General Thoughts
-
Daddy’s Guitar
Daddy’s Guitar, Descriptive Essay for Comp. I, 9-17-99 One of the fondest memories from my childhood happened at my Meema’s house. My cousin Clint and I would crawl under Meema’s bed to pull out the treasures she had beneath it. The best treasure belonged to me, but was not really in my possession until I got older. Out of all the dust-covered items under her bed, my favorite was my late father’s guitar. The hard plastic handle of the torn, faded black guitar case felt grainy in my hands. As I pulled the case to where I could open it, the dust stirred, causing me to sneeze and cough. Smells of cedar…
-
My love history and why I never wrote about my husband until now
Let me warn you: This post is long. Something my husband and I talked about before he helped me launch this website was the fact that I wrote a lot of material about someone I loved before I met him. I was worried that what I wrote a long time ago would hurt my husband, something I would never do intentionally. Now my husband, Jonathan, is very blunt, as anyone who knows him will tell you. He told me specifically that he is not threatened by my past because it made me who I am—the woman he loves. We talked about my past and his while we were getting to know each…
-
Moving On
Rhythmic Poetry-For Poetry Workshop Class. “Moving On” 1-29-02 Cobblestones near the wood-stove Were often houses and roads For the sisters’ matchbox cars During stormy summer nights When their game was make-believe. They made elevators of Sheets for stuffed dogs and dolls on Stairs where little sister’s head Got caught in the banisters. Momma’s butter stopped her tears. The circle driveway became Never ending when their bikes Were not locked in the garage. Traffic accidents ended Then with only bleeding knees. Three sisters help pack boxes. They can’t pack the cobblestones, Or the staircase where they played. But nothing is forgotten, Because all homes have old dreams. I was always grateful…
