checkerboard - Dixie

Little birds peck at the crumbs and twigs that have fallen on the checkerboard, on the picnic table, in the backyard, outside.

There he is, grandfather, in the corner by the TV, slumped in his wheeled throne.
I see our shadows, those summers at the picnic table, back years.
Wind blows wild, gold leaves fall, birds cheep and fly away.

Checkerboard calls:
"Whatcha waitin' for, Saul?"

Checkers spin past my tiny fingers. I cry no! grasp the shadow.
He dances, Grandfather, across the rug, a swirl of silver, aa twirl of cane like Fred Astaire at his most dapper.

Giant organ music fills the room, all eyes turn upward where jewels dot the ceiling and the roof pushes into the sky. He straightens his bow tie, Grandfather, tips his top hat, and dances up the wall, through the trees and clouds, and leaps!
"King me!" he shouts.
.

Worth: Melinda Jean

Just a word written on a tear of paper. One. Its meaning, its single value present and contained. Alone "worth" stands. Lonely? Up to your judgement. But should it not hold the confidence inherent? A blue heron diving, or a red herring singly could not change the course.
As a girl, "worth" often appeared to me on a pedestal, not all that accessible. The urge to be the one setting the value, equating my worth. That longing took hold and with no doubt my worth wore hats and had a baby. It did align with societies value of mothers, I had to admit. Value, meaning? I did stand alone and wobbled. Lonely? Sometimes. But to accept the standard of worth set by others morals was missing the arrow that points to a deeper connect. One of no judgement. Because how can we judge thing that we don't know or understand?

The Apocalypse comes to the coffee shop: Melinda Jean

It seemed the shop often had special guests. The pungent air, a thick inter lay of chocolate, burnt carmel, fruit and musty cellars waifed up the inside of Apocalypse's nostrils as the door came off in his grip. Cal the owner, looked up having a lypse he stumbling over his words "Apo" he managed to say. Apo was naked and muscular, his walk shook the wooden floor boards and cracked the planks under his wet feet. He smelled of ocean and now the scent of salt water and coffee was almost comforting and a corner of Cal's mouth started to lift. Until Apo spoke "Give me a large mocha, extra shot, extra hot, extra coco, don't go lightly on the whip and a long pull," he graveled. Cal had had Michelle Pfeiffer in before, but she was slight like a fawn and wore a baggy sweater pulled tight over her perfectly tanned body, her face beautifully regal. She didn't cause a stir, just wanted to come in and out and not be noticed. But Apocalsype enters and Cal has to think of remodeling, shutting down, having to give up his dreams. Thoughts move to what might become of Cal's coffee shop. Just then Apo sneezes, it's the kind followed by several more, the continuous sort each bringing down a different corner and as the walls fell around them and the smells mingled together of roasted coffee beans and sea shore air.

Cried 'til it Hurt - 2008 Nov 15

Cried 'til it hurt
la la la
Raz pic pride
shanna men na
Music press pull
strum didy dumb
Papa's voice punched
bam didy bam

Nina's radio rad
wa wa wa
Michael's counts
click click click
Katie's doll
tick tick tick
Melinda's heart
sick sick sick

Razzing til it hurt
Pickin' part pride
Music turn the knob
Press in the corner
Pull in 'way at seams
Cry baby cry
cry cry cry.

Old Cobwebs: Melinda Jean

2008 November 15

Old cobwebs were the best sign of a good corner, "The older the better," saying to herself while shopping for a new place to spin and weave, the exhausting dance of a whole day in which after she would rest and wait; pray for prey. Nurishment, that rush of energy in the body. The natual high, there was nothing like it, still at the top of her lifetime loves. Another was the product of her particular weave. If found outside, a winter morning web can take on the glistening light through tiny spheres of water, sometimes the light enough to blind her delicate seeing mechanisms. She prided herself on these works of art not only because of their beauty, but because of their brevity, as one fly caught and the web ruined, time to move on again.
Another of her blessings she found was in the perspective being offered by height. Oh sure she was fearful of heights and remembered being a big clustered ball of brothers and sisters and worried about the fall, the decent. What if her web didn't catch and she'd fall to her death. Her mother would reassure her that she was so light she'd probably would land fine. This childhood fear haunted her and the only reassurance was ironically in being that high seeing the movement of life below her. She often felt it must be what a bird feels like when its flying; and then as she rested in her new web feeling heavier than her more youthful self, she wondered about the decent. The fall, would that be like flying? Could that offer some new perspective? As she looked at her beautiful creation and smiled she lifted her body to the bottom of the web and let go. Careful to not spindle any web, but to allow herself a weighty decent.

White Carpet: Melinda Jean

2008 July 5

Why white, you might say? A whistling white, passing in the car, almost a verbal blur. The pet, who mostly resides in the car, has never mistreated the white. It's the pureness of it, the soft luxury. The pet doesn't think of 'deserve' or not, but of just the moments of the carpets beauty, its comfort and sinks right in. And when the white isn't there, as the car sometimes drives fast, it's the whistle that gives the pet that nostalgia, that missing, that only is filled with white carpet.

Fog Floats Over Water: Melinda Jean

Fog floats over water, from the window at this distance the fog looks supported; water collected over the season heavy and deep, mist gathered by the lightness of morning. The scene serene as she sips her coffee. Nothing more just creamy coffee and to write. She hasn't been to the cottage at this time of year and now she is here to stay, even if temporary. Quiet reflected a stillness in her mind that had been waiting, all the racing to get here, every fraction of time hidden in boxes, stacked in columns around the cabin. Like a maze with labels Kitchen, Living room, Bath; her whole life in correct categories allowing her only narrow passage.
When she first thought of leaving to come to the cabin, her whole body would stand thick with history and she feel inertia set in, settling like jello, she couldn't move. But now she looked out over the soft fog of morning and felt light, allowed a smile and managed to squeeze forward to the typewriter.