Falling Off the Horse/Not what I wanted to Say

You question me, and all of a sudden

Without my consent

Without my desire my voice

Slips out of my control

And the words I’m shouting

In my head--

Strong words, confident words--

Are trapped behind my voicebox like...

Like fumbling actors looking in vain

For their lines, like...

Like tall men awkwardly trying to

Tip-toe through a labyrinth

Full of broken glass; all of them

Hesitant, no matter how much

They wish to save

The play or run

Through the maze with

Heads held high and proud

And so even though I struggle and

Fight to keep the frightened horses

In check, the reins

Slip, the rider cries out and falls, and I,

Left on the ground far from my

Destination and without a horse, am

Left with no control

No control! None at all!

And that frustration alone,

More than anything else,

Forces the words stumblingly,

Haltingly out from where they are

Clenched between my teeth

In an ugly drip-drip of words

Slowly calcifying in brittle stalactite spears,

Easily crushed in the careless vibrations of your

Voice, telling me louder, louder! I can’t hear you!

Crushed to the marrow-yellow dust of my weak words

And even more mortifying I can hear the

Agonizing onerous pace of my

Struggling speech, dragged out to tortuously

Slow proportions-- god, a child of two could

Express herself better than I at

This moment-- that makes you relent,

Because you think

I’m going to cry.

Thank You For All You've Been

I guess i never fully appreciated
The person that you were
I was to caught up
In a silly love triangle
Between
You
Me
And my heart
My stupid heart
That made me fall
So madly in love with you
Even though
Deep down
I knew it couldn't last forever
But now that your gone
I realized how lucky i was
To have been able
To call you mine
And I want to thank you
For the special memories
That might cause me
Heartache for a while
But will end up
Meaning a lot to me
In the future

Prices Payed

Now that you are gone
There is nothing more
For me to live for
You were everything to me
You weren't just a friend
You were something more
Someone I truly loved
And now your gone
Just like that
And the memories
I have of you
Haunt me like a waking dream
Silence suffocates me
As I lie away at night
Waiting for the tears
That won't come
I let you into my heart
To freely
And now I play the price
For loving you to much

Truth & Lies

This is all so
Confusing
Crazy
Heavy-heartening
One minute
You seem to love me
The next
You don't
I wish you would tell me
What was bothering you
Or at least the truth
Don't lie to me
I hate that
I can see right through you
I can read you
Like an open book
I know there is something
You're not telling me
Something that would put
All the pieces
Of the puzzle together
Then at last
I could rest in peace
And happiness
And joy
I won't hate you
Or think bad of you
If you just tell me the truth
You're crushing me
Suffocating me
Making my love for you
Fade
So please
If you love me
Don't lie
Just tell me the truth

Galway County, Wisconsin

[A short story for my creative writing class. Any criticism appreciated.]

Horace sat alone at the kitchen table, reading his newest volume of Irish history. He didn’t notice that his mug of hot cider had melted the thin plastic of the tablecloth again. Silently turning the pages, Horace lost himself in the mysteries of the old country. By degrees, he lost all sense of self. He forgot he was a sixty-three year old man in Wisconsin; in his mind he was a strong young man in Ireland. He forgot he worked in a sad gray office building all day; in his mind he was a historical researcher for National Geographic, being paid to explore the weird old ruins on Ireland’s rugged west coast, near the choppy shores of the North Atlantic.

Holding the heavy book, Horace fell into a half-sleep. Suddenly, he wasn’t pretending anymore—he truly believed he was an explorer in Ireland. In his half-conscious stupor, Horace went over to the closet to put on some hiking boots. Opening the door, he hardly blinked as various odds and ends clattered out into the hall behind him. He put on two mismatching hiking boots and a bright yellow raincoat over his rumpled plaid shirt. With a gray fedora on his graying head and an old umbrella in hand, he ventured forth.

Outside, it was snowing for about the fortieth time that winter. “How curious! Snow, at this time of year!” Horace shouted madly to himself, his gray mustache positively quivering with excitement. “And in the county Galway! Won’t Penny be surprised to hear this!” He twirled dizzily in the wind.

Horace meandered across the gritty sand toward the shoreline of Lake Michigan. “The sea! The sea! I must be in Galway Bay!” he cried, swaying a bit in the gale. His poor umbrella struggled valiantly, suddenly turning inside out. “Oysters, I must dig for oysters!” Horace poked rather limply at the snowy sand with the broken umbrella.

A Coast Guard officer was patrolling the perimeter of the shore. She frowned. What was this man doing out here, in the cold? Surely he’d heard the news of the imminent blizzard. “Hey, what are you doing?” she called out.

“Digging for oysters!” Horace cried, triumphantly displaying his catch.

The officer looked at Horace’s fist dubiously. It was clutching a bunch of rocks, dead plant matter, and sand. “Oh really?” She reached for the walkie-talkie on her hip.

Suddenly, Horace lurched over, snatching the device. “An artifact!” he crowed. “Good work, little lady! But this is only the beginning. We have so much left to find!” And with that, he turned around abruptly and galloped into the frigid water, now swirling with snow.

The officer kicked off her heavy boots and dove in after him. One way or another, Horace landed face-up on the Wisconsin beach. Soon enough he was in a screaming ambulance, tearing down the slippery streets.

He gasped desperately for breath. He came out of his trance. Someone was pushing on his ribcage. His lungs were on fire.

Horace frowned, struggling to focus on the hazy figures swarming above him in the dry, warm darkness. “Where am I?” he asked feebly.

The officer stopped giving CPR and smirked. “County Galway Hospital.”

My Refuge

The chair is black, only the smallest semblance of a back. The pedals are three brassy, slightly cool metal levers; my right foot on the far right, my left foot on far left—I leave the center one on its own. The keys are familiar wood, somewhat glossy, smudgy in places but still comfortable. Gold lettering names some obscure manufacturer from Baltimore. Above, 264 little pegs—three for each of the 88 keys—hold wire strings taut for worn hammers to tap or pound. The lid, with its faintly peeling black, paint, is closed.

My fingers and my brain think together, one leaving off where the other begins. I find some sense of peace here that I cannot find elsewhere. My problems are reduced to coordination of my hands, producing the next chord in a pleasing way, deciding whether high notes or low octaves are better, dynamics. And none these decisions is constricting, inalterable: I can take back anything, play it again, experiment with different melodies and harmonies. I can play the same two F sharps with my left hand for half an hour, and no one will care, because I’m alone and listening.

Sometimes, when I am done with an idea, I like to play a nice ending chord and hold down the sustain pedal. I can take my fingers off the keys and listen to the notes fade into nothingness. A minute, two minutes can go by before I can no longer detect the notes.

i dont know...

I want to laugh...

I want to scream!

That feeling inside me...

Like I'm bursting at the seams!

Imploding, and choking...

hoping and wishing...

stopping.

and sitting.

and breathing.

and then...

realization.

the feelings, the stress.

i am alive.

but im proud of this.