tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65974855234947098642024-03-05T16:08:24.904-08:00lizziviggi and the life worth livinglizziviggihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15921603615699013169noreply@blogger.comBlogger66125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597485523494709864.post-29814661534223401912011-11-25T21:32:00.001-08:002011-11-25T22:08:21.242-08:00Black Friday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Black Friday may have put retailers in the black and had shoppers seeing red, but for me, Black Friday was gold and blue and green-- the colors of nature. On this gorgeous day after Thanksgiving, my daughters and I went for a hike along the Interurban Trail and checked out <a href="http://www.cob.org/documents/parks/parks-trails/woodstock-then-now-and-future.pdf">Woodstock Farm</a>. Apparently everyone else was jostling for good deals on today's hottest gadgets (also known as tomorrow's junk-- do you really think a <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B005FYEAJ8/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=dailyslack-20&linkCode=as2&camp=217145&creative=399373&creativeASIN=B005FYEAJ8">giant inflatable shark</a> is going to be handed down to the great-grandkids?) so we had the place to ourselves.</div>
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So, while others were waiting in line for that amazing sale on Blu-Rays or iPads or what-have-you (or even worse, sleeping this beautiful day away because they were up all night shopping), we were here.</div>
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We hiked, picnicked, cloud-watched, leap-frogged, rolled down the hill till we were dizzy (that would be once for me and about ten times for the girls), told stories, took pictures, bird-watched, hiked back, and enjoyed one hot chocolate, one apple cider, and one hot buttered rum.</div>
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For me, Black Friday isn't about getting a good deal. It's realizing you already have it.</div>
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<br />lizziviggihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15921603615699013169noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597485523494709864.post-85947820541969583592011-11-22T15:33:00.001-08:002011-11-22T15:35:04.194-08:00Things I Did Today<br />
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Filled the birdfeeders</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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and raked up dead leaves<o:p></o:p></div>
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Pulled out the rotting tomato plants<o:p></o:p></div>
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dropping their overripe fruit like<o:p></o:p></div>
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chastisement bombs<o:p></o:p></div>
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Cut down brown iris stalks<o:p></o:p></div>
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and mopped dark footprints off<o:p></o:p></div>
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the kitchen floor<o:p></o:p></div>
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Brushed my daughter’s hair<o:p></o:p></div>
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tearing through mud-colored knots as her<o:p></o:p></div>
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little body tried to dance away<o:p></o:p></div>
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Told you I was leaving<o:p></o:p></div>
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this time for good<o:p></o:p></div>
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Although maybe this isn’t a list<o:p></o:p></div>
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of things I did today<o:p></o:p></div>
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but things I could have done<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://dversepoets.com/"><img src="http://dversepoets.files.wordpress.com/2011/10/dverselogo.jpg?w=256&h=256" /></a></div>lizziviggihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15921603615699013169noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597485523494709864.post-39798421739513107782011-11-05T15:05:00.000-07:002011-11-05T15:38:03.486-07:00Playing with Color<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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That's <i>one</i> way to play with color...</div>
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I took the suggestion from Victoria at the dVerse Poets' Pub and invited my two daughters (4 and 6 years old, respectively) to help me write a few poems with color as inspiration. I love their unconventional choices and the way they already enjoy playing with language, just like their mom! Here are three of the products of our combined color-play.<br />
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<u>Blue</u><br />
Blue is fast.<br />
It's soft as pillows.<br />
It is cloud boats,<br />
cloud stars, cloud moons.<br />
Blue sounds like sky<br />
like a tiger<br />
like the letter "s."<br />
Blue is flowers<br />
in a mountain meadow<br />
and smells sweet<br />
like crispy fall leaves<br />
under my feet.<br />
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<u>Red</u><br />
Red is happy.<br />
I want to paint the walls red,<br />
paint my ears and my belly,<br />
paint the dog and the chandelier.<br />
Red feels like sitting on an airplane.<br />
It is the breath in my body<br />
and the breath<br />
coming out of my body.<br />
Red tastes like bananas<br />
and burns my tongue<br />
like lava.<br />
<br />
<u>Yellow</u><br />
Yellow feels like the slap<br />
of lilypads against my skin.<br />
Yellow is a colander dripping<br />
in the dishrack.<br />
It colors the cat and the picture<br />
and the mug on the table.<br />
Yellow sounds like boots crunching<br />
through snow,<br />
