Finding Prose in the Laundry

;)

2012-01-31T23:04:00.001-08:00

Sometimes at night I feel alone.

So I bake for the hum of the oven.

I scrawl my love into dough and watch it carefully rise. ..

and I can't explain from where this feeling comes but it feels good to bake my own bread.

It's too late now for poetry my love, so I'll give you dough instead.

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http://canvaschild.blogspot.com/

a mother's song

2011-11-10T10:35:00.000-08:00

if only the days faded quicker
but then the sun sets
and i wish for more time
thinking on how i could do better
always walking the faded grey line

sometimes i wear a burp cloth and a baby
balancing while i walk a tight rope of toys
as the laundry piles and dishes overflow
i trip over a toddler
who use to be a baby boy

outside little girls argue
over who had her toy first
and i beg God for the patience
to come up with the softest of words

but then today's clothes turn into jammies
and jammies turn into a bed
and bedtime stories turn into lullabies
floating around in sleeping heads

a mother dances the quick step
her children's feet write the words of her song
and it's an ever blessed struggle to dance sometimes
but one day the music will be gone

joining emily here...

this side of the world

2011-07-15T10:31:00.000-07:00

                                                     if       there           ever      was
                                                     a    little   piece    of    heaven
                                                     this side of the world     above
                                                     i'm sharing it with you my loves
                                                     life      isn't       perfectly    spun
                                                     no              promises        made
                                                     of                perfect            time
                                                     and        when        you      think
                                                     it's      sunny        side       down
                                                     sometimes      the  rain  falls up
                                           right             here             and               now

i'm wrapped in love

it's holding me tight

like a bug in a rug

and i wouldn't
trade my life

for a trillion

million
bottled

stars

and her too:)

Our newest addition!

2011-07-13T11:19:00.000-07:00

Lexi Amelia

born May 20 2011

10:23 a.m

8 lbs 2oz

and lots of love!

Isn't she cute?! ;)

How I got here: Forgiveness...

2011-06-28T14:51:00.000-07:00

Last night I had a dream I was still with him. I've had these dreams before and I always wake up feeling relieved that it's just a dream. Then, I thank God for this life and for saving me from that one. There is something missing though.

So, here is a story and for the first time there is forgiveness at the end of it.

I was 19 when I caught his eye. He was 22. He was in the ARMY and when we were married, I was my age. No more, no less.

Back then I thought if I was more mature, pretty, skinny, funny, lovely...

maybe then he would cherish me. I was so many good things but he still hit me--painting me black and blue with color and so many things I was not, with words.

So, I became the girl in the back row with the lame excuse for the black eye and swollen nose. Nobody called me out and I was thankful in my own way. I was now a symptom of him and no longer the girl I once was. I became withdrawn from friends and family but deep inside I was screaming for someone to rescue me.

I thought I could change him if I lost some weight or cleaned more. I did more but he never got better and so, I wasted months playing Russian Roulette by hand with a man who was really a lost boy. Then one day, I decided to rescue myself.

Finally, I got to that place...

Me staring at myself in the mirror and verbally telling my reflection,

"He could kill you with those hands."

Hands that had been around my neck the night before and then, I left him standing outside our apartment. His eyes red from promises made too late but this time I knew he couldn't keep them.

Suddenly, that life was gone...

but it wasn't erased. I've held on to it, all these years and it hurts every time I remember.

but forgivness can shade the pain and so...

I forgive you and I'm letting go of what you did to me. I pray you found the help you needed and that your free from your anger.

Joining Emily here for imperfect prose today.

Bon Appetit!

2010-11-04T11:31:00.000-07:00

My great-grandmother

Beulah Irene

kept chickens,

1 Rooster and some Hens

and on the day the meat ran low

She took Rooster's bride of the day

and then

grabbed Henny by the neck and swung

round and round until it was wrung

CHOP

then feathers pulled and yanked

into the pot that chicken sank

Bon Appetit!

she claimed that night

as Rooster stood upon a stump and sighed

looking in at the table trying not to cry

as He stared at a plate of that day's bride.

My great-grandma Beulah once told us stories of how good we have it. At 19, in the 1920's she married my great-grandfather and they raised chickens, killed chickens and ate chickens, made butter and bread and did what we would have to do if we didn't have the good-ol-grocery store. I am so thankful for the Grocery store. . .

Click on the link for more Magpie Tales

Mag39

I'll paint with words

2010-11-03T11:09:00.000-07:00

I can paint a picture with pen or the tap of keys. I can trace my brain from translucent lines, titling it a memory. Give me color. Give me emotion. Give me greens and blues and the yellows of the wheat fields and that is when the page will soar. . .when I'm wide eyed and accept the words that follow. There are colors that don't even have a name, some so deep, so dark they blend in with the purples of the heart. What if I spend my days searching? Will I call myself a writer then?

I watch my children write. They draw hieroglyphics, pictures of happy suns and flowers with petals as long as the page is wide. They beg me for a pen and their fingers smile as they trace thoughts, those images that dance around. Everything they draw is love, is joy, is good enough. My four year old thinks that the perfect cloud hangs on a page drawn with black ink. The flowers in her mind are pink but when She writes them down she tells me,

"They look different Mommy."

