Where Is My Red

Where is my red?

I am wounded and I have lost my color
When did life leave me?
Why did red turn to grey?
I found red once
Stray, lost in wintery innocence
I was surprised
And I wanted to hide-
From red, or from myself
I am unsure
Sometimes I see this life-color
And it challenges me to be free
I think I will try
To remember
Where I last saw her
With smiles and love and beauty
A heart full of red
A world full of color

I Am From...

I am from clothespins, Tide, and hot summer breezes.

I am from the big curve at the 11 mile mark and the circle driveway I used to park in.

I am from dreaded poison ivy and pesky mosquitoes,

And eagerly anticipated dogwood trees.

I am from Turkey at Thanksgiving and Pizza at Christmas,

From the expected and the unexpected.

I am from freckled cheeks and arms, almond-shaped brown eyes,  

And pale skin that burns.

I am from kamistybeth

And Elmores and Ballews.

I am from hard - sometimes sweet - martyrdom

And smiles that sometimes hide.

I am from I love you and Don’t be sassy

And This too shall pass...

I am from AG, fire and brimstone, and revivals that didn’t really mean anything.

I am from a city I don’t remember and a city I abscond, and a city with new roots.

I am from home-grown corn, fried green tomatoes,

And the summer Dad said Merry Christmas in July with presents of garden hoes.

I am from the picture wall of baby photos, school portraits, and unknown faces from long before,

And from the top shelf in the walk-in closet with all its secrets:

Untouched family albums, clipped-out newspapers, and old half-forgotten letters.

I am from hurts and hugs and half-truths and secrets -

Each being discovered one at a time,

Like finding southern country treasure,

Or an un-seen bee,

Hovering over a glass of sweet iced tea.

Morning Pages

It is Easter - early afternoon.  I am sitting outside and it is starting to rain: beautiful, big, fat rain drops, the kind you can hear falling.  Norma was going to do an Easter egg hunt but now it will have to wait.  Sitting out here, I can't help but hope all the laughing and happy screaming children go inside.  I would love to sit out here with just the rain for company.  It is utterly peaceful.  It is starting to rain in earnest now and with it a little thunder and a cool misty breeze.  The black car just drove away while the red and white stay, a couple of passengers not wanting to face the rain.  Over there is a mom and baby, perhaps as enthralled as I am, looking out over their balcony.  The water is pooling in the courtyard and I am happy to see the rose bushes blooming again.  I wondered about them just yesterday.  Oh look!  The happiest surprise of all!  My neighbor is blowing bubbles into the rain.  I wish I had a camera for this moment has made me happy.  The thunder is closer and I see Misha looking out from the boy's room.  I think she likes this spot because she can watch the pigeons, but today there are no pigeons.  The quiet I desired has finally come, along with more rain-spray.  I don't mind getting wet.  I think I may have dreamed this.  The neighbors have all gone back in and still the courtyard floods.  A blue truck replaced the black, the white car decided to leave, but the red car remains - much like me.  I look around again and this time I see a neighbor leaning over the edge with a potted plant, choosing to let the original waters nourish this house plant of theirs.  Beautiful and original.  I am alone again.  The skies have admittedly turned greyer, but I do not mind.  It is still bright day, not to be confused for darker times.  The hour, the rain, the bushes blooming below - these all remind me it is spring.  It comes back to Easter day, circular indeed.  This time the rain and breeze are pushing me in, too wet to stay, but still I hesitate.  It is lovely and I do not want to go.  But with the rain comes boredom and little boys who want to play.  Good day, Easter, good day!

How do I start?

Most days I do not know what to write or what to say.  My husband says that I am scared to look in my heart.  That it is like peeking under a rock and then running away.  I think I agree with him.  I am afraid, afraid that if I look, nothing will be there.  I have always said there are two kinds of people in the world: those who create art and those who appreciate art.  I have always called myself the latter but it is the artist I wish to be.  They say in order to create you must first be willing to do so poorly.  I feel like I can’t do that.  Or won’t.  I want to create.  I think creating is beautiful.  Therefore whatever it is I might create should be perfect.  But this is all wrong.  I have to learn to wander and linger inside my soul.  I have to listen fiercely to the tiniest of whispers inside myself.  I need to stop relying on feelings—as in the need to FEEL creative before picking up a pen.  I need to immerse myself. I need to try and try and try again.  I read this recently: When do you make the time? They say, and it’s impossible not to. Art is oxygen is faith is sanctuary. This is how I want to be with my writing.  I want to have a voice.  I choose to exercise this voice.  I have to because there is no other way.