like rain clouds<br />
coming closer.<br />
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<a href="http://dversepoets.com/2011/11/05/dverse-poetics-play-with-color/"><b>Click here to see how others played with color, and maybe try it yourself!</b></a><br />
<br />lizziviggihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15921603615699013169noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597485523494709864.post-2509496975506156692011-10-11T13:46:00.000-07:002011-10-11T13:46:24.039-07:00StarsI walk beside the river<br />
dark and green as bottle glass<br />
it undulates silently<br />
<br />
I scatter stars like breadcrumbs<br />
some stick to the sky like white<br />
bodies on black flypaper<br />
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some fall<br />
and I step on them<br />
crack them like snapped branches<br />
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some sink in the quiet green<br />
bleed bright tendrils that glow<br />
like little highways connecting fish cities<br />
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the moon eats the rest<br />
stars disappearing in its<br />
crescent smile<br />
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<a href="http://dversepoets.com/2011/10/11/open-link-night-week-13/"><img src="http://dversepoets.files.wordpress.com/2011/10/dverselogo.jpg?w=256&h=256" /></a>lizziviggihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15921603615699013169noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597485523494709864.post-71835849575661428722011-10-04T15:50:00.000-07:002011-10-04T15:50:09.012-07:00the last stepthe lustrous little leaves cluster<br />
in the still-warm footprint,<br />
lining the edges,<br />
filling the instep as if<br />
to cushion<br />
the already fallen.<br />
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<a href="http://dversepoets.com/"><img src="http://dversepoets.files.wordpress.com/2011/10/dverselogo.jpg?w=150&h=150" /></a>lizziviggihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15921603615699013169noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597485523494709864.post-26903022045400417892011-08-30T15:29:00.000-07:002011-08-30T15:29:31.223-07:00Hands I've Held (II)<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">The last day of school</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">we sat on the flowered lawn<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">and listened to Nirvana covers,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">the band hot in their torn flannel but<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">too cool to take it off.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I spun a buttercup <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">between my spring-pale fingers,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">gold petals pulsing with the beat.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was drunk with the heat<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">and the music and the flashing flower and<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">the last day of school so<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I confessed to you<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">just a boy<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">who sat next to me sometimes<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">who sat next to me now<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’m sixteen years old,” I said<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">“and I’ve never held a boy’s hand.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You took the flashing flower<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">twined your fingers through mine<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">said “Now you have.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">It was a kindness, like helping <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">an old lady cross the street,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">but of course I fell in love with you<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">for a little while<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">until I gave my hand and so much more<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">too much, much too soon<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">to someone with hands bigger and weaker<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">and less kind than yours.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://dversepoets.com/"><img src="http://dversepoets.files.wordpress.com/2011/08/dverse.jpg?w=150&h=150" /></a></div>lizziviggihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15921603615699013169noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597485523494709864.post-47834444930993478772011-08-29T16:34:00.000-07:002011-08-29T19:27:09.600-07:00Rid of It-- Mag 80<img height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjkC3ceSmr2HksnIBGrVQWCywbHuI6ymNzPqSYjD2sWGDk06HqskN4fp78O2ALbx7V-l941E8fuxGRNQ2qx3hAKXsYcyTD6POaG7PoSmREqX8aT7LBJQ2IQH7tH5hPxDikLF1hCkT2aq84/s640/red+umbrella+shay.jpg" width="640" /><br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">I’m rid of it all, those things that stole my life from me.<u1:p></u1:p> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">The books are in milk crates on the sidewalk,<u1:p></u1:p> dusty leatherclad classics pressed unwilling<u1:p></u1:p>ly against paperback thrillers.<u1:p></u1:p> Lamps cast into the alley trash<u1:p></u1:p> because I will live by the light of the sun<u1:p></u1:p> and other stars.<u1:p></u1:p> I gave the curtains to my sister. I have<u1:p></u1:p> nothing left to hide.<u1:p></u1:p> I will eat with my fingers,<u1:p></u1:p> scooping and plucking, licking and wiping<u1:p></u1:p> my mouth with the back of my hand.<u1:p></u1:p> No fork will steal from me<u1:p></u1:p> the intimacy of eating.