A moment later she decides she doesn't care and she starts to draw more black flowers with un-rounded edges.

Lately, I start to write and it comes softly where is use to overflow....tired or dark or different from what I had in mind. Instead of accepting it, I run away. Isn't this the thing...to write and write and see where it takes me, see what it teaches me. To open up heart and name those colors.

My edges aren't always round when they should be but that is life and that is me. I am done with the self loathing. I could spend a hundred years claiming "not good enough" and another hundred trying to be, but that is a waste of color and that is when I stop writing

and I never want to stop writing .

i'll paint you a memory
summer was sweet
it blew kisses on the breeze
the air was thick and moist
and i remember
there was a girl there
she was little,
dark hair and eyes that matched
she bent over and picked up a blade,
grass from a field in Montana
the caterpillar hung on, clutching tighter
and she twirled it over in her hands
and when she puckered up to kiss it
i yelled, "NO!"
and she jumped,
smiles turned to laughter
and the caterpillar breathed . . .

*When i was 12, we took a vacation and stared at fields. As Dad talked about Little Bighorn and 7th Calvary charging, I saved my baby sister from kissing a caterpillar.

Linking up with Emily @ in the hush of the moon for Imperfect Prose on Thursdays

Happy Birthday and Pregnancy Glow

2010-10-02T21:04:00.000-07:00

from in my belly you grew

cells divided and you burrowed your way

oh, the things that burrow

yet you had no form

you were once too small in me

blastocist of cells

primitive streak

again,

this all is repeat

and somehow

new life does form

in it's own time

and only by Gods willing hand

you'll come to live

and breathe

outside of me. . .

Tonight I say Happy Birthday to Our little Ainsley who turned three

and wait as this new baby forms in me. . .

Memories of Shadows

2010-09-28T22:11:00.000-07:00

I remember when

I found my shadow. . .

That sky

bled puffy white clouds

from blue hands

as deep as the sea,

the sun hovering over

fresh cut grass and me

and there, a first

memory was born

and here

I see them and I wonder

if they will remember this moment

when they have grown. . .

A garden is for thinking...

2010-09-15T17:02:00.000-07:00

A dandelion seed isn't a seed
until it's color has withered away,
dried up by
that golden ball
hanging in a deep blue sea of sky...

Can you see it?
Stuck on a petal,
waiting to be buried
in the dust of dirt.

We came from dust of dirt and rib

broken

and i wonder how

he formed us. How the moment looked

when God breathed into nostrils

and man became a living soul...

the light on it all, of it all.

The same light that still shines

through the trees and flirts

with pixels and kisses

freckles upon my lightly painted skin.

We go through it all,

the motions of being born of dirt and rib

and the forbidden that they touched

and we were touched by their sin, a curse, so we sin and we feel our wrongs.

Sometimes I forget,

He died for those wrongs.

Lately, I bury my nose in the bible

and I read from proverbs of women

who work with their hands and find delight.

I look up to him and I pray ...

Begging for the delight to come,

begging to know Him more,

to feel him on my heart

and always hear when

He speaks.

I'm linking up with Emily @ in the hush of the moon for Imperfect Prose on Thursdays

Falling. . .

2010-09-08T09:02:00.000-07:00

the wind that is blowing

is suddenly here now,

bringing clouds from the

south, degrees from the north

and fall is like a kid

knocking on my door

begging me to play

so I'm buying

rain boots and pumpkin spice

and wondering if

falling ever felt this good. . .

What is the wind blowing to you?

((photo credit: Google Images))

I'm joining Emily for Imperfect Prose on Thursday.

Falling in love with Sacramento and Thankful. . .

2010-09-06T01:31:00.000-07:00

Today I sailed, through the wake, under sun and clouds spread thin and sparse. I dipped my hands in water, river of my city and I fell hard for bridges and skyscraper silhouettes. . .

There is a homeless man who spews poems about what he sees and He finds joy somehow. His bed is green grass and His roof is made of countless stars. He has a beard he twirls and He has a story that I have no courage to ask on. He tells us "Hello" with a smile and I say it back trembling in contemplation because. . .

He sits on a hill as others dock their boats and He looks down making poems from life with no pen, just words out of mouth spilled over a warm day in September. He loves these days and he always sees them through, with no air conditioning or heater to flip on.

I listened to him, "ahoy there, chaparral, yellow be the day..." and the engines of boats and trains and vessels and when I thought that we had spent our time all gone. . .

The sun set behind the trees, like fire through branches spreading as we passed, racing us, that bright and shining star that seems to always win. Then it sunk behind the horizon, like an anchor slow in motion falling and baby on my chest took a deep breath and I was thankful unto God:

for river cities that never sleep,

a father-in-law (who I call Dad) letting us borrow his boat ,

the pink that blends into many shades of blue at sunset,

an hour at the river turning into 7 and more fun than we knew what to do with,

sauerkraut dogs,

the laugh my husband and I got out of our 2 year old Ainsley eating a dogie biscuit off the ground in Old Town Sac. . .

shade in breezy places when the sun is hot and blasting down.

