I Forgot, My Winter Haiku

the endless winter
can you do it this year love
i'll knit a sweater

Ah, Winter

So today's high was 1 degree. No, I'm not kidding, that's a one. As in one single degree. It snowed all day, which honestly I wouldn't mind so much if it wasn't so freaking cold when I have to go shovel. They have no idea what "snow days" are here either. Which would be okay too - except that I'm the one that has to drive my child to school in the morning. As you can all imagine, I am not the best snow driver in the world. Much as growing up in Oklahoma completely obliterated any chance I had of becoming a successful parallel parker, as I can't think of one single place there that doesn't have at least a 20 car parking lot & that includes the convenience stores, it has also made me an extremely nervous snow driver. But, the kids love the snow. What are you going to do? Please think nice happy thoughts of Eli getting a job very, very south of here.

worst blogger ever actually ;)

it's haiku Monday kids!! Seriously, I have to get back on track here, so I'm starting out slow -

watch planes fly over
dream of happy homecoming
it's all here right now

be back soon, I promise

Worst sahm ever??!!

So it's been almost exactly a year since I decided to quit working for the man and stay at home. I'm sad to report that I'm still not very good at the whole domestic goddess business. Not all days are failtacular, of course, but I do often worry that my head may implode at any moment. Rachel Ray, Martha Stewart (Raywart?), I'm not (amazingly this does not keep me up at night). Lucky for me, I have the best, sometimes strangest, kids in the world.



Barefoot
children scramble
across searing cement
through acres of brambles
bare-armed & legged
wiggling through barb-wire fences
& tumbling on mountains of rocks
smiling triumphantly
carting turtles & beetles &
pies made of mud
chattering at butterflies &
making epic castles of
cardboard boxes
to be so brave & love so much.

so i already have to amend my last post.......

seriously, I'm never going to get this how I want it. Ok, so the real question is: is the girl just a pretentious hipster douchebag or is she just bored & alone & contemplating why the hell she's still paying back a student loan to a sub-par university for an education that has never been used & if she was so smart how come she didn't just go to trade school and hey, the water looks cool............

You just have to sit down and write something

Ok, so this is for Jen - who brilliantly pointed out that I haven't actually posted a word here yet. I expect that anyone reading this already knows me pretty well, so I'm not going for a giant profound hello, welcome to my world here, yet. Maybe the blogging will be cheaper and more productive then the payment each week to my lovely counselor, I guess we'll all find out soon enough. I am unfortunately slightly overwhelmed by the narcissistic nature of this whole process, but hey, I'm not making you read this drivel. Love you guys, here's a very old poem I wrote just for you ;)

She stands arms outstretched
towards the sun
glinting highlights of dormant
winter
pushing them in the light
struggling in impatience
for the rays of warmth
to wash away the past
sometimes it almost seems
seemless
the boundary of her body & the sky
one
aglow - stretching as high
as the fingers of the trees
touching eternity
that expression
that impression
may one day
save the world
may save you
may save me
in childish glee
for life
paused on the brink
like the second before
descending off a slope
of earth
ready to fall
but caught in defiance
by something so instinctual
to be invisible
but to outshine the very sun
just a star
but just as magical
an unfathamable beauty
felt more then seen
purity as a metaphor
caught for a second
in a gorgeous girl
in a gorgeous heart
in a gorgeous day

And here's one (obviously not by me) that sums up my feelings about this at the moment, although the question remains in my mind am I the girl or I am the opposite of the girl?:

The Pose

Under the awning,
where the light yellows a little
like chardonnay,
she is her own portrait,
moody on the Boulevard St-Germain,
pouring little puddles
from her glass onto the tabletop,
noting how the water holds steady
as the glass tilts away,
not minding the waiter's stares,
because she is on the edge of metaphor
& feels very french
(by way of Ohio):
The day tips & everyone spills
toward evening - yes, yes -
& she writes this on her soggy napkin,
the letters bleeding wide
into a blurry watercolor
of which she is the main subject.

-Neal Bowers