titles are not important

Aside from feeling amazingly weighed down the last few weeks, I feel good today. I am wearing a frilly pink shirt that makes me feel young and feminine, which are things that I don't often feel. I also NEVER wear pink, but with the amount of compliments that I have received I think that my $5.99 Ross Dress for Less purchase was a win. It also makes me feel like I should be wearing a pair of jelly sandals (a high five for anyone who knows what I am talking about).

I am aware that most of my posts lately haven't been really writing, and that I can't really explain. My flirtation with poetry has had a long and checkered past. I have notebooks filled with mediocre, whiny, high school drivel that should never, ever, ever, ever, ever....ever see the light of day again, much less be posted on the Internet (unless it was to give someone a really hearty laugh, because that would be the only thing they are good for). I also am aware that the poetry posted on this self-indulgent blog is also mediocre and whiny but I guess that's probably just as good as my poetry is ever going to get.

Anywho.

Today while walking back from the mail room I saw a sweet older women with her grown daughter sitting in our Audiology waiting room. They sat quietly next to each other. The daughter reading from a TIME magazine and her mother just sitting, staring. The mother broke her gaze and reached down and began to rummage in the bottom, she pulled out two pieces of cellophane wrapped candy. She held it out to her daughter and asked if she "would you like a sweet?". That? That right there sent tears to sting my eyes and smile to my face. This tiny moment, the aging mother who sits here, with the help of her daughter, still needing to mother after all these years. It made me want to collapse on the floor in fits of sobs for the sweetness of it, it made me want to call my mom and tell her much how I love her, it made me miss my now passed grandmother, and for just a moment I could that mother, years younger, sitting with her little girl in a similar waiting room, daughter kicking her legs and fidgeting in her chair and that same mother reaching down, finding her purse, and offering that little girl "a sweet" to occupy her mouth and mind in the those slow moments before the doctor comes.

This post makes no sense, but I don't care.

Haiku to you too.

OK. Um. These were all written in the span of about 10 minutes. On pink sticky notes none the less. I've never written Haiku's and I'm sure the structure isn't proper so bare (bear?) with me.

In the morning, now
my tea bag bleeds in my cup.
Murder of water.

Watch ticks by the time.
Stop it hand, stop it right now.
He never listens.

Music mumbles psst
to tell secrets to my heart.
I feel in the know.

Wink wink nudge nudge cough.
Are you listening to me?
Yeah that's what I thought.

Copy maintenance,
I call but they never come.
The black ink still smears.

I feel all grown up.
Then Disney makes me smile,
and I feel better.

Lemon Ginger tea
smells like Pinesol floor cleaner.
Ew, I just drank that.

My stapler sits.
I don't like the way she stares.
Stapler's a she...

Wedding rough drafts....

Love is.
Love is unoriginal.
Love is all around.
Love is flowers, and song, and birds.
Love is sunsets, and moutains, and canyons.
If you could speak or write or hear or see love. Its been done before.
Love is paitent, love is kind. Yes.
Love also doesn't wake up on time, and leaves the keys on the counter.
Love doesn't do the laundry or change the diapers when you ask.
Love is screaming, yelling, crying, and scowling.
Love makes faces at you behind your back and drinks to much wine while out to dinner with your parents.
Love doesn't like the way you make meatload or how you fold your socks.
Love hates the way you tap on the steering wheel when your bored and the way you laugh when you're trying to impress people.
Love just is.
But you are love.
Love is a word, a thing, and action, a noun, verb, adverb, whatever.
But you are your love.
Your love may not be as deep as the ocean, but it could be as wide as the sky.
Your love may not flow like a spring, but it may renew like the sand on the shore.
Your love may not be blind, but it may convinently hard of hearing.
If there is a word about love it's be said. If there is a story about love its been told. Every metaphor, simile, poetic phrase, anicdote, musing, tidbit, and ryhme. Done, done, and done.
But no one is you.
You with the kind eyes and the loud voice.
You with the shy smile and the boistrus laugh.
In a thousand years, a million poets, could have complied their works and not come up with this.
Because nothing. No story. No anicdone. No song. Could have made love like this.
Love so childish and innocent.
Love so unexpected and untamed.
Love so puzzling and perfect.
Love so reckless and adventuring.
Love on its own is unoriginal and tired.
People make love new. People like you.

Blame the rain that it makes no sense.

I stood, staring. Hair in yarns around my face,
heat, and steam, a smile firmly planted.
Couldn't tell you why I smiled, day hardly begun,
only a glimpse, winking from the hours to come,
stress and mess, hustle and bustle.
And yet a smile.

There are things that happen in the shower.
Good release, melting stress, the splish
and splash of feet as the soap drains down
and down and down. Bangs and thuds, falling bottles,
stubbed toes, knots that won't let go,
lack of time. water. energy.who knows.

Sometimes I think great thoughts.
Mostly, not.
Mostly I think, of things that happened,
events to come, words I should have spoken,
bits of prose I should have writ down.
Not really great, just, there.

Sometimes its just enough to stand.
To squeeze shut my eyes, bow my head,
and wish for the water to wash it away.
What? I do not know. Who? Who knows.
But smiling in the shower helps. Sometimes.
Never. Mostly. But it can't hurt right?