Family, what would I be without you?

I'm joining Ann of Holy Experience to count the blessings and yank out thankful. . .

Guest post: Finding Holiness

2010-09-02T21:37:00.000-07:00

Beautiful Emily @ in the hush of the moon asked me to write a Guest Post on what it means to be a Holy Mother.

I said yes and here is the link!

Guest Post: Alexis Hallum on 'Finding Holiness'

. . .

2010-08-27T01:00:00.001-07:00

sometimes life splits open the sides and truth sews skin back up with love and stronger thread

what doesn't take away life
adds on to days that come
learning things from
lessons forced,
the vaccination of the soul

he speaks to me on a stormy night
with a bug clutched to screen
using insects to teach me that prayer
is a tree on which to lean

cause God is good like that

linking up with Emily @ in the hush of the moon for Imperfect Prose Thursdays

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questions for the redwood

2010-08-12T20:58:00.000-07:00

                                                                       r
                                                                      e
                                                                      d,
                                                                   how
                                                                    old
                                                                     are
                                                                     you...
                                                                     when
                                                                    did your
                                                                   seed
                                                                   drop into
                                                                    the dust,
                                                   to burrow it's self
                                                                      deep
                                                                     under
                                                                     layers
                                                                      of dirt ?
                                                                   when did your bark begin
                                                                   to form,
                                                                   bleeding
                                                                   red wood
                                                                    like veins
                                                                   spilled open?
                                                                  did you always
                                                                stand so tall above
                                                              everything below and
                                                              do your toes get cold
                                                           when roots   shoot     out
                                                             f          c       m      o        f
                                                            r         o         a       f          e
                                                        o          v           d                      r
                                                      m             e        e                       n
                                                                    r                                       s
                                                                      s                                      ?

I'm linking up with Emily @ in the hush of the moon for Imperfect Prose.

homesick for the earth

2010-08-01T23:37:00.001-07:00

I miss the stars, the blocks of
alfalfa piled up like a stairway
to the clouds.
I miss a horse
called Dream with white
sock, and running her through
green fields, borrowed of earth.
There was a time when city
lights didn't shut out the sky,
when I could see the dust of
stars, smell the sweet grass and
hear the frogs singing to the moon.
Now I live where the houses are spaced like
matches in a box and I find myself
thirsty for deep earth, unmoved
by men.

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Loves Tide and Tithe

2010-07-29T00:17:00.000-07:00

I stare quietly into pale hazel eyes,
And loves price and pricelessness unfold.
Wrapped in a vine of binding ties;
I cannot make out soul from soul.
Love sings sharp, though sometimes dull
And bursts through seams loosened in between,
For threaded steel shall never hull;
It binds us gently and gives with room to breathe.
Though viciousness does sometimes explore
Through tainted, jealous or hasty tongues and
When tenderness comes back to shore
His breath flows back into thy lungs;
For one day in courthouse we did stand,
Eyes for eyes and hands for hands.

I'm linking up with Emily @ in the hush of the moon

((((Johnny and I celebrate 5 years of marriage today!))))

where dragonfly and girl meet

2010-07-23T18:37:00.000-07:00

He flaps wings as she does mouth;

fast and graceful, taking in the air around us all.

His wings are paper thin and delicate.

Her arms are thin and delicate too.

I tell her to reach out and touch him

and at first she doesn't believe

but then i see faith swell up

like waves fierce, she goes and...

she asks how i know the dragonfly

is a him and i tell her i don't

and then she asks if they bite and

i tell her not as hard as her brother...

Then magic,

a tamer of dragonflies;

she takes him into her world

and she tucks him tightly in her heart for second split

and then, just as quickly as flesh touched scales,

he lets her go and flies into the blue.

reader, I love him... Imperfect Prose

2010-07-21T23:46:00.000-07:00

come closer, love.
i want to trace the
lines that are
blooming next to
your eyes
(i love him)
because I have
seen them sprout
where every crinkled
smile and laugh
has sprung.
under covers,
laughter finds us
on winter nights
and we kiss
or clutch giggles
in halls
while babies dream
in cribs and toddler beds.
my heart rests
under your chin,
in the crook of your neck
(that is my place)
and this, our life;
growing laugh lines
in our time.

If they can see the
footprints of laughter on our
faces,
that will be
all that i ask of aging skin.

(and that i may never forget how to laugh again...)

I'm joining Emily in Imperfect Prose on Thursdays. Click on the link below and see where it takes you...

Click here

Where I have been...

2010-07-16T10:43:00.000-07:00

We have all seen those commercials...

"Where does Depression Hurt?"

I can now answer that question but for a long time I didn't have the motivation to be my own advocate. It took some people around me to step in and point out a few things. Depression not only hurts the person who is depressed but it hurts their children and spouse. It throws the family into a spin.

Lately, I've had no prose or poetry to post. I have tried but I just can't seem to finish anything. This is the worst kind of writers block and then also, the best kind because I have been getting back to normal.

