"Constantly Risking Absurdity."

It's been nearly a year and a half since I've allowed myself to pick up an pen and write from my heart. Truthfully, I've come to realize that over those two years, though I busied myself with an abundance of school work, reading materials, research projects, money making endeavors, and housework, I spent most of my time mourning a loss. 

When I entered my freshman year at Waynesburg University, technically speaking, I was a psychology major. Nevertheless, when I stepped foot inside a building by the name of Buhl Hall, I discovered something magical, a world unlike I had ever encountered. I discovered the classroom of Jill Moyer Sunday. She helped mold, shape, prune, and shake up an ability I for years took for granted: the ability to create via the written word. And ever since I traded the safety of her presence for a new start, a life in Madison, Indiana, I've felt lost. 

The summer before my sophomore year, I felt my words slowly withering away. By the time fall had arrived, the fire that used to so vibrantly light my fingers on fire, scorching beauty across page or computer screen, died out. I hadn't a match to light it once again. I felt that without the walls of the classrooms that shaped me, without the mentor who so gracefully built me up, I was nothing. Somewhere, deep down, I felt as though I had abandoned the best thing that had ever happened to me, and that because of it, I no longer deserved to feel the warmth and comfort that creation had gifted to me.

Until the day I met Dr. Barbour. On April 29th, Kathy Barbour walked into the Fiction and Poetry Workshop, mop and broom in hand, a boombox on her hip. Her pale blue eyes danced within her sockets, as she told us that before we could begin May term, we had to be initiated. In order to find success throughout the course of the class, we had to "constantly risk absurdity." 

And so she tossed us kitchen utensils, mops, brooms and the like, and told us that we had to make music with them. She danced around the room to a groovy, island tune, twirling the mop as though it were a loyal dance partner. This went on for another twenty minutes or so. Yes, we felt completely stupid. But little did we know, Kathy Barbour was a genius. 

What she was doing was lowering our inhibitions, easing our tension, erasing our expectations. By God, she broke the ice with a jackhammer of crazy. But it did the trick. By the second day of class, we were pouring our words out to one another, eagerly drinking up one another's styles, rhymes, and rhythms.

I'd like to thank Dr. Barbour. She opened my heart to writing, again. I never had to stifle the fire in my heart that begged and begged me to pick up a pen, and write. And she reminded me of something I had long forgotten during the course of my nearly two year hiatus; my talent doesn't come from a place, it comes from me.

So without further ado, here's a poem I wrote this morning, while sleep still clung to my lashes. Enjoy!

“A Front Porch Kind of Night”

Purple petals flow against her lobes,

glowing strands of auburn hair catch her pearls.

She digs her bitten nails into the floral scarf

wrapped around her neck, a steady arch. 

The stem folds into her glasses,

a brilliant shade of blue.

She gazes out between 

the bundles of brush, huddled together, 

a pair of cardinals ruffle feathers, 

uplifting melting flakes of snow. Shuffle

their feet across the slush, beaks nibbling, lustful lips

longing to wander into full, icy hips.

In the Beginning...

I want to spin words off my tongue, send them soaring through the air, until they land into your heart.

I miss the misty breath that once fogged up my chocolate glasses as your kisses and my laughter filled the room.

I long to type with eager fingers, carving letters from a sea of white screen, and watch those letters form words that bring a tear onto your cheek.

I miss the romance that used to cloak my satin pillowcase with the scent of your cologne.

I need the man you once were, some 22 months ago.

"This is Halloween, This is Halloween."

The late September rain beats against the Mazda 3, like God’s impatient fingers drumming against a wooden table. My tongue brushes the corner of my lips; it feels lower than usual. The glint of fifty water droplets catches my eye, as they hit the windshield and quickly disappear, like a finger pressed to memory foam. It's as though I'm in a fog, a state of indifference, maybe just the fall semester blues settling deep into my psyche.

I quietly admit to myself that a recent trip to Walmart was the highlight of my week. I remember nearly skipping through the revolving doors, scouring the rows of product, until I finally found the seasonal section. A row of endless Halloween supplies lined either side of the isle, and instantaneously, I felt like a child again. As my fingers grazed the cardboard boxes filled with orange and purple lights, I couldn't help but smile. For the first time in months, a fluttery sense of excitement that filled my stomach with utter joy consumed me, and sent a tension through my torso.

