999 and counting/ Merry Christmas from Shay

Dear Readers,

I'm a little bit early, but you know how I get about rules. And so, Merry Christmas to all of you, and thank you sincerely for visiting my Word Garden and for reading what I create. I wish each and every one of you love and warmth in this, the holiday season.

The Word Garden Complaint Department, open every third Tuesday of even numbered months, from 3 a.m. until 3:15 a.m., has received a small complaint. I'm all over it! The complaint was this: Reader X would like me to step out from behind the curtain more often, show myself, dish a little.

Okay.

I deliver the mail. I'm tall (5'-11"). I wrote poetry between the ages of 18 and 26, then took a twenty year break before taking up the Bic again in 2006. I collect stuffed raccoons and coyotes. I also like Coke bears. I am currently spending huge gobs of my spare time watching dvd's of the old Mary Tyler Moore show. "Mister Grant!" lol. I can make almost anyone laugh, except my mother. I spoil my dog, Bosco, rotten. I am prone to moods.

But, back to Christmas. I was raised a Christian, but am emphatically not one anymore. Something about being bludgeoned with it and told I'm going to Hell for who I am and who I love. Take that stuff and stick it.

And yet...from the vivid dream I had in my twenties, about being visited by a beautiful angel and shown Heaven (so that I would know there was something more), to the prayer that did what no other power could do, which was to to allow me to stay sober for one more day (which has now grown to 26 years), God, or Goddess as I prefer to think of Her, has been a constant in my life.

And so, in this season of Christmas, I share this video with you. It does things to me. Maybe you will like it too. Then, please come back Tuesday for a special 1,000th Word Garden post. I just wish I had the faintest idea what to do for that!

Peace,

Shay Caroline

Let's Dialogue

I knew I should be quiet,
But my mouth went on talking without me
And, oh, the things it said.

I didn't know your eyes could go big like that--
2 little shocked stars undressing.
And when your jaw drops and you squint,
I see a locomotive coming down the tracks--
I'm gonna have to think of something
Think of something fast.

I know I should be careful,
But two idle hands can get so bored
And oh, the stuff they pull.

I didn't know a thing could go up like that--
Just from a little drug store lighter.
And when you're really angry and you go so silent,
I know you're gonna kick my ass--
I'm gonna need a really convincing little tap dance
Aren't I, baby?
Wait a second, baby.
Oh sweet Jesus in a pinafore,
I'm gonna need it fast.
_____
art by Eugenio Recuenco (thanks, Kerry!)

This poem was the first one written in my new journal, a gift from the peerless Hedgewitch O' The Wilds. Thank you, dear! I do love it! (journal shown below)

_____

And, a little music to go with the poem...

Come And Get It

Come and get it.
I will pull bones from myself and bang a dirge on the hollows.
Why the face?
You have broken them so many times, they snap out easy.
Come and get it.
Come and get it while it's hot,
On fire with the word.
Come and dig its glowing little happy ass right out of the slag heap.

I made a centerpiece.
It's still fighting, but only a little.
Talk to it.
Tell it that shit you always told me.
Sock it right in the kisser,
Then it will shut up.
It's still moving,
You're not trying.

Come and smile until nobody can stand it anymore.
Bake someone happy.
Shove them right into the brick oven of your love.
Frost them.
Fuck them seven ways to Sunday.
Come and get it,
I don't want it.
Kiss it and call it Charley, just get it the hell out of here.

Come and get yourself.
Take yourself home with you.
Be very happy with yourself,
And leave the rest of us stuffed in our vases,
Bloomless and thorny,
But still talking,
If only to curse you in this and every other language
Ever spoken in extremity by the damned.
______

Girl Next Door

She said she wasn't the girl next door,
but she was.
She said she had both hands on the wheel,
and she did,
but the wheel stayed still while the car went road sky road sky road sky stop.

She said she never kissed a woman,
but she had.
She said she had both feet on the ground,
and she did,
but she stayed still while her heart went swerve right swerve left swerve right crash.
_____

written for Marian's music prompt at Real Toads

Nocturne

Where do you go
When you are sleeping?
While I am watching?
I want to know.