Recently, life has been empty. I tried to fill it up but I couldn't. I didn't know what was going on with me and I didn't care to find out. It was so hard to wake up every single day and think about walking down stairs, fixing my kids breakfast and interacting with them. It's pretty tough to own those feelings right there. It is painful to admit that I wanted them to play outside so I could sit on the couch and stare blank or that I didn't greet my husband when he walked in to door from work. That just kills me for them.

When we visited family or friends it took a lot of energy, to smile and be interested in conversation when I really just wanted to crawl under the covers and sleep.

Back at home, I struggled to do the simple things like clean my house, eat, take a shower, play with my kids and want to live my life. I constantly worried about so many little things, it was miserable.

One Saturday, my husband Johnny sent the kids in our room to watch a movie and he came over to me and asked me what was wrong. He asked me what was going on in my head and told me that life shouldn't be this hard. We got into a pretty big argument. It was in that moment I realized something was wrong.

The next Monday I went to see my Doctor and talked to her about all of my feelings. I was totally honest and that was hard because I felt like I might be inSANE! She prescribed me Paxil (which again, made me feel like I was losing my mind). It took me a few days to pray and commit to taking it. I even went back to see my Doctor once more to confirm that I really needed it. She confirmed...

I have the hardest time trusting myself and what I know. I struggle putting myself out there, broken and needy and tainted, trying not to care how people see me.

I am starting to feel so much better! Everyday I feel closer and closer to normal. Yesterday I cleaned my whole house, window sills and all and I was happy for the sunshine through the window pane and the giggles from my sweet babies. I find myself playing with my kids more and withdrawing less. It feels so good to want to read my Bible and draw closer to God. Even though I couldn't feel him while I was in that darkness, I know he is watching over me.

So, that is where I have been lately. It hasn't been the best of places but things are starting to look up and I'm off to find some more Prose in the Laundry...because it is actually getting done!

I just want to say Thank You to all of my blogging Friends. I can't tell you how much I appreciate your posts and your comments and your emails. Your all awesome!

computer overload

2010-06-28T10:52:00.000-07:00

the rise
of the machine
renders me bionic
taking over brain and limbs and
i crash

Copyright © 2010 Alexis Hallum

turning into me

2010-06-18T09:31:00.000-07:00

i could never get enough
fields of sloping foothills
where my bones grew
and broke
my torn flesh on earth,
pores ripped easy
down the middle
the sketching of scars

the old boulder
where little brother
like the arrow shot
off down into
yellow grass on rattler
then his eyes became
clumsy from poison
my breath held on prayers
he still smiles battle scar

the big hill,
Jill's hill
ended country road
where we dared
our bikes down
and one summer dusk
brought red and white lights
her light, gone
life isn't promised long

summer fires
watered houses and
horses broke free
their hooves over paved road
running hard
snorting breath like water
fearing they would not return
but they did, just like me

falling (really failing)
only just old enough
laughed through vows
i didn't understand
in white shirt and blue jeans
his named still carved
into flesh of heart
though scar tissue numb
i still wish it gone

then almost years later
I walked up steps
a prodigal of sums
with suit case and journals and
battle scars i wouldn't smile
momma with tea kettle
still stood the same
her floors, squeaky clean
her smile broke through

this all turned into me

a writing prompt from:
Magpie Tales (#19)

Copyright © 2010 Alexis Hallum

Love Rises With the Sun

2010-06-14T22:03:00.001-07:00

love can be relentless
but mostly it lingers
hushed softly
tracing fingers
over closed eyes
and open mouth

love plasters
and suffocates reality
even the silver spoon
turns to dust
as it separates
from pinkish tongue

love can bring
the poor to riches
and stumbles
the wealthy to their knees

it is lost sometimes
before it realizes itself
or found
weary and tired
gasping for air

but like the dawn blooms
each lovely morning
and the flowers stretch
as petals yawn deep
love will always
be made new
again

Magpie 18

the backyards of mind

2010-06-07T15:22:00.000-07:00

memories
speaking trails
like little footprints
in the backyards of mind

frozen days
left stranded
in stone
each detail chiseled
and perfect
or flawed

brain
wraps around
a million delicate things
that trace back
through scents
like paths worn down
along the countryside
each step becoming
part of the way

memories step out
of place sometimes
from hidden screens
like paintings in the attic
or tainted tax returns
some things
better left forgotten
escape like
skeletons in the closet

Magpie Tales #17

the Copyright © 2010 Alexis Hallum

homecoming queen

2010-06-02T10:41:00.001-07:00

For and about my Mother...

at 18 years she stepped down
with a rhinetone tiara
pink dimpled dress
did much impress
all of mcpherson town

a dozen roses in arms and eyes
did not surprise her mother
for kindness and a giving heart
weighed more than popular causes

when she came home again
years passed, ten
they'd all moved in
to bigger cities and bigger houses
and she held babies on her knee
mending hearts and navy blue trousers

5 year old played next to her
dressed in pink and rhinestone gleam
she passed down crown
and whithered gown
to 5 year olds homecoming dream

shooting star

2010-06-01T00:19:00.000-07:00

a white flair does shoot
brightly streaming through night sky,
going, going, gone

Copyright © 2010 Alexis Hallum

Multitude Monday

2010-05-24T00:53:00.000-07:00

I am linking up with A Holy Experience to find the gifts in the everyday.

