argentina red...

Spotted an old friend ... Dixie

Voices in the living room. Who's there? Cat's ears perk up. Should he leave the Perfect Sun Spot and go see? Purrr purr. Not yet. Wait a bit. Make the grand entrance. Or maybe sneak in behind the big plant. Startling people is almost as much fun as showing off the fabulous self. Purrr. Clink of tea cups means they'll be here a while. Wait. Maybe crunch a little kibble, take another nap. Cat licks some stray fur into place, fluffs himself up, finally strolls down the hall to check things out.

"Blah blah blah ... oh, look, here's Tiger. Isn't he just so beautiful?" Cat preens, then hops up on the sofa to survey his kingdom. But what's this?! Alarmed, Cat crouches and stares down at a big lump of gray under the coffee table. It moves! Cat steps back, then peers forward. Person reaches down and pats the lump.

"No, she's not doing so well ...blah blah blah." Rheumy eyes look into Cat's eyes, gray doggie tail waps the floor. Cat jumps down and slowly approaches. They touch noses, wary cat, old dog.

"Oh, look. They still know each other." Cat settles down into sphinx pose, dog sighs and flops.

"Yes, old friends."

A Deep Pond - Dixie

Tell me where the goldfish are
and why the lillies hold their skirts
and what is willow curtaining
and whether dragons fly to earth

Tell me when my dreams are
safe and which far breeze
is dead and gone

Then I will twitter in my fan
and hum my heartness here
alone

Road Map - Greg

28 July 2007

“The map is not the destination,” the old Indian said, watching me wrestle with the large unfolded road map while the ‘78 Oldsmobile hurtled down the Arizona highway. “Do not be like the dog who stares at the finger that points to the bird.”

The map lay sprawled on my lap and the steering wheel, and the Chief settled back leisurely in the passenger seat, an amused smile on his face, the spectacular Arizona desert racing by. The windows were wide open because I had no air conditioning, and the corners of the map twittered and flipped in the turbulence while the center heaved up and down like a giant pair of lungs.

His name wasn’t really 'The Chief,' it was just a mildly racist nickname I’d given him in my mind, and then to the man himself when I asked him to wash the car windows at a gas station outside of Tucson. I’d picked him up earlier in the day, a lone Papago Indian standing at the side of the highway hitchhiking. He said he was heading up north to Yuma to visit his daughter. “Jump in,” I said.

Almost immediately the man began to annoy me the way all the Papago do. I don’t know what it is about these people, maybe their leisureliness and the way they seem to live outside of time, maybe their equanimity and acceptance of the intolerable: racism, hardship, poverty, devastation of their people and culture. If I was Caucasian, it’d probably be called White Guilt, but I was Asian, and as far as I know, no Asians ever stole Indian lands. Hell, his ancestors came from Asia. They walked across the Bering Strait 14,000 years ago. In a way, we are brothers, I said to myself through annoyance.

A gust of wind blew through the windows and yanked the map irretrievably from my hands and attention. “Listen, Chief,” another spasm of guilt--talking this way to a man 40 years my senior, “you think maybe you could navigate for me while I drive the car?”

“Can’t read maps,” he said, still calm and smiling.

“Well you think you can take the wheel while I read the map?”

“Why not pull over?”

He had a good handsome face, an Indian elder right out of central casting. I wanted jerk the door open and push him out of the moving car. Sweat poured down my frustrated face. “You’re doing, fine,” he said. “We’ll get there.”

The Oldsmobile raced across the highway. I hate this guy, I thought. But where ever he’s going, I’m taking him there.

The one that got away Melinda Jean

I. How could it have been different?
Perhaps no adoption no smoothing mother,
that's him although
hear me!
I, the voices like the small echoing deaths.
Not all at once
one here, or now and again
they then crowd, drowning-out
even their own voice
until the murmur is the blur static
like on a radio station that has shut down for the night,
actually maybe there in the dark
I can start to sort and find was it me who got away?
Did I even show up?

II. The many rushes into living.
I couldn't stand still, but could I?
Or maybe can I now is more the question.
What we have;
something that is molded by hands,
hands of mothers, fathers, and all the "have to's."
I remember walking to school as a girl
and so very grateful for those minutes when my thoughts
could be my own and I could just listen, it was such a finding.
I don't know that there is "a get away"
it is a moving on
a way of not staying dead.
Maybe I haven't meet the one that got away
unless of course it's me.

Crimson - Melinda Jean

Creeping in the crack after the sun has just melted a crimson line appears, as if the crime does not matter, as if nothing of consequence exists in the breath into another. She lie on the carpet her blood slowly soaking in, giving her warmth. She can move her head, just slightly and there through the looking glass she can see the slash across her throat had dripped and pooled, no longer the beaded look it had earlier. 'It looks worse than it feels,' she thought, still numb from shock she supposed. She didn't feel angry as she imagined she might feel being a chosen victim to some altered mind's attempt to conclude her life. Maybe others never imagined death and those moments into entering. There was an odd sense of peace and the room was expanding as the light and colors slowly left, another melting, like her body's heavy limp-like quality melding in the rug, the floor, becoming a piece of this house, her home, and the walls have scooped at the edges like a cup, she was being drunk into some other color, crimson the color beneath the door it filled her pouring in from underneath, filling her backwards.

Door Key - Maya

It was a slim gold-colored key, filigreed at the top, about two inches long. It lay on the palm of her hand like a tiny sleeping animal. She closed her fingers around it, and it felt warm inside her hand, and comfortable - right - as though it were meant to nestle there. For a moment she thought she felt it move, just a slight wiggle, like a child snuggling down into her soft bed at night. She shook her head, casting off that idea. Her mother always said she had too vivid an imagination. A fantasy life that lifted her out of reality and out of what needed to be done. A dreaminess that would ultimately do her no good. So her mother said. In her heart of hearts she thought otherwise, but her mother had harangued her so often and so bitterly that she had almost begun to believe her.

And this key, this beautiful little key, had belonged to her mother. At least she assumed it did. She had found it in a little compartment in her mother’s puffy, blue, satin-covered jewelry box, an object she had found mysteriously fascinating as a child. She had spent endless hours sifting through it. So many daydreams were invested in that little box. Even though none of the jewelry was expensive (or “good” as her mother called it), the necklaces, pins and bracelets inside were a queen’s jewels to her. Or the treasures of a fairy princess. Or exotic belly dancer. Or perhaps a movie star. But somehow she had missed the key, never noticed it before.

Now her mother was gone, and the contents of the jewelry box – and the box itself – belonged to her. The end had come quickly and mercifully, for there had been pain, smelly hospital rooms, and unpleasant procedures done in haste. It had been a whirlwind of activity that ended suddenly, as though all of the gravity had been sucked out of the room, releasing everything into space. It felt like that. And here she was, the recipient of things once longed for and no longer wanted. Her mother’s legacy.

There was no message or note explaining which door the key opened. It was too big to be the jewelry box key, though she tried it anyway. Maybe it was just a key to nothing, something her mother liked the look of, the shape of, the color. She looked closer. It had a tiny rose engraved on it. Curious. It would not have been like her mother to collect a utilitarian object merely because she thought it beautiful. No, she was too practical, too efficient, too full of common sense. She was everything her daughter wasn’t. That key must open something.

She asked her father, but he had no idea, and no will to try to figure it out. These weeks later he still had not emerged from the shock of first grief. She’d get no help from that corner of the world. Any caretaking here would be hers, of him.

(To be continued.....)

Prompt: Door Key, 5/5/07