Mood:  cheeky

He was sitting on the bench
waiting to go home,
waiting for his girl,
she was waiting for that Payday Loan.

He was always waiting for something,
waiting like a game,
waiting for tomorrow,
but tomorrow will be the same.

The sign said No Fax Payday Loans,
fast and simple.
But hadn't he fallen for that before,
Caught with a smile and a dimple.

Before long, she was back on his arm,
maybe his luck had changed.
The sun was setting on him,
the lights silver, green, and strange.

***
Okay, was that the worst poem I ever wrote? It was an exercise in rhyme, meter, and word choice at least.

Posted by mary at 10:22 PM EDT

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Mood:  incredulous

I found his poems at poets.org (and a better picture), and just have to disagree. First, my poems are so not that long and dense! I was going to copy and paste one of his poems in this post, but... I dare not. I don't know what the other choices were. If I had my say, it'd be Sylvia Plath or Anne Sexton.

Posted by mary at 10:04 PM EDT

Updated: Thu, Jun 19 2008 10:29 PM EDT

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Mood:  crushed out

R still laments his career in computers, that he could be making big bucks working for some IT firm. His cousin, who is also a part-time actor, pulls down mega dough, doing something with computers, we don't know what. It may be at this charlotte web site design firm. But if it's not your passion, you won't excel at it like these guys.

So maybe these days, with all the blogging and writing I'm doing, I am rethinking my career as a teacher. Well, not really re-thinking. Just wishing I had more time to write, to finish and publish something. Stay at home mom kind of thoughts. I hate to fulfill that tired old saying - "Those that can't, teach." I have to keep hope that I can. Maybe R should have finished that computer degree after all.

Posted by mary at 9:36 PM EDT

Updated: Thu, Jun 19 2008 9:37 PM EDT

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Mood:  not sure

I got this idea from another blogger, who asks for a person's name and age and writes a short piece in response. It could be fantasy, romance, anything. I thought I'd give it a try. I'm going to start with myself, before I victimize anyone else. My name is Mary and I'm 30 years old.

****
The chickens will wait, she thought. Dawn had already crested the other side of the hill. It would still take a few more minutes for those first orange and pink and yellow rays to reach her bedroom window. For now, she steadied her breathing and tried to fall back asleep.

The air in the room was still and heavy. In the middle of the night, the door had slammed shut, while a thunderstorm rolled through the valley. There wasn't much rain, but the curtains spread themselves like wings across the room. With the door closed, they hung straight down like pressed clothes.

"Mary," his voice began, insistent like a child. "You'd better wake up."

"I will," Mary said flatly. She had not been able to fall back asleep afterall. Just listened to Brick, their rooster, crow over and over, thinking he was the only potent male in the whole world. The man next to her, face down in the pillows, turned toward the wall, he knew better. He knew a man wasn't worth much these days, not as much as farm land, a crop of soybeans, or the power of nature herself.

Still, Mary traced his spine with her hand. The skin on his back paler than the tanned skin of his arms, paler still than her own fingers and wrist. If only this moment would stretch on, the sun not rise beyond its reach to heat the world. If only she could lie like this, could listen to things growing, her love's heart beating, and rest, she might become whole again.

The chickens would not wait forever, though. She sighed and pushed herself out of bed.

****
If you want to be my next victim, leave me a comment! First name and age. That's it.

Posted by mary at 11:56 AM EDT

Updated: Thu, Jun 19 2008 12:29 PM EDT

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Mood:  hungry

I found this poem in my old email attachments. I had sent them to myself, probably from an old or work computer. I had written to myself, "Hey, girl! Here are your files!"  I can see this poem needs some work. It doesn't even feel like I wrote it, which is amazing.

****
Headache

blood seeping from ear
small hammer tapping
at the back of your eye
persuasion
for whatever you want
a challenge
to your translation

dance moving around
a red stone
only a metaphor of fire
conjurer woman
make me not a soft woman
but receptive like a womb
make me not like a honeycomb
but singular
with many allies

memory reaching down
through contractions
impulses
a hot brand on skin
movement
like human touch

mother
make me not a human woman
but a glass jar full of hue
make me not a cave
full of echoes

she has read you
you are just an utterance
a speech act

talk your own way out
of this fight with angry bees

Posted by mary at 11:12 AM EDT

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Mood:  smelly

This summer, I really am trying to write my novel. If I can come home every day and write for 30 minutes, or an hour. I just need to figure out the exact time this will be happening. Getting Baba to go to bed these days has been hit or miss. That really determines if I'll have free time in the evenings or not. Well, here's a quick scribble:

***
Every neighborhood has a house like it. The grass neglected and wild, hip length for anyone willing to wade through. The shutters fallen to one side, as if some thunderous event shook them out of place. Paint peeling from the thick wooden boards laid across the square frame, finally admitting the true colors underneath. Brown as dirt, faint hints of rust red and black coal.

How we had come to live like that, I couldn't remember. I grew like the grass, unnoticed and free.

Posted by mary at 12:01 AM EDT

Updated: Thu, Jun 19 2008 11:37 AM EDT

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Mood:  not sure

Thinking about fathers and my father in particular makes me also think about my mother. And I was inspired by this prompt. I guess one of these days, I need to go through the poems I've written the last few months and do some revisions. The dreaded revisions!
***

A Memory

her words fill the gaps
of our work
like strands of sunlight
from here to there

we are shaping dumplings
or walking through a wood
our eyes to the ground
to spy out the roots we want

she tells me about a little girl
scared of caterpillars
who would hop up
on her brother’s back
at the clap of thunder
who cracked the whole length
of her fingernail
falling from his shoulders

and other times
she comes across a memory
that stills the air
then only the smoke and ash
of the cigarette between her stained fingers
fill the space between us

Posted by mary at 8:48 PM EDT

Updated: Mon, Jun 16 2008 10:51 PM EDT

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Mood:  caffeinated

Phew! I almost changed blog hosts, because I wasn't exactly happy with the current layout and editing format... but I actually fixed it! Yeehaw!

So now A Room of Her Own is at http://bluehairedmary.tripod.com instead of having /blog/ after it. And my PR is 3! Yay!

Posted by mary at 10:01 AM EDT

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Mood:  on fire

Inspired by two different prompts, Lucille Clifton (via ReadWritePoem) and sleep via (Mad Kane). I think it needs a lot of work, though.

The Thing's Gone Wrong

when I watch you
I see your shame
layered like winter clothes

you wrestle
under nightmares
and strained sunlight

life's juices
leak from the corners
of your eyes, your mouth

it has taken this long
since your heart broke
to see the cracks

Posted by mary at 11:34 PM EDT

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Mood:  accident prone

I was waiting to get my tires fixed again* yesterday for two hours. On the other hand, I got to read about 40 pages in Lady Chatterley's Lover. Here are some words that I wrote down to look up later.

perspicuous - clearly expressed, intelligle, distinct

soporific - something that causes sleep

insouciant - free from concern, worry, anxiety; nonchalant

imperious - urgent, pressing, overbearing

Posted by mary at 4:04 PM EDT

Updated: Thu, Jun 5 2008 4:05 PM EDT

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