So.. tired...

Right now, my brain is telling my tired eyes that a blog needs to be posted. My cynicism has retorted with the fact no one reads this, so who's to know I missed a day again. Integrity pipes her annoying little face into it and makes me feel bad for not wanting to post. So shamed by my own upbringing, I floundered to my desk and opened my laptop. 

Now you're up to speed. 

I have no real plan on what I am posting or why I post certain things. I just do. I have more material on my desktop, so I'll transfer it over another day. 

This just a silly little paragraph I wrote in a perspective practice.

Homage

My mornings always start the same. I arise on my own time, go out to the kitchen to demand a meal, and wait to be served. My servant comes promptly with food for me, ready to wait on my every need. After I have finished, I find a comfortable place to relax, often falling back asleep. When I wake again, I inform my servant’s husband I wish to go out for a time. I spend most of the day surveying my area. Often enough, I have to scare off some poor fool that thinks he is strong or smart enough to steal my territory from me. Evening finds me back at my home, once again ruling over my servants like a lord. I accept their homage with aloofness; for this is what a cat is due.

~~

Next is a poem I wrote when I was moving out of my parent's house.  This poem means a lot to me in few ways. It is my favorite poem the editors of the CF literary magazine chose to publish. It has some very precious memories wrapped up in it. If I were ever to have a child, I know this poem would be my lasting impression of my childhood. Not the squabbling, not the hurt feelings or disappointment; none of the insecurities that have come to light since. These images that come to mind when I think of my childhood home are what I will keep close when I fall asleep.

Dust and Memory

A morning lost to wandering, I found part of my heart, jumbled about in the old shed.

From within a old brown box rose a cloud of dust and memory. I breathed in deep

the musty scent of mothballs as my mind disgorged a double decade.

Faded toys clustered about the bottom with simple laughter, distant and fragile

as moth wings. Lessons echoed in my ears as old school books join the pile.

I dug my hands in deeper still, pulling the worn edges of recollection together.

The old laughing oak would not fit in a box, nor the brilliant sunrise view

from the bedroom window. Neither Ms Myrtle's smile, nor the familiar potholes.

A scrap of carpet, a picture frame, pale mementos of my home for 15 years.

Six years past my first move, I stand yet again, poised to journey another threshold.

Boxes pile shoulder high around me once more, my mind eager then cautious

at rapid turns. A hug, a kiss, one last load thrown into the car, and soon I jump

into the void of independence to free fall into a new life. A breath, a twinge deep within,

I grasp the door handle and box up another section of my heart.

 Goodnight, anyone who reads this.