<u1:p></u1:p> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">The cats left of their own accord after I explained things. We’ll<u1:p></u1:p> still be friends. My bed<u1:p></u1:p> is at Goodwill, propped up<u1:p></u1:p> against other lonely beds. I don't need sleep, that substitute for life. I don’t need dreams.<u1:p></u1:p> I’ve said goodbye to music,<u1:p></u1:p> to voices and touch.<u1:p></u1:p> I will sit bare. I will walk free.<u1:p></u1:p> The spareness of my life<u1:p></u1:p> is the new luxury.<u1:p></u1:p> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">I tore out my memories. They<u1:p></u1:p> were not as understanding as the cats.<u1:p></u1:p> Some went easier than others.<u1:p></u1:p> My adolescence was relieved—grateful,<u1:p></u1:p> even—but my thirties screamed<u1:p></u1:p> as they flew through the air.<u1:p></u1:p> I clipped my fingernails<u1:p></u1:p> and tossed out the children. All I have<u1:p></u1:p> left is this umbrella.<o:p></o:p></span><u1:p></u1:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">Take it.<o:p></o:p></span><u1:p></u1:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">I want to feel the rain. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p><a href="http://magpietales.blogspot.com/"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMQWQXg0zt-KcufnUrRELQ61HFVqrBNNF8bMlPFRIuB6YKa7x6SlpMzqcRTjVmcDQx3N5osopgQMKEAtR60pl2-JVwjJLNWZGZHhtQ2OvHX89gvE2n5hJIcRKp9zltPmi7GhXlX9HKR8X5/s1600/magpie+tales+statue+stamp+185.jpg" /></a></o:p></div><br />
lizziviggihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15921603615699013169noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597485523494709864.post-446780588054066022011-08-16T08:33:00.000-07:002011-08-16T08:33:23.145-07:00Magpie Tales #78: Paint<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span><img height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaKoTCNoEv5QHnivuYvXRcQRzUGLQGen2TKZQtT7gvSHXIYtHESP8PEMgIk6x2f_S5sLZD3vgOrx5-5ZrLypiulGwDLkFCfMs3qLVqbrhLCq6xGhwCxctFfoAWQwftoDWSBK5xpv7GSfwD/s640/007b.jpg" width="480" /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>She was almost done. There… and there… and there. Finally! She wiped her forehead with the edge of her hand and set the paint roller in the tray. Backing into the doorway to get a better look at the bathroom, she was already shaking her head at the color. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>“Damn. I really thought this was it.” She reached over and absentmindedly scratched behind Calliope’s ear. “Lichen,” which had seemed subtly soothing when it was just a dot on the lid of the paint can, now bounced between the walls in the small space, intensifying the pale green to the color of chewed spearmint gum. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>“Maybe light blue?” Zoey sighed. “Or maybe I should just give in and paint it white.” Calliope blinked once, slowly, her lichen eyes glowing spearmint in the bathroom. She raised her tail and stalked from the room. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>Zoey sighed once more, just so she could fully appreciate exactly how tiring the whole thing was. She dumped the tray, roller, and brush in the bathtub and turned the faucet on the whole mess. Fatigue struck a blow between her shoulder blades and she sagged, turned off the faucet, and left the tools percolating in grassy bathtub soup while she went to bed.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>When she woke in the morning, she rolled over to face Calliope who was blithely licking her front paw. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>“Look at you,” Zoey said grumpily. “You get to lounge around all day, and I have to paint it all <i>again</i>.” She thought about going to look at the bathroom. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. But when she closed her lids, she felt fluorescent green glowing behind them. She pulled on her favorite yellow sweatshirt (“maybe pale yellow?”), slid her feet into a pair of clogs, and took her purse off the hook. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>“I never want to see green again,” she told an unsympathetic Calliope as she closed the front door.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>When she returned, a safe if boring gallon of “Buttermilk” in hand, she didn’t notice anything at first. It was as she was trudging down the hall to the bathroom that she saw them. Little green paw prints, phosphorescent against the dark wood floor. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>“Noooo…” she breathed softly, setting the paint can down. She followed the prints to the bathtub, where everything was just as she left it last night. Other than the footsteps, which led from the sickly pea soup, over the bathtub’s edge, and down the hall. Multiple times. She turned back to the hall, noticing now that there were several trails. One led into her bedroom, across the white carpet (“honestly, what was I <i>thinking</i> with white?”) and up onto her petal pink duvet. She followed another trail into the guest room up to the window seat, where leafy paw prints decorated the ivory pillows. The last trail she tracked down the carpeted stairs and across the living room floor, over the new armchair and to the new couch, where Calliope curled obliviously, nose tucked under mossy paws.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>“At least I’ll have something to remember you by after I kill you,” Zoey muttered. Calliope cracked open one eye, an infuriating sliver of impassive green. The unconcerned eye disappeared again. Zoey turned her drooping shoulders toward the stairs and followed the paw prints to what was left of her weekend. <span> </span><span> </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span><a href="http://magpietales.blogspot.com/"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMQWQXg0zt-KcufnUrRELQ61HFVqrBNNF8bMlPFRIuB6YKa7x6SlpMzqcRTjVmcDQx3N5osopgQMKEAtR60pl2-JVwjJLNWZGZHhtQ2OvHX89gvE2n5hJIcRKp9zltPmi7GhXlX9HKR8X5/s1600/magpie+tales+statue+stamp+185.jpg" /></a></span></div>lizziviggihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15921603615699013169noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597485523494709864.post-84636809578852090712011-08-11T08:20:00.000-07:002011-08-11T08:20:08.951-07:00From Tonasket - July 12, 2011I am alone in this beehive cabin. In a pensive mood, I read a book of poems while the others rush from here to there, collecting tools and coffee and hairbrushes, buzzing about solar panels and fishing and how full the propane tank is. I read a poem by Samuel Green, "Laying Stone," and am overcome. I brim with sadness and awe but even if the others stopped long enough to listen, they would not understand, they would not love this poem the way I love this poem.<br />
