Brainsprain.net

It is said that no man is an island
yet I have sailed these waters and
seen one exactly thus.

Puzzled by my siren’s song,
he came to hear her and
she found herself, for once, without a song to sing.

Now she stays alone in her abalone bed,
confused and voiceless.
-Wide tessetura of seduction abandoned
and staccatissimo left on the hearts of her victims.

He was born to sail,
His blood runs thick with it
like the very salt of the sea
or the endless protein polypeptide chains
which halo and surround him in golden glory.

He is gratified in his solitude and
takes no comfort in the bows of this ship
or any other.

This ship sails on, but it continues to
stop off at the island now and then
just in case.

So yesterday, Chad told me that I needed to make sure I answered the door because he was expecting a package that I would have to sign for. Well, that limits my day a little but I only had plans to lunch with a friend and those plans fell through so it was no big deal. Under orders from my doctor to “get as much sleep as possible” all I have been doing the last few days is just that and it has left me rather groggy.

The doorbell finally rang with the courier at 4:00 and it was a man standing there with roses and a teddy bear. I nearly fell over. He said “I am looking for Colleen.” Well, if knew my husband, you would know that he HATES to send cut flowers. He says that they are a waste of money because they are already dying and it makes no sense. The analytical side of me sees that point while the girly side of me says SHUT UP! smushy smushy! So of course, I looked at the courier and went squeeeee and took the flowers inside and released the little bear from captivity. THEN…I read the card because it was no special occasion that I remembered and I was starting to wonder if he had broken something. The card read:

I met you in the Fall of 1989. I was 18. That was 18 years ago. You have enchanted me for half my life. My better half.

I just have to say one thing to say after receiving something so beautiful. Nanner Fareakin Nanner!

Rising and falling, my chest recalls
a pastoral ballad played by a concert cellist.
In viscous counterpoint,
my neurons pluck at my memory a wild pizzicato.

Today, I sun dream of you.
Your wild, cables of cinnamon hair
cross my memory like it did your face -a lion’s mane defying Venus.
The crescendo and hush of our voices made a joke of entropy
for we were ripe and full with the fruit of making.

Now, the wine of the poets has peaked.
But, a heart shaped wing-print remains in my garden.
And by the healing tree, your gold eyes flash mischievous photons
at me under your lids – like you had treasure chests of Hollywood’s greatest bullion
and I were the worlds greediest pirate.

You are love and loved. Grow, green thing.
We are forever and you are now.

As I swam in a fast moving spring,
a very tall man in a floppy, tan hat
walked his bike along the footpath.

His big feet wore shocking pink shoes
and I, shocked in turn, closed my eyes.

Photons collided against my lids in
warm, solar memory bombs
transported me to a picture of you
swimming in a pool just like mine.

In two weeks, my age will be the same
as yours turned right after we met.
It troubled you so.
Now it is here to trouble me.
But you are not.

*warning the following commentary contains satire, if you are unfamiliar with it or are an idiot please disregard this blog.

As an American, I believe that we have gone the wrong way in dealing with foreign relations. Being proud of our culture is one thing, but to be hateful to the people of France while doing it shows a disrespect to Europeans on a level that is just no longer politically correct. If you really stop to think about the names we give to these people, you will see what I mean. We do our best to be conscious of those that live here, but what of the Americans that live abroad? Aren’t they Americans too? Take the people of France, for example. We have been calling them “French” for so long. Wouldn’t you be offended if someone called you French? All this time, we have had the answer right here under our noses. It is on every can of Spaghetti-Os and we couldn’t see it because we were just too racist or too proud. They want to be called Franco-Americans. That is their dream, people. So next time you go to McDonalds, proudly order your Franco-American fries and super size them! Do it for your country. Do it for ALL European-Americans. Remember, just because someone wasn’t born here or doesn’t live here, doesn’t make them any less an American and underneath it all, our veins are blue and our blood cells are either red or white!

the day the blackbird came
the eggplant hues shone off its wings
and all it did was beckon me
along the paths of decadence
old perceptions snuggled near
and I mused upon my younger sin.

then came next the red tail hawk
that lit so fast on my heart
that it nearly took it
when it flew away so quickly.

then sat the redbird next to me
and sang sweet melodies
that made me cry for I knew
it was not long before
it took the sky effulgent.

finally the golden eagle spoke
with reminiscent thankfulness
that made me remember why.

OK, I am on a diet plateau. I have done pretty well so far. Between me and Chad, we have lost a supermodel or a ballerina. I am getting impatient now though. I need to kick up the exercise. I have been doing the floor work (pilates-ville), but I am gonna need some cardio. After sitting with my tri-athlete friends at lunch yesterday and hearing about a 4 hour workout of swimming and biking, I decided that a daily dance jog really won’t kill me and it might be kind of silly and fun. Besides, I know the parrots will like to bob their heads along.

You’re a stone skipper
and a day tripper.
Somedays you’re just a little
sacred cow tipper.

You’re a deep thinker
and a cloud winker
Sometimes you’re too much
of a coffee shot drinker

You sing just like a bird
with all the beauty that you’ve heard.
and every single word makes me ping
baby sing, baby sing!

You’re a kite flyer
and a town crier
Somedays there is no one who can
make me feel higher.

You’re heart is made of gold.
such a beauty to behold.
but no one ever told you it’s not a ring.
baby sing. You can’t hold on to that thing.

You’re a string picker
and a cat fetch flicker
You always seem to know just how
to make this gal snicker.

There is so much left to see
for a soul that’s truly free.
Even the poison ivy’s lost it’s sting.
So baby Sing! Take to the wing.
Baby sing. Sweet baby sing.

I made my love
a simple velvet sleeve
and in it, placed a thistle
from on hilltop I did whistle
and bid him wear it as he did leave.

I watched him go
unto the valley fair
as he walked I played a tune
so he might hear the words I feared to croon
and silken ribbons filled the sunny air.

Time went by
and still my heart did yearn
as the whistle did resound
the notes did shake the gentle ground
but never did my lover return.

After two and twenty years
a husband passed and children grown
I climbed the hill again to call his name
singing to the one that never came
lost my footing and did cast aside a stone.

Underneath my clumsy heel
my hand reached among the rocks
I did find what I had craved
a package with my initial engraved
shaking hands did open up the dainty box.

A photo was revealed
of a lovely lady in her finest attire
and in her hand was clasped the tattered sleeve
the back inscribed “My daughter Genevieve”
“I could not leave the one whom I did sire”

Now with tear in eye
my whistle sounding strong
I did smile upon the choices he had made
knowing why he hadn’t stayed
and to whom his heart did really belong.

As I rose to leave
I did pack away my whistle
when a voice did fill my ears
I hadn’t heard in twenty years
as his hand took mine, I felt the thorny thistle.

A yellow crested companion
sings a joy song to the morning
over the fan hum of four computers.

Sunshine strobe-light
covers the west wall
and a hazy memory of
standing in the distant shade
of a Bell chopper rotor
spins a web of nostalgia
on my backbone.

Pigtails fly back
and the navy dress is scooped up
revealing white tights.

The little girl takes no notice and
a wide grin crosses her face as she
climbs into the big clear bubble with
the help of her father.

Her eyes dart lustfully at the clear floor
and then questioningly at the seat-belt.
Her lips rise on one side as her index finger
finds the release groove and she prepares for take off.