It is a gift....

when the dawn wakes me up,
the cold slowing as the earth spins

when winter fades into spring
and the birds sing their happy songs,
the blooms painting their backyard

when toddlers toddle into our room before the sun
and climb under the warm blankets with cold toes

when I hear my mother and sisters laugh

when bad news isn't as bad as it could get

       when a toy becomes a keepsake:

    I wear around my neck, an image
    of a miracle. Folklore says that
    bees shouldn't be able to fly.
    I know the miracle lies within the fact that
    they even exist.

When HE died for me and made my heart clean so that I could learn to know him.

sunday brings

2010-05-23T15:49:00.000-07:00

sunday brings the quiet

peaceful sun on cheeks and shoulders

sometimes a soft breeze

through an open room

rested and full of life

walking with 3 through a park

with the squirrels and the waterfowl
their hearts in the pocket of my jeans

grandparents hover over their baby's babies

holding hands and hanging on every word

thinking of the past for a few seconds at a time

and I imagine what it would be like

to not have

what I hold in this moment

next to a pond of muddled blue

baby in the buggy,

toddler hanging on the edge of my skirt,

and a little girl asking why of the sun, snails and geese

sometimes i rush them along

saying, "hurry up, let's go"

but i never want it to be over

never

Ainsley, Kayley and Jake

I Breathed you into my Heart (happy birthday jake)

2010-05-15T09:10:00.000-07:00

a year ago
in almost mid may
i held you in my arms
as the cherry blossoms
and spring
faded away
tracing the lining of your palms
your perfect shoulders
like little foot hills
the teeny bump of your daddy’s nose

excitement had tickled
on the drive to the hospital
but after a few minutes
midwife pushed me out the door
said that it wasn't your time
go home and get some rest

and i spilled home
but rest never came

you were pushing your way
through me
wriggling to let me know
this was your day
kicking ribs and diaphragm
for the last times

labor took its toll
and I crossed bridge after loving bridge
over waters that grew with you
remembering the rocky road
and rice crispy treat stops along the way
pain dancing in my head
stepping on my toes
breathing

ready to push in the car,
driving on the 113
then came the calm
before the storm
just a few seconds more
light glow of a hospital sign

i held my breath
and then you came
you un-traumatized
looking up through prunish eyes
staring me down like the moon in the sky
and then your teary eyes met with mine
and i breathed you into my heart
in the first room on the left

Dishing (GPOYW)

2010-05-12T21:22:00.000-07:00

A little less thinking and a little more washing......

GPOYW, Gratuitous Picture Of Yourself Wednesday. It is an Urban Dictionary thing that I heard about over at The Chocolate Chip Waffle!

Thoughts to win me over, while at sea

2010-05-07T20:41:00.000-07:00

If the sand is oceans porch
the sun would be it's porch light
and the sea would be the home
where I sleep safe at night

The sea weed would be my garden
the otter my furry friend
the shark could be my goldfish
as long as I tame him

and when i grow cold, a fire
made from scraps of dry drift wood
the air a sturdy chimmney
where no bricks or cement stood

I would create and make my art
with the prints of my feet in the sand
making poetic sand angels
or collaging seashells over land

and at night I would stare down the sky
flinging thoughts upon crescent moon
and then on past the stars and jupiter
nestled deep in big dippers spoon

All these things I imagine
as i stare out at the deep blue sea
but I know that may never own it
'cause the sea is wild and free

The Untitled Woman

2010-04-28T10:41:00.000-07:00

On the corner at half past twelve,
a baggy pant wearing woman stands
with skin
saddled by the sun,
pommel nose kissed with freckles

and underneath her drab attire
the bony frame of a drifter
leans, sign in hand,
pleading for the pummel
of a quarter or
the feathered sound of quiet, glorious cash

The public wanders on
as she adjures them to no avail
their unattainable eyes
lingering back and forth to the banal,
easy going objects and anything
but her drifting, yellowing cornea

Whisperings flow
of on what she'll spend
and that it would be better thrown away
Yet, not one will stop to ask of her why-
just keep walking in disdain

At half past one
the tin she's used
to harbor the currency she'll trade,
for a sandwich and some cold coffee,
is filling slowly
so
she will keep her sign
held high with scribbles of
the truth she spews
that we never want to believe and then
we offer up our pockets without knowing
because that is what we do.