<br />
Gradually, gradually, they do settle in their places. They make their quiet lists or tune the guitar or look at the atlas. It is I who needs to understand-- they practice their moments of poetry their own way. I leave them to their poetry, and go back to mine.<br />
<br />
lizziviggihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15921603615699013169noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597485523494709864.post-61986115038448051602011-06-28T09:44:00.000-07:002011-06-28T09:44:43.674-07:00Mag 71<div style="text-align: center;"><img height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDXakA9IQTi50dvIrZ9lPZNvrnIDh9QSEMC7VjjuGw3FMmO9Y606YrTgLDPKdh1uDr5c-o5KBlDqLGOTSnc2FA5OLYv-zuCz8efId68DYlovKiDBPjX6Z-vjCo-iXRd5hrZDomU7L25vnF/s640/IMG_6598a.jpg" width="480" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal">they do not recall<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">the messy heat of birth<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">their molten changeable nature<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">the way they screamed <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">steamed <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">stretched <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">after the slowly leaving heat<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">hot soft bodies growing cold<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">their durable changeability replaced<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">with fragility<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">heavy liquid weight transformed<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">into frail and flawless suspension<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">time flows like a fish<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">around their paralyzed forms<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">frozen<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">for our feasting eyes<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://magpietales.blogspot.com/"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMQWQXg0zt-KcufnUrRELQ61HFVqrBNNF8bMlPFRIuB6YKa7x6SlpMzqcRTjVmcDQx3N5osopgQMKEAtR60pl2-JVwjJLNWZGZHhtQ2OvHX89gvE2n5hJIcRKp9zltPmi7GhXlX9HKR8X5/s1600/magpie+tales+statue+stamp+185.jpg" /></a></div>lizziviggihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15921603615699013169noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597485523494709864.post-1132251659364643512011-06-11T06:50:00.000-07:002011-06-11T06:50:33.910-07:00The Eyes Have it<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Candara, sans-serif;">Most people don’t notice this (or if they do, they’re much too polite to comment on it), but my eyes look like they belong to two different people. No one is symmetrical—and I should know, being an optician for the whole of my adult life. Having to explain to people every day why I’m adjusting their glasses to sit straight on their face, not straight on the table, and yet not end up insulting them—“Dude, your right ear is half an inch lower than your left. Yes, your glasses are going to look crooked when you put them on the table. But they’ll be straight on your </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Candara, sans-serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">face</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Candara, sans-serif;">.”—that really brings it home. But my eyes go beyond thwarting symmetry. They each have their own personality.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">My right eye is my cynical eye. It’s a little squinty, a little suspicious. It’s literally smaller than my left eye, and it acts like maybe it’s got something to prove. I think it might be jealous of the other eye. My right eye is my Clint Eastwood eye. Go ahead—make my day. Don’t look at my right eye if your feelings are easily hurt, because it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">will</i> judge you, and you will always be deemed unworthy. My right eye says that everyone is annoying, and possibly should be mauled and eaten. My right eye would do this, if it could. It’s the only part of my body that’s not vegetarian.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">My left eye is wide-eyed and naïve. It’s open to the wonders of the world, and constantly amazed at the beauty of it and the people in it. It is perpetually astounded by everything, including things as commonplace as my cat or my morning cup of coffee. My left eye is always surprised. If you and I have been hanging out for a while, look at my left eye after an hour. It will be surprised. It will be saying “Oh! Look who’s here!” More than that, it will be looking at you with the wonderment of a newborn baby. If you want to feel beautiful and amazing, gaze into my left eye for a minute. It’ll give you a real ego boost. Of course, don’t look at my right eye after that. That bastard will take it all away again. