Just Some Monday Scribblings and a lot of Thanks

Today has been a lovely day in which people have expressed their appreciation for my blog….


All right, for a woman “with very little brain” and a whole lot of neuroses, this means a lot.  I am self conscious about my writing and fret A LOT about upsetting people.  I hate creating drama, even if I am rather talented at it, and prefer to offer joy as opposed to grief, frustration, and anger.  Even now, my insides are curdling over an apology I will probably need to make because an innocent joke was taken the wrong way.

So, when three people told me, today, that they enjoyed reading my blog….well…Cloud Nine just got stepped off of because I found Cloud Ten.  Am I being a little over-dramatic?  Me?  With my flair for the stage despite my stage-fright?  Never!

But it really did mean a lot to me that people were so open and complimentary.  I have never been this forthcoming with my writing before, but if I want to become a published writer, then I have to write and share with the world.  So I’m sharing.

I’m thankful for the people who read this blog and talk with me about it.  I’m a bit self-conscious, but I really do want the feedback.  I’m okay with criticism.  I really am.  Because it is only through people’s courage to show me how to improve my writing that I will actually grow.  I’m thankful for the encouragement people have given me to continue my writing.  I’m finding it harder and harder to stop writing nowadays.  On Saturday, in church, I took some notes about changes to my novel.  Today, when I was in a training session, I couldn’t stop writing in my head.  The words just don’t stop coming.

And I don’t want them to.

So here is a poem for the Boy.  I would love to give this to him for his birthday present…but I don’t know that he would understand why it’s important to me.  So it goes here, for now.  And then, someday, I’ll give it to him.  Maybe he’ll just stumble upon this on his own and he’ll see the stepping stones of my love for him.  The other is for a colleague who is on the other side of the wall from me.  I’m a bit worried that he’s going to be offended by some details that are more-so taken from Roald Dahl’s artwork than they are about my colleague.

They are “rough drafts” but I’m not certain on how to edit poetry so if you have any ideas, feel free to toss them my way…I could always use the help.

Love you.  Mean it.

Lovesong for my son

I  knew you were there, deep within me

A week before I was supposed to know

A full seven days of creation before my body was supposed to send

Me recognizable signs of your existence.

But you were there, this spinning

Galaxy of DNA proteins.

For this brief time, your father’s and my chromosomes did

This square dance as they blended together…

Zipped and unzipped double helixes until,

Finally, we were no long separate or equal

But united…and you became you.

We were one…you, my little galaxy

Tucked into the nebula I carried in my body.
You spun in elegant circles and used my ribs as a footrest

And were beautiful skeleton pictures on a fuzzy screen.

The day I thought you died, I died.

I curled up on my carpet and lay prone before God

And begged Him, pleaded with Him to let me keep my baby,

To let me keep you.  I would have traded my life for yours

But we were so tied together that you needed me

As much as I emotionally needed you.

When you were finally pulled from me five months later

And were a bundle of loose appendages on a slimy body,

I recoiled in initial surprise (and a little disgust) before

I tentatively poked at you, scared of this nasty creature on my bulbous belly.

But it was you, my little galaxy.

You, my dancing chromosomes,

You, my beautiful son…so alive and beautiful

Despite the violence and bloodiness of birth

You were here, on my silly jiggling belly,

Screaming and singing with life.

 For the BFG on the Other Side of the Wall


The BFG by Roald Dahl

Poet’s Note:  Roald Dahl wrote the BFG for his daughter who died of measles when she was seven years old.  The BFG stands for the Big Friendly Giant, a lovely giant who was the smallest of all the giants, and he was a kindly fellow who would make good dreams for children and blow the dreams into the children’s rooms using a large bubble pipe.  I was introduced to the BFG by my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Fox who read to us another of Dahl’s book, Danny and the Champion of the World.

Tall man, big towering tree trunk of a man,

You come stately down the hall, all bristles and bald head

And quiet demeanor.

Big ears sprouting from the side of your head,

You are all humility and diminutive stature despite the fact

That I am so very tiny when I stand next to your tallness.

Today, you complimented me on my poetry and my ego inflated,

Much like one of your bubble dreams on the tip of your wand,

And then you talked about your dead grandfather.

I don’t know all the nuances of your relationship with him,

But I can see the colors of your grief pool and spin across your face,

Like a little bit of oil in a wind-stroked puddle of water.

You are grace and sincerity and kindness.
You are absolute truth and honesty with no subterfuge and no ill-design.

You are kindness and consideration against my antagonistic mischief and cattiness.

You demean yourself in an effort to build up others.

You pull apart your Legos and offer them up as a sacrifice to my own pedestal.

But you are so lovely, oh tall man in cowboy boots

And soft words with gentle inflections.

As you conceal yourself behind your desk and hunch over your computer,

I see you.

I see you in all your quiet emotion and pacified feelings.

I so want to thank you, offer you your own good dream

In compensation for all the lovely things you say.

But my bubbles pop on the ragged edges of my wand

And you only get splattered with soapy residue of a happy moment.

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