Copyright © 2010 Alexis Hallum

Rain Pondered

2010-04-26T22:22:00.000-07:00

rain stumbles down from clouds
black and gray and terror and mighty
and i am closed in from the drops
dancing down from the up aboves
stepping gently through intoxicated ears

the smell of rain is like a song
old and remembered with numbered days
of nights held up in covered blooms
safe from lightning and thunders rage

rain isn't like a clock or the moon
it doesn't come with loyal eyes
it comes and goes as though it's pleased
when joyous lovely tear drops fall
and i am but a child again

when rain has closed off it's mighty tongue
they walk and play and run and splash
and ponder upon the uneven stump
for rain makes rivers out of men

Copyright © 2010 Alexis Hallum

Untitled

2010-04-21T22:19:00.000-07:00

Is my smile still plastered on,
shouted through a foundation
of uneven pavement

When will my breath
leak slowly from lungs
held in place so long,
if I let go,
it might not

When will this all be
o.k. and done,
for you to breath too

Life is delicate,
like rose petals
or lace
or even bones
because they
wither, tare and break

Time is gone
before you realize
that time is quickly passing,
like billboards while
driving fast down the 99
in a green Camaro
-lip gloss cache

If my eyes could open
to this dream,
I would gather my
thoughts,
my lessons learned

Maybe I already have

I didn't always understand
what i had until
something threatened
my perfect little world

Copyright © 2010 Alexis Hallum

Dandelion

2010-04-19T13:15:00.000-07:00

yellow like the sun

mane in bloom the lion waits,

until parachutes

Withered

2010-04-15T11:16:00.000-07:00

electric storm

2010-04-10T23:37:00.000-07:00

lightning
throwing electric
crack whip crash
lighting up the neon sign
bolts

A Life Not Rushed on by Tea

2010-04-06T11:00:00.000-07:00

time isn't really time at all
just hands crossed over the mantle piece
while grandfather counts in drunken chords
rejoicing for moments passed and gone
though they be precious, dark or bitter sweet

time is for the days and weeks
organized by the busy bees
and with each month that adds in to the years,
wrinkles are added unto men,
their new or worn or wrinkled feet
pacing tickers tock again

why cant time be grey split ends
or eyes that change from clustered views
to twist and bend and wrap around
the why and who and how and when
the more you gaze upon knowledge's crown
-blue will eyes become again

when in the field picking flowered boquets
speckled by purples, reds and greens
the sun might suggest that dinners come
not the clock or the cell or the liquored dong(!)

and when your grey and old and done
like a bird left in the oven too long
they would say like this and that,

"oh, she lived and was not rushed on
by days or weeks or months or years
added up by seconds gone
not eighty years she spent so long
but life was lived and for the more"

and said of her after she is passed,

"she lived a life not rushed on by tea"

Ode to a Partially Dead Garden

2010-03-30T09:50:00.000-07:00

HE says I have a black thumb
I say it's sort of green
but!
it is true,
that after i'm through
watering and pruning leaves
Whatever plant
that I aim to grow at
is usually black and not green

O.K.

2010-03-23T12:29:00.000-07:00

I was born in Oklahoma City, O.K.
I was born quiet and on oxygen but o.k.
My Momma gave me time to come,
she knew I would come in my own time

After hours laboring her first of 8,
tired, worn and waiting for Daddy,
she held her breath when the Doctor came
and told her of heart rate decline

Baby might be in distress-
spinal tap to numb the pain
There is a good chance we will take baby out
so breath and wait, but for now your o.k.

Momma knew I would come in my own time
just like I always do, now that I am grown
She had faith in God and me
she pushed on through uncertainty

I was born at eleven a.m.
breathing and purple, but o.k.
I was born where the nurse had an almost southern drawl
I was born in Oklahoma City, O.K.

"Oklahoma, where the wind comes sweepin down the plains"
- Overture Oklahoma, from the musical "Oklahoma."

Exactly 6 Years Previously

2010-03-22T08:38:00.000-07:00

i use to live
in an old woman's
rented out room

i was running away because
i, a young and stupid girl had married
a very young and stupid boy

i would stare
at the ceiling or the dresser
wondering who i was

nothing seemed hard
so i would write and
wait for something

one day i turned 21 in polka dot shoes
and a shawl and that was a day
of drinking and trying to be merry

my polka dot shoes are worn
and still standing in
a closet next to that purple shawl

now i stare at the ceiling
or the dresser before the house wakes
wondering how i was who i was

Gossip

2010-03-18T09:32:00.000-07:00

Circles drawn for vultures wild,
tongues of mistletoe swallowed whole,
through throats that open graveyards-
complete with toumb and stone.

On a Baby Summer Day

2010-03-15T17:55:00.000-07:00

Sunbeams spy
upon skin
dressed for a summer's day
Farming grass
with crops of blankets
scattered over lawn-
green and freshly cut
Birds tweet
bees buzz
Scattering sound
surrounds body,
diminished by earthy ground
Eyelids closed
to brightened dark
Sun peeking through skin
begging,
for eyes opened
and breath breathed in
on a baby summer day

E. E. G.

2010-03-05T10:55:00.000-08:00

electric cap reaches
fingers long and speckled
spewing waves
complacent and exact
upon screen of electric's cave

From the Depths of Secret's Safe

2010-02-25T21:43:00.000-08:00

possum friend
you slither round
belly wrapped up on the ground
daylight breaking with stolen key
secrets held-
through safe opened, flee

eyes grasp through darkness,
image tainted blue
another color now
from birds eye view
when will eyes begin to see
nothing is solid
or what it seems to be

lips of velvet
tongue enslaved
to open the throat of belly's grave
should have viewed
from opened door
impossible to get back what comes before

Rain, Rain!

