I have no memory of writing this.
My best guess is that I was experimenting with emojis and seeing what would happen if I wrote a blog post that sounded like a social media advertisement. It certainly strays from the poetry, reflections, and education posts that usually fill this space.
As for the actual topic, I’m not sure what inspired it. Perhaps a strange news story. Perhaps an internet rabbit hole. Perhaps too much time online.
Enjoy this odd relic from my blog archives.
I was oncea saturated spongesitting and souringin a stagnant pool. You becamemy healing gripwringing and rinsingout my rot. The sun wasmy cleansing cureentreating and ignitingmy flame.
The wildfire’s flameburnstoo brightunable to tamestorms lastingnight after night Startingwith justa spark,so smallso simpleit growsspreads outof controlin drywasteful heat It’s difficultto contain,and tameraging on and on,the charredscars causedby angryflamesrage on and on We mustclear the kindlingthat fuelthe flameslet’s seekthe cool watersof gentlerfire-freemoretemperate times Tend to our firescontain our heatabandon our fightwe must claim our peacefulfirelesssmoke-freerestful…
Two books line my shelvesstanding as sentinels, spines setting patterns:To Kill a Mockingbird& Long Way DownMockingbird’s pages carry the weight of time,Scout’s world unravellingin front of her young eyes, glimpsing injustice’s guilty unkind grind.Yet Reynolds’ verse beats Will’s Long Way Down elevator’s somber descent,Echoing weight of streets’ cold crush.Each line stepsto heartbeat’s pace,In space betweengrief…
When I was five,Stevie, Danny, and meMet under the big treeBy Danny’s house.Shovels in hand,We beganDiggingA very, very,Very bigHole. It wasn’t just any hole.It was going to beOur secret clubHouse.A cool spotUndergroundJust for usTo hide and playDay and nightFor the restOf our lives. Just whenThe holeWas about to getVery, very big,Danny’s momStopped whatWe were doing.She…
Every day he would arrive. Same striped shirt, frayed shoes, discolored dungarees reeking of weeks’ worth of wear.
“Verbs are the heartbeat of language. They move us from thought to action, from stillness to momentum.” — Unknown My Mother My motheris a verb Past tense:as a light-sleeping child,I saw Momcompleting daytime tasksuntouchedshe moved through roomsuncluttered by adverbs,sewing, ironing, foldingfreshly-washed laundrywhile midnight shows hummedto keep her company Continuous form:stitching and pressing,hustling,silently conjugating,ordering lovethrough action Perfect…