Sunday Played Her Best

Tossing and turning isn’t so good unless you’re a pancake or a sunflower.

And even church is subject to a schedule. So with that

a change of plans was in order, because I wasn’t about to let time get away with another easy cantrip.

Foggy ears and ringing eyes, I would see twice as well, hear sounds amusing and unsung.

It took a moment or seventeen, but I first caught her tune on the whir of the washing machine.

Ah-rhum-rhum-rhum Ah-rhum-ahrum-ahrum Ah-rhum-rhum-rhum.

Vibrations danced on my bones, turning them a way I hadn’t thought of in a while but should have.

They remembered

the highlights, but had forgotten the whole story, whittled it down to something gauzy and fair, and just a little smug.

A break in the motion brought my heart up fast: Lhul-Roo-Klunk.

A tremor, a tremble, a trombone — that’s where I felt her next: in the mustache

of the man playing brass crowns, and Little Walter’s sensational cup. Play, Walter, play

and take me on a journey of blues and jazz, and all that punchy pizazz. I could never be as cool as you, but my toes don’t know that, so we won’t tell ‘em.

I smiled at them; them like children who haven’t any idea their clothes are on inside out.

And backward.

The telephone rang: R-rwaaring-R-rwaaring-R-rawaaring.

. . . . . and I really was surprised to find her there. She sang for a little while

until she finally tired of being ignored. Then she talked to that Voice, but I stopped listening after that because she had already hung up.

I couldn’t blame her.

Swish, swish, swish–plink! He stood over that club, determined as beets

to make air soar and grass stick. Air was in some mood today and rerouted his plans; to Tibet, I think.

He smiled about it.

And of all the sounds I heard, all of Sunday’s finest playing in my ear,

it was your smile, sweet dear, majestic man, that I longed most to hear.

Wordy Wednesday

Dancing Boots

 

If I looked up too quickly, I knew it would be over.

And so I closed my eyes, squeezed them till I saw stars — or maybe I really did.

Toes pointed inward, my feet moved in sloppy ovals,

dancing.

Faster and faster to the music in my head.

 

On lavender’s pigment and nimbus’ laugh, I twirled, moving my arms up and down to see if I might fly.

Pink tulle tickled my thighs and bright blue boots slicked with rain carried me

upward and honest.

I liked honest; she smelled good.

Smiling until my cheeks throbbed for mercy, I spun.

I spun. I spun. I spin.

Try as you might, you could not stop me from spinning; for even the earth decided at that moment to go stagnant and still and stuffy,

I would remain in motion. My delicious ankles

like centrifuges, turning this body, lithe and nimble,

into sun’s gleam, into cat’s purr, into tree’s whisper.

And my boots so, so blue . . . can you see them? They almost tasted melancholy.

Almost,

but not quite.

Because blue is just blue even if love does not requite.

Press on and laugh.

There was never a foe to defeat laughter. She is cynosure;

an intoxicating fragrance given freely, without barter.

I make her mine. All mine.

Her and those boots, they belong to me. And if you could be brave,

your boots will know.

 

 

 

Wordy Wednesday

If a heart were a mosaic I would take you out.

Risk my own undoing.

With less of you, there would be more of me.

More of He.

You paint me with a sticky sadness; leave a residue I wouldn’t chew, even

if you didn’t taste like ash and mortar—and a little like a bad memory vividly remembered.

Carefully, I would rend you, digging, lifting, ripping.

And if that didn’t work, I would plunge my nails into your center and . . .

leave you be.

You filthy thing; you always did belong with me.

Shall I contend with you then?

Yes, I speak to you, dearest.

A stately sort of grace you bear, with your proud top hat, and centur-ree of dignity.

Been there. Done that. What else have you got?

It is by-and-by, I decide, that you, Sir and Madam may have wizened your wisdom;

for you’ve gone blind. Lost

your sighted sight, in return offered a slight, in which you insult the very foundation on which you stand.

On stilts you wobble to and fro, looking for what’s new and bold—something shiny to throw.

Fetch.

Is it LOUD that you seek? Repulsed by the passive and meek? I dare say you’ve missed the whole.

And so a quarter will have to do. You

keep what’s near and dear, and I’ll continue to sink, because,

at some point rescue is imminent.

And then where will you be?

Charmed, I’m sure, no wait . . .

that’s me.

But a lady I am. I bid you adieu most cordially.

In Good Company

The sun shines best when there are those present to receive its warmth.

Lives are full. Schedules are packed. And ambition never sleeps. Yet, still you came.

This is a very quick post to simply say, Thank You. The last couple of days have been abundantly warm and sunny . . . because of you. Because you found time in your day to stop what you were doing and be a part of something that is very special to me. Along with your congratulations and accolades, many of you followed the new blog, liked was was provided, and offered your thoughts for me to savor. Some of you — I’ll have you know — I could actually hear your raucous cheers through the speakers. And a few of you gracious beings went so far to plug the book on your social networking sites. Gloria, Michael . . . thank you. You can find these lovely people at the links below.

http://theblissfuladventurer.com/

http://gloriarichard.wordpress.com/

One expects such support and kindness from family and friends, those you have walked beside during the storms and rainbows; but from those you have never met? No matter where this road leads, where it suddenly ends and I must turn in search of another, I will have been blessed because kindness touched my life.

And so I shall wend and wind,

taking full oath in that which is staunch and blind, never to

forget what harkens in the rise of the curtain, the fall of the blithe.

Sweet serenades of company and bliss, a marching fathomless fleet to awaken one’s

kiss.

Happy Friday to you, friends.

~ Cara

awakeningfosterkelly.com

Poet. Poem. Poetry. Prose.

I didn’t realize this, but April is National Poetry Month.

Poetry: the topic is not so much as important, as the freedom to bend and shape it.

For me, writing poetry is an outlet. I go there when I cannot sleep, when my soul is restless and weary, reverent and grateful, or simply inspired to say something that refuses to reveal itself within conventional understanding.

Unlike writing commercial fiction, poetry affords liberties and gratuitous indulgences, allowing the writer to spread those wings hidden beneath the plumage of her everyday attire. The restrictions and confinements are only those the author arbitrates. And in my poetry — whether I be reading or writing it — there no restrictions. All is fair, just so long as what is written is done so with integrity and behooves the reader/writer, alike.

With that said, and lest I shock a few of you, I should tell you that the writing you’ll find below isn’t the norm; though I am the woman who sing praises to the One who loves me Divinely, equally, I am the woman who writes of the one she calls husband. Passion takes many forms; it is impartial, favoring neither the provocateur, nor the christian. I believe there is a misconception that passion cannot share a bed with morality. It can, and I do. There is lust and there is love, and passion fuels them both. I, however, choose to funnel mine through love.

This poem was written for a contest judged by the Poet Laureate himself, Billy Collins. The only precept was that it must start with the sentence “I want to play in a band.”

It received the honor of third place, and I am very proud to share it with you.

Have a wonderful day, everyone.

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