2010-02-24T09:24:00.000-08:00

Rain, rain, stay a while!
I love to hear your voice
upon the roof-tops,
patter wild,
drops sloshing down to earth.

Rain, rain, slow your pace!
I need wood to build a fire.
I love you
yet you smother me
with drops thick, soaking my attire.

Rain, rain, come again!
The summer stays too long.
Withered landscapes
wait with me
for your lovely pitter song.

The Sea Speaks

2010-02-22T12:33:00.000-08:00

rain has set in folly
the wanderings i once had planned
while dreary, pummelled rain drops lay
on path that leads to sand

i onced walked in clear sun light
down the trail to oceans porch
treading upon concrete steps
sand beckoning me by force

now, i step hard upon the sand
different than before
the rain smoothed over loose beach ware
as if a wave has come ahead for more

seashells beckon me through bay of wind
pleading, to grasp them tight
that they might not be swallowed whole
when night brings back high tide

sand crabs with their little holes
blowing bubbles through make-shift wand
digging deeper away from hands
that gently sift through, fingers conned

sea calls for me with crashing waves
sun finally sighing and peeking through
warming rays and promises of longer stays
as i wade into the foamy deep blue pool

2010-02-15T08:05:00.000-08:00

Emotion
fizzles lightly in the belly
then
tickling the diaphragm
building up it grows
Heavier and harder
moving towards the neck,
taking over the back of the throat
pushing the tears out of eyes:
angry and dark
Salt water dripping past tonsils,
sobs spring forth from the chords
first silent then uncontrollable

All she wanted was a glass of milk.

Blossoms falling

2010-02-11T10:32:00.000-08:00

Blossoms clutch tightly
to tree swayed by breezy wind:
rain, unlikely pink.

Love (an explanation)

2010-02-09T11:49:00.000-08:00

A chemical element
balanced inbetween
the tangled motility
of deeply interwoven
words.

Exploited emotions
grasping for anchor,
harboring
the inability
to depart.

Actions sound
and inviolable,
survive dissection:
age and climate anesthetized.

Faithfully
disinterested
by greener greens.

Loyalty abiding in devotion,
sheer and unfastened,
continually clutching
to it's vow.

Thankful for a Little Peach Tree

2010-02-08T13:29:00.000-08:00

There is a small peach tree in the corner of my yard. It stands unassumingly by a rosebush, collecting the water that the rain has left this last week. The weather is getting warmer and green buds are surfacing: their tiny nodules bursting throughout the branches that are placed so perfectly on it's frame. Random pink blossoms, brought on by the warmth, are popping out and I can't wait until the summer brings it's fruit. I imagine the tree is thankful for the sun and water and with those elements it produces the fruit that i am thankful for.

Shadow

2010-02-05T11:32:00.000-08:00

Shadow, grey and monotone,
spills out of the tree
Sketched by the sun onto
the cement outside my stoop
The pencil invisible to touch not sight
draws it's neat lines
reciting it's shape
though, fine detail incomplete
and as my eyes follow
the shadow to the authentic form
It too is drab
Roots, rising just above the earth,
long arms reaching
Fingers spread unremittingly
out and up to the sky
It's silhouette
in waiting
for the spring to bring
life to it's winter shadow.

the splat! of an egg

2010-02-04T14:50:00.000-08:00

An egg, sitting in the palm of my hand
jumped out of my pale, slender fingers
Breath sucked in and muscles tensed
I scrambled to catch it
in mid air and then gravity,
delivering it to my recently polished floor
It's white shell spuming forth
the clear slimy ooze
gathered around an orange bubble
of unfertilized yolk

What was winter when there is spring?

2010-02-03T10:15:00.000-08:00

The birds are chirping,
the sun gently places
it's warmth
over the frosted lawns and
the black ice strewn across
the pavement.
When will winter cease
and the spring bring
the blossoms and
green buddings
of leaves that will last
until fall plucks them
and gravity places them
gently on the ground?
What does the little groundhog think
now that the sun has warmed,
is winter done?
Or will it linger?
But, today it is spring!
The birds are singing,
the lady bugs are
sun bathing,
the sidewalk is warm
as my feet press on.
Phil saw his shadow
but the sky today sees
everything:
clear and blue.
The green grassy meadows stall
and I
driving past the cities roots
out to the country,
where my heart has strings
attached to rocks and wood,
drifting through the hills
of dirt, placed by god so long ago.
And for now, winter has departed.

the goings on of Sunday

2010-01-31T10:27:00.000-08:00

Sunday morning quietly shared with peeking sun
through window panes and coffee:
warm, dark and bold, lightened by cream.
A paper with a crossword,
looked upon with importunity
but finishing will be
demanding of me
so I will lay it down for another time.
The grass outside is glistening
with morning dew and
sparrows pecking around for
their morning humble fare.
The cat next door spies on
slinking down,
almost hovering on the grass.
His belly,
too full to pounce
agrees upon a nap.
The lawn mower roars
as the cord is pulled,
modulating it's numbing sound.
Why clamor on Sunday?
When, then another,
communicating in threes,
cluttering my mind
on a Sunday afternoon.