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrupiRdyB20-6c7R984w1tP1EKN-4P150qJkvfCeVEcu_gLWH6VLAQV_vk2tUZl0dNpQjsbL4TiyZBGWTaSDG6yzYe8KL0uAmDd0zrBdN3kBcDwA7dT2TSjtM32ia0s8JBt1WwcPEoHVNp/s1600/043+-+right+eye.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrupiRdyB20-6c7R984w1tP1EKN-4P150qJkvfCeVEcu_gLWH6VLAQV_vk2tUZl0dNpQjsbL4TiyZBGWTaSDG6yzYe8KL0uAmDd0zrBdN3kBcDwA7dT2TSjtM32ia0s8JBt1WwcPEoHVNp/s320/043+-+right+eye.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"You've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel lucky?' Well, do ya, punk?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUATUOda23sZDnOkkYeRx4G7NA4s9UJFD8gRPFfcqI-07NKUAm9flrucCL48k2_qbB_6-kJQTp71qsI2EPEY1CuqTAsY2X-xm-tvAqT5r5xmWHM6JrlYBoX-Hyn4NVdlpXj_qP5CbSOx33/s1600/043+-+left+eye.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUATUOda23sZDnOkkYeRx4G7NA4s9UJFD8gRPFfcqI-07NKUAm9flrucCL48k2_qbB_6-kJQTp71qsI2EPEY1CuqTAsY2X-xm-tvAqT5r5xmWHM6JrlYBoX-Hyn4NVdlpXj_qP5CbSOx33/s320/043+-+left+eye.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"Oh my god, you're like, so beautiful and amazing!"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"> And here's the whole picture, in case you think I cheated and cropped from different pics:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0fVCCfGSJvBAkHHRc-pIiHwQJeRleFVX6HYPnjm4JbKaFAuWm6_TBkvpLzCbgAB6CzJxLF07v-gfefYmvR8Y32uL1mdl6L1dqgyjT-GqNeCjO7wmofGEl2MYEjjurIBr6rB7LxMoQnjWS/s1600/043.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0fVCCfGSJvBAkHHRc-pIiHwQJeRleFVX6HYPnjm4JbKaFAuWm6_TBkvpLzCbgAB6CzJxLF07v-gfefYmvR8Y32uL1mdl6L1dqgyjT-GqNeCjO7wmofGEl2MYEjjurIBr6rB7LxMoQnjWS/s320/043.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Please don't ask what's on top of my head. I really have no idea. It was an interesting evening.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And I totally could have taken a new picture to exaggerate the effect...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">but I respect you guys too much to do that.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;"><br />
</span></div>lizziviggihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15921603615699013169noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597485523494709864.post-71101957464090653132011-06-10T14:41:00.000-07:002011-06-10T14:41:15.270-07:00SheWrites Blogger Ball #4<div style="text-align: center;">Welcome to my blog, SW ball-goers!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">You all look fabulous, but while you're here, why don't you go ahead and get comfortable? Take those glass slippers off, let down your hair, and stay awhile.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">If you prefer photos and snippets of writing to poetry and rambling, check out my other blog at <a href="http://bellinghamdailyphoto.blogspot.com/">http://bellinghamdailyphoto.blogspot.com/</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Here, let me help you with your coat...</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://megwaiteclayton.com/1stbooks/shewrites/"><img alt="Welcome to the SheWrites Blogger Ball!" src="http://megwaiteclayton.com/1stbooks/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/mybookshelves.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">(click the bookcase to return to 1st Books. Thanks for visiting!)</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>lizziviggihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15921603615699013169noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597485523494709864.post-31328508305137837932011-05-23T06:43:00.000-07:002011-05-23T06:43:42.974-07:00EverlandLike Wendy, sad at her window<br />
we mothers wipe small fingerprints<br />
from glass, looking through it for hints<br />
<br />
of pirates or pixies below.<br />
Languishing eyes search empty skies<br />
for childish dreams we should outgrow.<br />
<br />
That old dream outgrew us long since...<br />
and Wendy waits at her window.<br />
<br />
I wrote this for One Stop Poetry's form challenge. This week's form is the Octain, which consists of eight lines and eight syllables per line. I won't bore you with the other rules, but I enjoyed working with it!<br />
<br />
<b><a href="http://onestoppoetry.com/2011/05/one-stop-form-octain-week-2-guest-hosted-by-luke-prater.html">Click here to read the other octains and high octains submitted.</a></b>lizziviggihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15921603615699013169noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597485523494709864.post-1561953214229815382011-05-17T08:53:00.000-07:002011-05-17T08:53:21.317-07:00Playing Dress-Up<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">After a morning of my daughters playing dress-up with my clothes and accessories, I'm thinking I need to rethink my wardrobe. Is it normal to have outfits that are so easily turned into costumes? Well, good or bad, now I know... with very little effort I can dress up as:</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">a lady from "Mad Men"...</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicl8ZpNkkSmabr8ZtAUtiIpjS5CNpKY_35D8Vv_OsbDcmAC5l6l0UQ-3Ln0UGpglAFyq-gDDepC4X0tVzlBBBz0fBALbl7mGtM7kBUI3VMzom6YzBYFNqEzGDBQ8u5YuMqNZXsFma6v2MP/s1600/dress-up+004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicl8ZpNkkSmabr8ZtAUtiIpjS5CNpKY_35D8Vv_OsbDcmAC5l6l0UQ-3Ln0UGpglAFyq-gDDepC4X0tVzlBBBz0fBALbl7mGtM7kBUI3VMzom6YzBYFNqEzGDBQ8u5YuMqNZXsFma6v2MP/s320/dress-up+004.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHfm-anB6EFaXmWSwq1bBMNnVwY9jabGc5_TWdGUaK8bo3gNoyPp41E2dqak0Wf3cuxbp8t_yct04CQe0Mt3WtUuvg0Gpy659LvFkg66OMiAMUZcCYiJ58aYP53ckiVTWqC-kgdD1-mVRb/s1600/dress-up+007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHfm-anB6EFaXmWSwq1bBMNnVwY9jabGc5_TWdGUaK8bo3gNoyPp41E2dqak0Wf3cuxbp8t_yct04CQe0Mt3WtUuvg0Gpy659LvFkg66OMiAMUZcCYiJ58aYP53ckiVTWqC-kgdD1-mVRb/s320/dress-up+007.