Who is the you
Just beneath your skin?
Behind your closed eyes?
The one concealed within?

I want to know,
And so I stay close by...
As you breathe untroubled and slow...
Yours the breath, mine the sigh.
_____
for Gay Cannon's Form For All

 

Dear Quasimodo

Dear Quasimodo,

It's me, of course. Who else do you know who does things as old fashioned as writing a letter? But I thought that you might welcome one, and besides, even if I were standing right in front of you, you wouldn't hear a word I say, now would you dear? I say that in every sense of the phrase, and in the most loving way. 

I wish I could be there when some stuffy Abbott or whoever hands you this, with the scripty-girly handwriting on it. Let's give them something to talk about! I know you'd like that song...it breaks my heart that you can't hear music, apart from your beloved bells. But never mind. How are the bells?!? I'm telling you, Q, if everyone had something they loved and love to do, as you do, the world would be a better place. And a lot louder, yikes! When you swing on the bell ropes, your face lights right up, did you know that? You are truly a man in his element. It's a beautiful thing.

So, tell me...what about this Gypsy girl you have been telling me about? Esmeralda, that's a pretty name, and to hear you tell it, she's all that and a bag of fireworks. Have you talked to her? Or are you just worshiping her from afar? I'm glad that you are feeling these things for someone. I am. But I fret about you, too, dear heart.

There are no secrets between us. I am your friend. Wild horses couldn't change that. And so, Mr. Bell Ringer Sir, will you forgive me if I say a few things? Do you promise not to be angry, or sulk, or think that I don't care for you? You can be a pistol, sometimes. Don't bother to deny! See now, how well I know you? 

I know, of course, about how you were left on the cathedral stairs as an infant. It is a terrible thing, a haunting thing, to believe that one was not wanted. Oh, Q, how often have I wished that I could just somehow reach inside of you and fix that. You do bring out the Mother Hen in me. And, too, I know that you believe you are ugly. Q! If you could see yourself with my eyes, you would know beyond any shadow of a doubt that you are not. Will you believe me? I have never lied to you, have I? You are not ugly. Would I hang out with you, and write you letters all the way from America, if you were ugly? I think not!

Think about this, please: who has God chosen to be closest to Him, up in the magnificent bell tower of the most glorious cathedral in the world? You, Magoo! Who sees to it that His voice never goes silent? Again, you my dear. And as I have already said, the joy you bring to what you do, is the most beautiful devotion He could ever receive. He knows that. He sees. He loves you, sugar pea. Me, too.

That is why I am concerned about this Gypsy beauty of yours. I hate to give away trade secrets, but I have to break it to you...not all girls are as fabulous as your faithful letter writer here. Yes, true. She doesn't know you the way that I do. She may be all about a handsome face and a noble white steed. What I'm saying, Q, is that I don't want you to be hurt. Would it be all right if I follow behind at twenty paces, just to make sure this gal is on the up and up? I'm teasing now, but in a way, I really wish I could.

You see, dear Q, I know how you are. Just the way you love your bells with your whole beautiful, faithful, glorious, simple heart, you'll do the same with this girl, whether she has earned that kind of love or not. All I'm saying is, don't get carried away with your bad self, dude. Take it slow. See what she's about. If she is as wonderful as you think she is, she'll see what I see. And if she doesn't, then...well, you'll still have me. You'll always have me. 


xox


Sally

Cindy & The Unfortunate Birthday Cake

Cindy did for the birthday cake.
Damn the thing anyway,
As if enough Bisquick and bullshit could 
Make her husband keep his dipstick where it belongs,
And keep her kids from going wrong,
And make everything as orderly as the numbered pages of a Redbook magazine,
Lined up flush and sequential,
Not loonbat crazy in the middle of the afternoon.

Cindy did for the birthday cake
With a ginormous honking big knife
Longer than a mother in law's memory,
And someone's got to answer for that,
For the gashes in the easy to clean table cloth
And the fucked up frosting
And anything and everything that Cindy faked since forever,
Like interest and orgasms and staying sober until five.

Cindy did for the birthday cake,
And it felt hella good.
____

for the dverse Tuesday night cattle call

my 300th Word Garden post of 2011