a ripple in time

2010-01-29T20:22:00.000-08:00

one day the coos and
incorrectly pronounced words
will depart
becoming shadows of a time
once brilliant, crisp and clear

dancing, twirling round and round
again and again she spins
carrying mundane treasures
imaginary medley

babies, then held safely in arms
traded toy box full of forgotten things
wanted long ago
keepsakes now tucked safely away
questions once so easily answered
now silenced and understood

time will pass
growing like a seedling into a tree
and then
like the reflection of water,
reaching out
touched
a ripple in time

The shoes we wore, wear the souls of our feet

2010-01-27T15:12:00.001-08:00

I grew up in the foothills. Outside our kitchen window was an almost indescribable view. The mountain we lived on plunged to a little road at the bottom and then hills, everywhere, rolling upward for miles, beautifully bowing down to the big Sequoia trees that grow beneath the mountains of the Sierra Nevada. On a clear day we would stand on the deck out side, silently knowing that God created the heavens and the earth. He made this. It was beautiful.

At night, I could hear the owl that rested his wings on the telephone pole outside our house, crying out and rejoicing to the heavens from which he dove to catch his prey. There was a family of raccoons that lived near our house. We would spy out our bedroom window as they ate what we set out for them. The ground surrounding us was crammed with nature, it was alive.

Spring found my siblings and I roaming the hills, picking wildflowers and playing childish games. Summers were full of swimming and soaking in the sun.

I always thought we were like the Von Trapp family. Singing mother: full of spirit and kindness, passion and hope. She taught us piano and guitar and how to sing through any struggle. I will forever remember her singing songs of praise to her Saviour in the kitchen: cleaning and rejoicing, always singing and always loving, teaching us to love through the ugliness. Pushing us towards HIM, telling us that HE, Yahweh, is the only way. Father, like the Colonel he is, stern and quick to discipline, loved us. He wanted us to face our fears and get back on that horse. So, we did.

We had horses and a few chickens: hay bails to climb on, dirt to dig in, daisy's to chain, wheelbarrows to transform, corrals to build together, tarantulas crossing in November and a house without a T.V. to distract us from the beauty that surrounded us.

Growing up with 7 siblings, your never lonely. There is always someone to fight with and always someone to befriend over and over again. We weren't a perfect family but we loved one another.

Now, I am a city mouse. I've traded the mountains for monuments, dirt for cement, well water for tap and open space for limited space. I will always look back on my life in Squaw Valley and long for the summer evening air: clean and inviting, scenting the laundry hung on the back porch to dry.

barefoot in the summers
running through wild flowers and dirt
sitting on top of the opened earth
or a top a unearthed boulder
soundlessly looking at the sky
wide open mountain ranges
morning glories
dusk swinging porch swing
owl's crying out in the night
rejoicing to the heavens from which they dive
down, deep into the silent, dark meadow

Love Makes A House A Memory

2010-01-25T22:05:00.000-08:00

As a child I looked forward to visiting my Grandma's house in Kansas. I loved everything about that house, even the curb we parked at: Clean and harboring the grass that grew alongside it. The grass was crabby and was so thin you could see the dirt through it's patchy gapes. Along side the curb grew an old Maple Tree. It towered above me and I couldn't see any blue as I looked above it, just endless leaves and branches. It was so full and tall and I imagined that there was a nest for every branch. It cast a shadow along the walkway leading to her screen door. I remember coming in for supper: chicken dumplings, their hearty aroma leaking out of the kitchen.

The screen door, old and creaking, was the same one my Mom opened and closed as a child. I still remember the handle, old and venerable, arched and engraved with tiny curls and lines. Chipping paint and small tares in the screen covered it from top to bottom. I would open the screen door and the distinct smell of soft dust, old wood and lingering tobacco would greet me once again. Then I would open the front door and I'd smell what can only be described as her smell: laundry detergent and cigarettes. I hugged her and we told eachother how much we loved and missed eachother. Then, I ran straight for the window sill in the sitting room and searched for my mothers initials, still carved from all those years ago. I always traced my finger over them lightly in the motion that she would have used to carve them.
Then, I ran for the stairs. Thirteen, I had them numbered. Number 9 squeaked. I couldn't wait to get to the upstairs bathroom where my favorite thing was. A music box, lonely and as old as I was, just waiting for me to twist and turn the key. It wanted to play just as much as I wanted it too.
Next, I checked on each room, still the same as the last time I left them. They were waiting for me with the lonely blankets and pillow cases; the old radio and Knick-knacks.
At night before bed I would brush my teeth and stare at my reflection. I took great comfort in the fact that my mother once stared at herself in the same mirror, amazing. I walked quietly to the room I always slept in, the one closest to the train tracks. I would lay awake waiting for the train. Quietly and softly it started, whistle blowing gently, crafty and stealth as if it might sneak by unnoticed except by me. