Saturday, June 11, 2011

The Eyes Have it

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 face.”—that really brings it home. But my eyes go beyond thwarting symmetry. They each have their own personality.

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 will 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.

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. 

"You've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel lucky?' Well, do ya, punk?"



"Oh my god, you're like, so beautiful and amazing!"


 And here's the whole picture, in case you think I cheated and cropped from different pics:
Please don't ask what's on top of my head. I really have no idea. It was an interesting evening.

And I totally could have taken a new picture to exaggerate the effect...
but I respect you guys too much to do that.

Friday, June 10, 2011

SheWrites Blogger Ball #4

Welcome to my blog, SW ball-goers!

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.

If you prefer photos and snippets of writing to poetry and rambling, check out my other blog at http://bellinghamdailyphoto.blogspot.com/

Here, let me help you with your coat...

Welcome to the SheWrites Blogger Ball!
(click the bookcase to return to 1st Books. Thanks for visiting!)

Monday, May 23, 2011

Everland

Like Wendy, sad at her window
we mothers wipe small fingerprints
from glass, looking through it for hints

of pirates or pixies below.
Languishing eyes search empty skies
for childish dreams we should outgrow.

That old dream outgrew us long since...
and Wendy waits at her window.

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!

Click here to read the other octains and high octains submitted.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Playing Dress-Up

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:


a lady from "Mad Men"...





...a bloodthirsty buccaneer...




 ...or a lumberjack!


Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Hands I've Held (I)

Your warm fingers
angular and alien
hook through mine as if by accident.
We leave them there
our clasped fingers
and pretend not to notice our weightless hearts.

The day is gray and windy
trees fuzzed yellow-green with spring pubescence.
Cherry blossoms choke the gutters
drowning in Decemberlike rain.

Your fingers are like bare winter branches.

I wish I could go back to December
back to the bare simplicity
of naked branches and dormant earth
before the urges of spring
complicated everything.


For One Shot Wednesday.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

The Burning

I keep the fire going
with sugar packets and gum wrappers
scrape the bottom of my purse
for goldfish crackers and crumpled tissues
a Starbucks napkin
a receipt for a swimsuit
I haven’t worn yet

I rip out the blank pages
from my spiral notebook
and feed them to the flames

silent people crowd the cold room
nodding at my notebook
too thin with straggling pages
they can’t help me
or don’t want to
but watch me struggle, scrabble for scraps

sticky lollipop sticks, ticket stubs
to that horrible show
that didn’t make me laugh
until there’s nothing left
nothing else to do but throw it in
my notebook
the words curling and darkening
fading into the satisfied smoke

Thursday, March 10, 2011