Upon returning home to a front porch embellished with three plump orange pumpkins my heart leaped out of my chest and I squealed like a piglet. All I wanted in that moment was to tear into the 7 boxes of lights I had just purchases and complete my little haven of "Happy Halloween" goodness. And soon enough, after hours of painstaking visual scrutiny filled with, "move that strand a little more to the left" or "drop that piece a smidge lower" until my fingers ached, my fall ball of violet spiders, jack-o-lanterns, cotton webbing, and nearly a hundred feet of lights was complete. Phew!

Impulses

I was once a steel curtain of impulses. Though, time wore on like an old pair of torn, denim jeans. My once limitless amount of patience somehow transformed into a hummingbird, soft, fluttery. And disappeared before I knew it.

Wither

It's an awful feeling, watching something wither like a daisy drenched in summer's blazing heat. Time slows, emotions run irritably, and the moisture hanging in the air feels like a doctor's BP cuff clasped around my lungs. First, it's the crisp, white petals that turn a putrid, soggy brown. Before long, the tall, leafy stem that once held it all together has arched towards the ground, and no longer supports the flower's weight.

I make my way across the yard composed of brittle blades of grass. They almost break beneath my sandals, a trail of sunken footprints behind me. I've reached the wooden, rusted pen holding my two beloved pups. I watch their tongue droop from their mouths, trickling thick, sticky spit. Wolfie's breath is quick and labored, puffing his broad chest in and out. Peanut lazes in the shade, cloaked by a sea of overgrown weeds. The smiles on their snouts nearly break my heart, because I know they're hot and miserable. Yet, they still greet me with wet kisses each afternoon when I come out of the air-conditioned house. Though, I leave them all alone, in the early summer's blaze to wither.

Heat Wave

It's been one of those gloomy days, despite the fact the sun is shining high in the Indiana sky and the air's a toasty 95 degrees. My skin may be glistening with orbs of sticky sweat, but my heart is lined with snowflakes, trickling drops of icy water down into my stomach. The urge to cry tugs at my tongue, and sends a frost across my gaze.

My fingers latch onto the damp, white basket filled to the top with paint-stained clothes. My feet drift towards the empty loveseat, floating over the caramel carpet. I fall onto the cushions. Staring blankly at the pile of red and grey cotton t-shirts, the streaks of glossy black mixed with denim legs reminds me of the couple we once were.

Before the graveyard stole time we spent together wrapped in a sea of dark blue blankets, tangled like the laundry that I'm now aimlessly folding. Before afternoon scuffles were routine due to precious daylight slept away and random bills stacked inches high. Before you left the sheets unmaid, forgot to feed the dogs, and threw your socks beside the bed, leaving me to catch the slack.

It's been one of those chilly nights, although my hair's damp to touch and the temp's at 82. My skin may be cloaked with goosebumps, but my heart is scorched in flame.

Asphyxia

Lately, it's been hard to breathe.

Beats of sweat collect beneath my fingertips, pressed firmly against the radial artery. I can feel the even steadiness of my heart's beat, I wish my mind was just as stable.

I'm sprawled across my sheer, charcoal comforter and my eyes begin to roll. The lungs that rise and fall within my chest somehow forget to breathe. My head starts twirling like an uneasy ballerina. It's like a cinderblock came tumbling from the sky and fell onto my ribcage, for a heaviness is lingering throughout my upper torso.

My lungs begin to burn, crying out for delicious air. My brain ignores the pleads, and leaves me staring at the ceiling. I watch the fan cut up the oxygen that hovers in the sky; it fades from cream to midnight black, as glimmering spots of white appear before my eyes. It all goes dark, my body's nerves flutter like a swarm of butterflies batting at my limbs. Stillness overcomes me, and I've fallen into sleep.

I'm awakened by the sound of boxes slamming into concrete, as a pair of muscular arms stack my pink totes against the wall. I look into your dirty, brown eyes and draw a smile upon my face. Sucking in a plethora of air, I turn around, folding a crate between my fingers.