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJmk0qEP_EXFWD4vHKXbLQh83P5tf3q8gV_ROljfwClTd1AdFOjlPlAn3X5_9nUEcMrzWaqTjas2-TzT2ktestwvUIPcZFXTpRW8Wysvv13JAvE6L-d8g9ivD-uXI08zfF6JG39Cy84toK/s1600/dress-up+008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJmk0qEP_EXFWD4vHKXbLQh83P5tf3q8gV_ROljfwClTd1AdFOjlPlAn3X5_9nUEcMrzWaqTjas2-TzT2ktestwvUIPcZFXTpRW8Wysvv13JAvE6L-d8g9ivD-uXI08zfF6JG39Cy84toK/s320/dress-up+008.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">...a bloodthirsty buccaneer...</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ89Yvduty3FxauQScnevwvla1sl0z-fiRkUYjN1-qhqsyuOpCzc2TxVfJ_IJ-uSx0_5EiCkHrMjEppPbp0oYHmd5rW_JAFzbT_3hUUp46OTia0VSoCjFPsIHlwhLSzMkjK9i9hXD-vsa8/s1600/dress-up+017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ89Yvduty3FxauQScnevwvla1sl0z-fiRkUYjN1-qhqsyuOpCzc2TxVfJ_IJ-uSx0_5EiCkHrMjEppPbp0oYHmd5rW_JAFzbT_3hUUp46OTia0VSoCjFPsIHlwhLSzMkjK9i9hXD-vsa8/s320/dress-up+017.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> ...or a lumberjack!</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8SWW1wltFx7lQ6Oy7YHeN-2HJVQaRAcIf-eeEvVdS-emWA9luviYzx98yMHNf0Vn7WA6jtptSAQniWhr1IegzbBO8-dvSxthl1Tz-A0NvqXMOG9ey9MNavKkauTtOndorKOqI6dXcUBbp/s1600/dress-up+031.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8SWW1wltFx7lQ6Oy7YHeN-2HJVQaRAcIf-eeEvVdS-emWA9luviYzx98yMHNf0Vn7WA6jtptSAQniWhr1IegzbBO8-dvSxthl1Tz-A0NvqXMOG9ey9MNavKkauTtOndorKOqI6dXcUBbp/s320/dress-up+031.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYbJki8z236JQ9WUw6EPJ75ZHwtBM4qZ50gTekkt69jX1DwSPhQ_2OQpJvQEeMSeNQCbTvTXe2QXUWUpq_-Vw9jUk0Q0cwUItQJ_Wny5sSuNMErS93EQ2YWOQNvywPL-Yu2XNF-Gzgz6j1/s1600/dress-up+037.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYbJki8z236JQ9WUw6EPJ75ZHwtBM4qZ50gTekkt69jX1DwSPhQ_2OQpJvQEeMSeNQCbTvTXe2QXUWUpq_-Vw9jUk0Q0cwUItQJ_Wny5sSuNMErS93EQ2YWOQNvywPL-Yu2XNF-Gzgz6j1/s320/dress-up+037.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>lizziviggihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15921603615699013169noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597485523494709864.post-58475211135640602782011-05-11T09:15:00.000-07:002011-05-11T09:15:51.433-07:00Hands I've Held (I)Your warm fingers<br />
angular and alien<br />
hook through mine as if by accident.<br />
We leave them there<br />
our clasped fingers<br />
and pretend not to notice our weightless hearts.<br />
<br />
The day is gray and windy<br />
trees fuzzed yellow-green with spring pubescence.<br />
Cherry blossoms choke the gutters<br />
drowning in Decemberlike rain.<br />
<br />
Your fingers are like bare winter branches.<br />
<br />
I wish I could go back to December<br />
back to the bare simplicity<br />
of naked branches and dormant earth<br />
before the urges of spring<br />
complicated everything.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><u><a href="http://onestoppoetry.com/2011/05/one-shot-wednesday-week-45.html">For One Shot Wednesday.</a></u></b>lizziviggihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15921603615699013169noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597485523494709864.post-52622939756908963372011-04-27T07:32:00.000-07:002011-04-27T07:32:58.219-07:00The Burning<div class="MsoNormal">I keep the fire going</div><div class="MsoNormal">with sugar packets and gum wrappers</div><div class="MsoNormal">scrape the bottom of my purse</div><div class="MsoNormal">for goldfish crackers and crumpled tissues</div><div class="MsoNormal">a Starbucks napkin</div><div class="MsoNormal">a receipt for a swimsuit </div><div class="MsoNormal">I haven’t worn yet</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I rip out the blank pages</div><div class="MsoNormal">from my spiral notebook</div><div class="MsoNormal">and feed them to the flames</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">silent people crowd the cold room</div><div class="MsoNormal">nodding at my notebook</div><div class="MsoNormal">too thin with straggling pages</div><div class="MsoNormal">they can’t help me</div><div class="MsoNormal">or don’t want to</div><div class="MsoNormal">but watch me struggle, scrabble for scraps</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">sticky lollipop sticks, ticket stubs</div><div class="MsoNormal">to that horrible show</div><div class="MsoNormal">that didn’t make me laugh</div><div class="MsoNormal">until there’s nothing left</div><div class="MsoNormal">nothing else to do but throw it in</div><div class="MsoNormal">my notebook</div><div class="MsoNormal">the words curling and darkening</div><div class="MsoNormal">fading into the satisfied smoke</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><u><a href="http://onestoppoetry.com/2011/04/one-shot-poetry-wednesday-week-43.html">For One Shot Wednesday</a></u></b></div>lizziviggihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15921603615699013169noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597485523494709864.post-23110401959369426492011-03-10T16:07:00.000-08:002011-03-10T16:07:33.417-08:00A Girl and Her Cat<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGbYWsY4rjYkO6UGy6OnI3-H8mOqVTk5efefVjcpaifXwjdymdzh5MlHqs5HJdA66CLXJWyYV3OxdhW3n4pT24bIXAoReCtSAeeJNdg4cT2vIjc50Qi9hUUWhUCOOv8ADh3qMRzMHSdZFt/s1600/003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGbYWsY4rjYkO6UGy6OnI3-H8mOqVTk5efefVjcpaifXwjdymdzh5MlHqs5HJdA66CLXJWyYV3OxdhW3n4pT24bIXAoReCtSAeeJNdg4cT2vIjc50Qi9hUUWhUCOOv8ADh3qMRzMHSdZFt/s320/003.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>lizziviggihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15921603615699013169noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597485523494709864.post-68837866171534255942011-03-09T06:31:00.000-08:002011-03-09T06:31:29.410-08:00Warbler's RequiemThe robin's neck is broken<br />
its beak splintered orange<br />
having met<br />
something harder than itself.<br />
My youngest girl whispers<br />
"She's sleeping."<br />
Big sister knows better.<br />
"Can we bury it?"<br />
The toe of her boot,<br />
the mud-caked suede gray-brown like feathers,<br />
curiously nudges the spent bird.<br />
Its soft roundness<br />
gives way like overripe fruit<br />
