eulalie's Open Salon Blog

Untitled (II)

Sat, 7 Nov 2009 15:11:13 -0500

or, The Hound of... Whatever

Belief trails
Like an untrained hound dog
Baying his complaints behind the massive behemoths
Of Faith, Hope, and Love.
Together they've raced over highways
Byways
Parkways
Driveways...
Always behind.

No match for the beast of Faith whose spawn he is,
No match for the rippling sinews and trained tendons of Hope,
No match for Love whose beastliness causes even the great to submit to his fangs--

And yet he follows, doggedly, as the canine he is,
Out of breath, out of energy,
Out of luck.

They can not leave him behind

and so he trails
Help! Thou! Mine!
Belief yelps with each faltering step
Unable to match Faith's strong strides--they have been perfected, almost--

Prayer has already gone ahead,
Is already engaged in battle,
Blades and swords already snicker-snacking in the distance,
Already drawing blood (his or theirs?)
Already tearing and snarling, waiting for The Gang--
Faith, Hope, and Love already halfway in the air,
Jaws open, saliva dripping, claws outstretched--

And here Belief cowers
And the chains that bind him to the other three grows taut,
Snapping them back just before they hurl themselves
Over overturned trashcans and banana peels and
Opened tin cans of Uncle Fester's Best Tuna
To reach the jugular of the Thing that holds them back from
All That Is Good in life

And the mass of fur and bone and fang that binds them is this grown-up hound who still thinks he's a pup,
Still tries to sit on laps and crawl into tight spaces,
Still thinks he can live on the milk of Faith,
Still thinks his name is Belief, when the name on his collar is clearly
ACTION,
Still thinks the Other Three can handle things quite readily on their own
Thinks he can sit around and watch Homeward Bound with the dogs and the cat
While Faith and Hope and Love go to the dog gym to buff up for "next time."

Still desiring that,
Like some other teams,
Not quite as bold, perhaps,
He could follow through, half a step behind, perhaps...

Or better yet, (next time), fly with his jaws open,
In line with his Partners,
Neck and neck,
Cutting edge on cutting edge

-----------

I found this poem this morning (in my head.) It sprung out so quickly I'm not sure I contained it all. It is, as the title suggests, unfinished. Help me finish it. Yes, this means in concept, in design, or better yet, in its application.

In other news, I am happy for rest, happy for the day blessed by God, and happy for Hope, who sometimes flies so far ahead of my pack I almost lose sight of him into the dawn of that glorious Day...

Untitled

Sat, 7 Nov 2009 13:11:19 -0500

If Mondays (A Poem)

Fri, 2 Oct 2009 20:10:32 -0400

If Monday had been like a Tuesday,
There would have been icecream and cookies involved
(Or at least the thought of it.)
There would have been more sugar, and less
Lemons (in the lemonade that would have been leftover
From that previous Monday.)

If Monday had been like a Tuesday,
There would have been dances and barn parties
(Or at least the music of it in my head)
There would have been singing and working
Railroads and steamships, working machines, instead of this
Stagnation and empty mugs of imitation coffee.

If Monday had been like a Tuesday,
There would have been walks around the park,
Exercise sneakers and pilates (or at least the
Intention of it) with fresh air and
Reflective pull-overs. There would have been less fat
Gelling over into places they didn't belong
And more spinach, and roasted corn, and sweet potatoes.

If Monday had been like a Tuesday,
There would have been just 3 more days until the weekend, and time wouldn't have
Hung, limp and unthreatening, over deadlines and to-do lists.
There would have been productivity,
Orange juice and potato knishes (not at the same time), bagels which (just for that day)
Were not equivalent to ten slices of white bread.
There would have been toast with just the right amount of butter and
Strawberry jam, and maybe dipped in hot chocolate (once in a while.)

If Monday had been like a Tuesday,
There would have been world peace, and an agreement between nations
To throw away their nuclear weapons and facilities, and Clark Kent
Would've wrapped them up in a net and thrown them into
Outer space, because everyone knew and accepted that he was
Super. We would've held hands and
Sung peace songs like they did (minus the hallucinogens.)

If Monday would have been like a Tuesday,
Every day would be a Tuesday until it was the weekend,
Which would be on Wednesday, and Fridays would be strictly reserved
For carnivals and cupcakes. Saturdays would be Holy, as it
Has always been ordained to be, and Sundays would be
The weekend all over again.

If Monday would have been more like a Tuesday,
I wouldn't be wasting my time writing a poem about Monday
On a Tuesday, and thinking about it on a Friday before Monday started all over again,
and people would smile because I would smile
Because I wouldn't be distracted by breakfast food,
Steam-powered machines, and the peace riots.

Cost: Lessons from a Boarding High School

Tue, 15 Sep 2009 20:09:53 -0400

I figured the damage to be around $75. Maybe $150, at most.

I could tell my parents it was extra textbook money. Had to buy a new A&P book. They'd be so happy that I'd taken the initiative to take a college-level course in high school that they wouldn't hesitate to fork it over.

It was this knowledge that blunted the edge off any guilt that might have lingered for knocking over the lamp post on front campus with the golf cart a friend and I "borrowed" from the landscaping shed. Whatever the cost was, it was certainly worth the fun we had.

One thousand seventy nine dollars and forty eight cents.

I almost fell to my knees. What? What kind of gold-plated lamp post was this? The fee, I was told, was not even including the installation costs. That number knocked that hot-air balloon right from the sky into a hissing, albeit colorful, mess that was my life.

And the most idiotic thing about it was that the first question out of my mouth was, "Are you going to tell my parents?"

What a fool I was.

Old Habitations

Tue, 1 Sep 2009 19:09:47 -0400

I'm 30 years old and I've lived in nine different houses and 4 different states. I haven't lived with my parents since I moved out to college when I was 18. Even my summers at college were spent working at the medical school of my unviersity. Undergrad housing was not included in the aforementioned number. (Add about 7.)

I have a difficult time when someone asks me where I'm from. Where am I from? I've lived in New York, Michigan, and Massachussetts, and am currently residing in Virginia. How long does one have to live in a place in order to be from there? Am I from New York, where my parents live, and where I've spent just about half my life, a portion of which I was too small to remember? That was more than 10 years ago. Or am I from Massachussetts, where I spent some of the most formative years of my post-bachelor's degree life? I was only there for 4 years. Would I say I was from Michigan, where I came from last, although I resented the constant snow for the short two-year stint I was there for my Master's? Or even more complex, would I site my ethnic origin, even though I was born and raised in Brooklyn by immigrants who'd already lived outside of their country for a number of years?

I've resigned myself to saying, "I'm from here."

What people don't know is that "here" is not Virginia. It is not the short brick apartments with the large windows. It is not these hills and these blue skies. I know they don't know this because they ask questions like, "oh, where in?" and rattle me off names of counties and even major cities of which location I have no idea about. My ignorance betrays me. I'm an outsider.

Here is not the home of "home is where the heart is." Here is where my feet are, where my mission is, where my life's direction has turned to collide into. Here is simply here, not a location but a slice of time, the here of roll calls and hand-raises, the here, perhaps, of what I would say when I am asked, "where are you?" Here. "I'm here." This is also where I am from. From here to... God knows. But as of now, the origin is right here.

And what of my heart? I don't know. I suppose it's scattered all around the states, even broader than were I've lived; in California and Texas, and the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, which should surely be considered it's own independent Commonwealth, let alone state. I'm glad to reacquaint myself with pieces of it when I gather myself up and take a break from these 12 hour days to find what I left behind. It's substantial, but home still calls me.

And it's right here.