Goodbye

the endless string of goodbyes that a military girlfriend faces don't leave her unscathed.     

     We collect goodbyes 

Like some people collect stamps or ticket stubs.

Pinned to the wall like souvenirs,

colored in memories--

another point in time where we parted.

     Their potency never fades with time.

     We collect goodbyes

Like some people collect postcards or bottle caps.

We tuck them in our suitcases,

pretend they don't weigh us down. 

Faults

10/23/12 After being diagnosed with dyslexia.

Don’t ever discover your faults.
In your ignorance, nothing it withheld and there is no limit to your potential.
But when you are labeled, named, and scarred;
You have a ceiling, a hindrance that was never there before.
At all costs, never discover your faults.
Admit them, accept help, but never name them, nor give then a face,
Or they will make you, decide you
Dictate the extent of possible.
Instead, live in blissful ignorance,
Foolishly believe that you can truly do anything you put your heart to;
For then you will break free and soar.

Puddle Shy

The girl skipped along beside her mother, clutching tightly to her hand.

Her cork-screw curls bobbing in time to her steps;

long, hoppy, steps, taking two or three for each of her mother's. 

Toes todded from safe to safe, each crack a chasm.

Suddenly, the dull gray-scape dropped off into blue sky;

a startle-eyed child with a halo of yellow hair stared up at her. 

Startled by the intimacy of the gaze, the girl shrank back. 

Her mother urged her on, but she sat fixated not daring to move a step nearer. 

Cautiously, peeking through fingers, she peered  over the edge of the puddle;

the face peered back, hiding her eyes.

The puddle girl was shy too.

The mother made an impatient sound and tugged the girls arm, 

but the child was suddenly oblivious to the world around her.

Only the puddle and the girl remained. 

Gathering her courage, she waved to the child and leaped over the puddle, 

as if it would reach up and bite her.

The child waved back.

Written during a point in my life where I was struggling with the concept of war, yet dating a soldier.

1969

Time played slow

like the end of a roll of black and white film.

The crowd moved and jostled in lethargic waves,

fists beat the sluggish air--  

the flower people now threw stones.

My people.

Angry voices filled the air with distance echos;

hate and spittle fell with ruthless slowness

on the soldiers, the baby-killers,

Nay,

the children, with blank faces.

Hate.

I rolled the word in my mouth,

disliking the taste:

hate left no room for the love.

Dust billowed from marching feet

A figure stepped out--

grim--

keeping slow tempo with the rest.

Left... ...right... ...left... ...right.

Words flashed in my mind, like dreams:

the tear-stained paper promises.

His face: hard lines chiseled by the hands of war;

but still the face I kissed goodbye.

He moved listlessly, though his step was in-time;

even his uniform looked tired.

We both fought a war--

same goal but different sides.

My ambiance drew him;

he turned.

Eyes locked.

My long hair and skirt swirled;

from the wind or the force of my comrades hate--

I couldn't tell.

The strength of his gaze pulled me;

I took a step into the street.

And time sped up.

Noise and sensation crested powerfully:

I staggered with the weight.

Hate assaulted my ears,

dust stung my eyes and nose;

I caught a faint whiff of smoke.

Elbows bit my side,

fingers tried to yank me back.

I ran to him;

my people screamed in anger.

Two hands cradled him so softly,

wanting to erase cruelty, pain.

Why were we fighting against the ones

whose cause we were fighting for?

Writing for the Trash-Can

         Yesterday in Writing Studies class we were asked what was the number one problem for writers in high-school.

        My answer to this question is two fold; the reader-writer relationship and the paper's ultimate destiny--the trash (or some forgotten web folder). This environment does not bode well for birthing papers. Take your audience for example: what is the teacher's goal in reading this paper? To learn new information? Be inspired? Change their thinking or forward an idea? No! They are reading each and every one of your pieces for the soul purpose of hunting for the right answer. Or shall be say "their' right answer. And if it is not found, the paper is an automatic failure, no matter the literary content or small gems of brilliance. Your words are covered in lines of inky blood. 

          Now on to your paper-babies bleak future. This brings me back to AP Language and Composition class last year and researching the issues in public schools. One book I read discussed that cruel way that school children are force to produce--and produce in large amounts--for the trash can. In Ancient Greece, when you wanted to learn something, you would apprentice at the workshop of your desired trade. And, like now, began production, because everyone knows you learn by doing. And yes, your poor, inexperienced efforts would end their lives in the trash, but your good work would be sold. And that was your goal, you worked at making better products, not better trash. 

          Does anyone else see the twisted insanity with today's currant learning system, where parts of children's souls are heartlessly tossed in the trash from the time they were very young?

Katie and the Military

            
        I am a random air-head straight up (just in case any of you weren't  already aware!) 

        I was discussing life in the military with my boyfriend and I asked him if they were ever allowed to just whistle or sing at the academy (other than choir of course). 

       He looked at me with an amused expression, “we get in trouble for just smiling. Heck, I got yelled at once for raising my eyebrows. Got marked down as having an attitude problem. I wasn't even aware I did it!” 

      That officially settled it in my mind (not that there was really any doubt): the military is no place for me. I would get busted for singing, skipping down the hallways, and doodling in my handbook. There is just no way around the spontaneousness of Katie. 
      Darling, you can keep the world safe, and I will keep the world surprising. :)

Self Reminder:

The single most important decision you can make in life is not what college you attend, what job you take, or even what person you marry, but simply this: that you have given your life to Christ. And if you have already done that, then why stress about the rest?