and she withdraws her boot<br />
her face blank as snow.<br />
I dig the hole under the holly tree<br />
where the snowdrops have opened<br />
and lower the once bird.<br />
"Awww," says the little one.<br />
"Ew," says the bigger one.<br />
We sing it a song.<br />
It notices nothing--<br />
not the song<br />
not the mocking worm swimming pinkly<br />
in the freshly turned earth<br />
not the tears on the oldest girl's cheeks<br />
or that the little one has already run off,<br />
already forgotten the robin.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://onestoppoetry.com/2011/03/one-shot-poetry-wednesday-celebrating-our-36th-week.html">For One Shot Wednesday</a>lizziviggihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15921603615699013169noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597485523494709864.post-47108518758758940652011-03-02T06:17:00.000-08:002011-03-02T06:18:11.779-08:00Try Again LaterI'm not ready.<br />
I've changed my mind.<br />
I stare at the curtain behind you<br />
try to close my mind to you<br />
push closed<br />
the heavy door within<br />
lower the splintered bar across it<br />
barricade it<br />
with a peeling, painted wrought iron table<br />
two deck chairs<br />
my high school science teacher<br />
and remnants<br />
of clinging Christianity.<br />
Please go away.<br />
I peer through the glowing crack.<br />
I don't see you<br />
but please don't look<br />
so sad.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://onestoppoetry.com/2011/03/one-shot-wednesday-week-35.html">For One Shot Wednesday</a>lizziviggihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15921603615699013169noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597485523494709864.post-45633249516154344412011-02-09T09:25:00.000-08:002011-02-09T09:25:17.200-08:00conscious streamher excitement burbles and stutters<br />
the same words crashing<br />
incessantly incessantly<br />
against the unreasonable boulder<br />
<br />
trying to say it all<br />
to say everything at once<br />
pitch rising and rising<br />
like vocal water vapor<br />
consonants jumping from the stream<br />
little silver fish glinting<br />
<br />
can't recall what she was saying<br />
but the way she said it<br />
stubborn waves breaking free<br />
rushing out<br />
the rubbled boulder beaten<br />
her blue eyes a waterfall<br />
<br />
<a href="http://onestoppoetry.com/2011/02/one-shot-wednesday-week-32-hosted-by-moondustwriter-2.html">written for one shot wednesday</a>lizziviggihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15921603615699013169noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597485523494709864.post-26311490238686407522011-01-17T13:13:00.000-08:002011-01-17T13:23:26.415-08:00BelieverI hear my child call in the night,<br />
Eyes crazed, cheeks flushed with fever.<br />
I won't let her go without a fight.<br />
<br />
Lips curl, tongue rolling bright<br />
She begs me, please, believe her<br />
I hear my child call in the night.<br />
<br />
Her righteous shudders of delight,<br />
Agonies of conviction seize her.<br />
I won't let her go without a fight.<br />
<br />
Her illness, a wall of impossible height,<br />
Her fortress, a ring of believers--<br />
I hear my child call in the night.<br />
<br />
I watch her creep toward the light.<br />
Jesus, don't make me grieve her.<br />
I won't let her go without a fight.<br />
<br />
Her faith convinces her they're right--<br />
My faith says they deceive her.<br />
I hear my child call in the night.<br />
I won't let her go without a fight.<br />
<br />
<br />
This poetry form is called a villanelle, and it's a lot of fun to work with. I wrote this villanelle for One Spot Poetry's Monday Poetry Form. <a href="http://oneshotpoetry.blogspot.com/2011/01/monday-one-stop-poetry-form-villanelle.html"><b>Click here to learn more about the villanelle, and read other poets' entries.</b></a>lizziviggihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15921603615699013169noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597485523494709864.post-5430186796376599202011-01-12T07:23:00.000-08:002011-01-12T07:25:04.445-08:00A Morning at the Lettered Streets Coffeehouse<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTi_VmOmbZ2HCyVtMKkgTtE8g_EYxOmpEX6_Z_MSUn-fevU0bMWhvFZokQiGVs1A5osT4RgRD68jCm9JxXPGBch8nMnWXYiHLYyaEkQcV6t5GUJXkTovMwXF2b33WAGM_0j6FYArkGyXOq/s1600/espresso+sign.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTi_VmOmbZ2HCyVtMKkgTtE8g_EYxOmpEX6_Z_MSUn-fevU0bMWhvFZokQiGVs1A5osT4RgRD68jCm9JxXPGBch8nMnWXYiHLYyaEkQcV6t5GUJXkTovMwXF2b33WAGM_0j6FYArkGyXOq/s320/espresso+sign.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">I sit under the backwards espresso sign<br />
sipping my coffee<br />
perusing a travel book about Turkey.<br />
The borrowed pages<br />
smell like paprika.<br />
Droplets gather on the steamy window<br />
and travel down in groups.<br />
The women behind me talk<br />
about their trip to Africa.<br />
The glowing sign faintly buzzes<br />
and I leave half my coffee undrunk.<br />
It is winter<br />
there are no flowers on the table<br />
and I will never go to Turkey.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><a href="http://oneshotpoetry.blogspot.com/2011/01/one-shot-wednesday-week-28.html">Click here to visit One Shot Wednesday</a></span></div>lizziviggihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15921603615699013169noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597485523494709864.post-60801921429067713632011-01-10T09:48:00.000-08:002011-01-10T10:20:24.479-08:00Haiku #9<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSdS3gxtwgAqqjZ9R9A0zMs6BbTtQ3WqgdJ-lN8SfglMs3qh3NrETpMV31-ct_RHt249GQmyd2WQlRguO74JlUtJDvWOeHyterLt3wex7EU__Slghb-1DPbadv6VuoizHlUBwAtdPGxZkF/s1600/more+snow+021.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSdS3gxtwgAqqjZ9R9A0zMs6BbTtQ3WqgdJ-lN8SfglMs3qh3NrETpMV31-ct_RHt249GQmyd2WQlRguO74JlUtJDvWOeHyterLt3wex7EU__Slghb-1DPbadv6VuoizHlUBwAtdPGxZkF/s400/more+snow+021.JPG" /></a> </div><div style="clear: both; text-align: CENTER;">the hush between<br />
