Inspiration Pops

October 22, 2014

I need to work on more drafts, because I just got a invitational call for submission from a well respected journal. I need to write more, but even tonight I’m distracted by my son’s excitement for an upcoming trip to Peru in 2015, and jabber in the kitchen about beer from my two men. Sigh.  But I try to slip in the muse when I can.

The title is not set in stone, it came from nowhere like a lot of poetry does, and I like where it is going…


Uncomfortable, Before And After

Opening up a book a friend handed me
I listened as she awkwardly said her mother
meant for me to have it.
She followed my posts (stalking grandmother?)
and was responsible for considering books
in her day job.
It was assumed I would enjoy the content.

Memoir caught my attention. Not the chubby girl
on the beach, it didn’t quite reach my consciousness.
My own journey of sharing overshadowed
the stirring of a writer’s mind.

Everyone has a story, a face—chubby, skinny,
hallow, broken, sad, happy, aging, and gone.
The body comes in all shapes and sizes, even the mind.
Economic, mid-size, to luxury models.
And all in our own individual colors—no duplicates.

I appreciated the thought of self-help on the friends’ part.
But what most don’t realize (excuse me for this judgmental blurb),
is it’s not just about pushing the plate away.
“What I cannot remember, however, is the decision I made
To eat the whole (birthday) cake”—It Was Me All Along, pg. 1.
Myself, I was born a bean pole.
Most of my life was eating my weight in food, and never gaining a pound.
Until I had my own children, it happens.

Like my Dad’s metabolism, the idea of food did not scare me. My mom,
however, was born chunky, and went to her grave morbid obese. She
was an emotional eater, and it showed throughout my childhood.
We all ate our plates clean.
Her mother was overweight, what they once called healthy. Her sister was,
and their children did not hang, all skin-and-bones.

Lanky, stalks me, like an empty corn field in October.
Rain falling, collecting in the grooves of the dirt.
Mud forms in the cold, full of minerals and nourishing elements.
I drive past them all, each day; each hint of wheat color remainders,
broken off at the beginning of its growth, jagged reminders
growing smaller in the rear view mirror.
The window wipers grind, back and forth in unison,
clearing yellow, orange and browns, remaining greenish,
a few crumbling edges break away.
They fell and drop with seasonal showers—debris clears.
Every day we cannot experience warm and fuzzy.

Comments are closed.

%d bloggers like this: