the ranting boomer's Open Salon Blog

She Haunts Me, That Small Girl

Tue, 24 Aug 2010 14:08:07 -0400

Have you ever bled words solely to purge the thought, nay, to purge God forsaken pictures from your head? But, how preposterous to ask such a question. Of course you have.

I know what that's like.

Like the tale of the door and the death on the cracked old cement step and the infinite shrieking, but wait, for I get ahead of myself yet again and that's a tale for, perhaps, another day.

She haunts me, that small thin girl with the round and too solemn eyes surrounded by pretty parents, smiling sisters and beautiful babies in ruffled gossamer gowns.

I know what she saw.

Don't tell,the big people told her, afraid. Don't tell, or they'll take you away and lock you up with the crazy people for telling such wild stories and what good will the truth be then?

So she never told.

A penny for your thoughts? the ruggedly pretty but temporary boy said teasingly as he nuzzled her nape, brushing hair from dark eyes decades later and she smiled almost wistfully.

Still, she never told.

It fell on my desk nonchalantly along with dozens lacking the same impact, and once again she haunts me, that silent girl with loud eyes. Because I know.

I know what she saw.

“Writing is finally about one thing: going into a room alone
and doing it. Putting words on paper that have never been there
in quite that way before. And although you are physically
by yourself, the haunting Demon never leaves you,
that Demon being the knowledge of your own
terrible limitations, your hopeless inadequacy,
the impossibility of ever getting it right.”
William Goldman

I Crawl Here Hungry and You Feed Me

Sun, 22 Aug 2010 14:08:35 -0400

Mostly a ghost writer, I bleed words from soul to fingertip, signed by a name not my own.

My sister tells me I'm a born caregiver. What else can I be when need seeks out my heart with unspoken whispers? Yet to figure out how to silence the whispers, I'm not sure I'd want to. In work, too, I suppose.

Silently I watch as they graciously accept accolades for my thoughts and musings and wistfully, I sip from the strange brew of emotion. So familiar writing in another voice, I fear my own floats away in the mist and I smile with an odd contentment. It pays the bills. Sustains the whisperers.

Depleted, I crawl here hungry and you feed me.

I seldom come to write and my comments are infrequent. I take so much and give back so little, save for intense appreciation you cannot see and an extra number in your ratings that you can.

Wishing I could thank all of you by name, I realize I cannot. Where would I start? There are too many. The names would fill the page and overflow into next week. Today, I fed from Mimetalker and Mark, Lisa, and Sparking. Tomorrow, you may be the one to sustain me. And I thank you.

"And now here is my secret, a very simple secret.
It is only with the heart that one can see rightly.
What is essential is invisible to the eye."
Antoine de Saint-Exupery

He Is Gone and I Have No Words

Thu, 22 Jul 2010 01:07:58 -0400

The eulogy would have
made him proud,
I like to think.

Oh, how they
laughed, followed
by hiccupped tears
and the soft swoosh
of kleenex pulled
from the box.

One by one my sisters

and brothers

joined me.

Sharing memories,

some of them
broke. sobbed.
face in hands,
shoulders heaving.
But not I, not I.

You should have been
a speaker, someone said,
and my mask smiled back.

How are you holding up?

another asked
ever so gently,

touching my shoulder.

I'm fine,
I lied.

I would give
almost anything to
hug him just once more.

I seek the words
but they escape my
lips and seep through
eyes instead until
silently, I float away
on a sea of tears.

And You Wish...

Thu, 15 Apr 2010 17:04:57 -0400

Not poetry... I'm no poet. Just broken prose, really.

In the beginning, they’re wonderful, the cheerleaders.

Soul pumping inspiration that sings to your psyche

until one day, perhaps at 8 pm

on a cloudy Wednesday evening

when you realize

you’re the lone player on the field

the only one carrying the ball, or washing

an old man’s soiled buttocks, and

not for the first time that day, as

the phone rings and the business needs

tending and the kitchen needs cleaning

and the laundry needs washing, and

they fade into background noise,

the cheerleaders;

and you wish,

wish

for another player to carry the ball

just one more yard

a tag team player, even, to

leap the rope in the nick of time

and high five your broken body

so you can roll out of the ring

gasping, bruised

but still breathing, thank God,

and rest, just rest, breathing

one long breath after another

long enough, just long enough

to go one more round.

They Who Dream By Day

Tue, 30 Mar 2010 14:03:02 -0400

They who dream by day are cognizant of many things
which escape those who dream only by night.

EDGAR ALLAN POE
"Eleonora"

photo credit; Brugge Castle