fall and spring-- the icy breath<br />
of winter<br />
<br />
<br />
and one in the rigid 2-3-2 syllable form:<br />
<br />
beneath<br />
white heaped tables<br />
green squares<br />
<br />
(I would love to hear comments back on this last one, to let me know if it is easily understood)<br />
<br />
<b><u><a href="http://oneshotpoetry.blogspot.com/2011/01/monday-one-stop-poetry-form-haiku-guest.html">One Stop Poetry Form: Haiku</a></u></b></div>lizziviggihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15921603615699013169noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597485523494709864.post-81741333033176923152011-01-04T06:23:00.001-08:002011-01-04T06:23:59.173-08:00Mr. Bilson - Part II<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The hall creaked with each step under the brown carpet as I followed Mr. Bilson into the depths of the house. It smelled like old man in there, like hairless skin and arthritis cream and dentures. He asked if I wanted a cup of coffee and I said yes, partly because I wasn’t allowed to drink coffee and partly because I wanted to bury my nose in the cup. He went in the kitchen, where he disappeared like a chameleon against the yellow-and-brown color scheme. I turned back to the wall and forgot about the smell.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There were all kinds of knives. The card underneath each knife said what kind of knife it was, who made it, and the year it was made. Some cards also had names of places and years next to those. There were some really old ones. The oldest one was also the biggest. It said it was an Argentine Modelo short sword from 1909. It had a pretty long blade, but it was old and nicked. It wasn’t rusty, though, like a couple of them were.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Which one’s your favorite?” Mr. Bilson was back. He handed me the coffee. It was in a Denny’s mug, and I wondered if he’d stolen it. I took a sip and tried not to make a face. Even I could tell it wasn’t good coffee, and I’d never had any before.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He was still looking at me, waiting for me to answer. I studied the wall. I pointed to a dagger, all open ends and decoration, with a ridged, rusty blade. It looked like it would fit in my pocket, and if Mr. Bilson didn’t have those watchful eyes I might have tried.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“The Indian Katar dagger, hmmm?” He plucked it from the wall and thoughtfully felt its blade. “It isn’t dated, but it’s an old one.” He handed it to me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I felt uncomfortable with the knife in my hand. He just kept looking at me, and I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do with it. I felt the blade like he’d done, nodding a couple times awkwardly as if I knew what a good knife should feel like. I handed it back to him when I thought the right amount of time had passed.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“You’re one of those boys doesn’t speak much, huh?” he said, placing the knife back on the wall. “Too busy playing your computer games, I suppose. Forgot how to use your voice.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I talk.” My voice sounded rusty, like the blade. I took another swallow of coffee. “How did you know I played computer games?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“That was my job, to get close to people. To notice things. It’s the height of summer, and you’re white as a fish. When I handed you the cup, I saw the callous on your index finger from clicking that mouse button all the time. It wasn’t too hard to figure out.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“What was your job?” I asked, but he didn’t answer. He just looked at the wall of knives, so I looked too. How come it was okay for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">him</i> not to talk?<o:p></o:p></p>lizziviggihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15921603615699013169noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597485523494709864.post-56631241915508637322010-12-29T10:12:00.000-08:002011-01-05T10:31:40.122-08:00The Pillow Case<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Thanks to <a href="http://itslovelyannie.com/2010/12/28/an-offering/">Lovely Annie</a>, I discovered a new poetic form this morning: the etheree. An etheree is a poem with ten lines, with an additional syllable for each line. It starts with one syllable and ends with ten. I love playing with new forms and had to try this one out. Here is my all-too-autobiographical account.<div><br /></div><div><br /><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDd-9KawhMBEsuYpOkZbt4SkZ38RVF6VBs4zJcFLEL1n2cgCG-QWDu-KYrg8UMU69g1_Y8LSRuSfGfxMho8mxqjWXy3ZtbxBk9fbDCp-0vJelqX5RJEBc5ZrbeGossvGkrR9biElmAXg2Z/s400/006.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556174122510200450" /></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>The Pillow Case</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div>So</div><div>I sew</div><div>the pillow</div><div>case. The whir whir</div><div>blur of the Kenmore's </div><div>pace makes the needle jab,</div><div>the needle stab, the thread grab</div><div>the fabric, a cambric, candent</div><div>and delicate, so delicate it</div><div>can't handle the tread of the thread and shreds.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><a href="http://oneshotpoetry.blogspot.com/2010/12/one-shot-poetry-wednesday-week-26.html">One Shot Wednesday</a></b></div></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://jingleyanqiu.wordpress.com/2010/12/29/thursday-poets-rally-week-36-december-29-2010-january-5-2011/"><b>Thursday Poets' Rally: Week 36</b></a></div>lizziviggihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15921603615699013169noreply@blogger.com23