Friday, March 23, 2007

Poetry Friday: The Word is STEP

I have An Important Event to go to this morning. I wanted to look nice, so I pulled a skirt from my closet, a nice jacket, and slipped on my black suede knee-high boots.

My calves look fabulous.

The problem is, I'm more a barefoot gal. These boots here? The ones made for walkin'? Have a 3-inch heel. Are ya kiddin' me? Every step I take is like an exercise in tightrope walking. I've paraded the dark halls of my office this morning, and gradually, like a new pair of jeans, the boots remembered to soften and fold at just the right flex point, and my hips have recalled the necessary tiptoe-alignment.

I do feel sexy in dees here boots.
But. Wow.
I'm dizzy from the height.

The Poetry Friday Word for today is STEP. Please feel free to use it in your blog post today, in whatever high-heeled patron saint of fashionable footwear you choose...poem, story, photo, lyrical jingle, computer program filled with compassion and vision....

I have two offerings, one more a memory and the second...well...the second is completely different from my first draft last night. I like the original better, but since I'm experiencing Write-us Interruptus this morning from the Talkative Night Operator Guy, it's better than a spear in the eye.

Have a good weekend, y'all!


The Aggie, The Cat's Eye, The Blue

They were from my grandfather’s boyhood collection. Once carefully stashed in the pockets of dusty overalls, then relegated to a cigar box, they had languished on the top shelf of his clothes closet.

The winds brought them out.

When Spring arrives and pushes at the creak of Winter, Winter does not go away easy. Spring and Winter engage in a passionate Tango, and the resulting winds kick up dirt and water, twigs and gravel, tricycles and small frightened animals.

The winds that April day picked up cars. Houses. Spun the light poles until the wires were so much stiff candy fluff against the core.

The last thing my grandfather saw in his front yard was the tree that crushed him.

My grandmother, safe in the cellar, sat in the dark with boxes of photographs, a flashlight, and a hope that would be smashed like her good china in the cabinet upstairs.

The aftermath was unbelievable, like a movie I wasn’t allowed to watch but snuck downstairs for anyway, the landscape suddenly shifted horribly askew and the heavy tears hanging in the air like sticky fog.

After the funerals and the grieving, after we children were soothed and kept from the casket room, after everyone could breathe again, the rebuilding started. While the uncles and strong cousins cleared the debris, Grandma wandered her yard, picking up memories and putting them in her apron pocket.

Weeks later, there were new steps in front of her new porch in front of her new house. Grandma walked me to the front lawn, and pointed at the odd colored bumps in the tops of the poured concrete steps leading to the porch.

“Those are your Grandpa’s marbles,” she said. “He used to play with them when he was your age. Can you imagine! I found them here in the yard after the tornado. Aren't they pretty? I pushed 'em down in that wet cement there. He was so proud of that collection....”

That day I sat on her steps, running my hands over the smooth glass embedded forever in cement, admiring the color of the aggie, the swirling patterns of the red and blue ones, wishing I knew how to shoot marbles like my cousin Paul, catching sight of the sun in the reflection of the Cat’s Eye, and looking over my shoulder for Spring's mad dance with Winter.


Sister You Step

Sister you step
In with black
Dress and host kissing
Insisting
You can only stay for a while
A smile
Your scent on territory

Sister you step
to the right
hugging the man in the suit
sort of cute
You nuzzle the Austrian in pink
You think
You might stay a bit longer

Sister you step
To the left
Shaking thisthat hand
Wedding band
Your chitter your chatter
Doesn’t matter
You notice her standing there

Sister you step
This way,
Familiar curve and grace
Your face
Your secret to tell
We will
Find a dark and quiet corner.

7 Comments:

At 7:47 AM, Blogger Mother of Invention said...

Wow! What fabulous writing! The comparisons creat clear images...the tango of spring and winter, simply perfect! (You could have used this post for last week too!)I love both, but the first is especially endearing because it is a precious memory. What a neat thing for your grandma to do...so connected and full circle.
Just a very col story,well told, and one that I will remember.

 
At 11:46 AM, Blogger Nancy Dancehall said...

Wow. Clear, clear images. I can see the aftermath of the storm, and the marbles.

 
At 2:15 PM, Blogger Lucia said...

I agree. Amazing images.

You know, the IDEA of wearing sexy boots is always so much better than the reality of them on your feet.

Hope you're tottered through the day.

 
At 6:57 PM, Blogger Sanjay said...

What Lucia said about sexy boots. Great writing brought the images to life for me. :)

 
At 1:23 AM, Blogger Pisser said...

Funny my grandpa and I were talking about him playing marbles as a boy last time I saw him...will have to take said marbles on trip to see him this month. He can't play tennis anymore, but marbles is OK even if you've had open-heart surgery twice, no...?

 
At 6:31 PM, Blogger patches said...

Your poem sizzles....not a traditional literary compliment, but admiration nonetheless. I found myself enveloped in your childhood memory...it was vivid enough for me to confuse it with my own.

 
At 12:30 AM, Blogger your fiend, mr. jones said...

the poem sounds like an early-seventies R&B song. Something that would be used in a Pam Grier movie.

Of course, this is meant as a compliment ;>

 

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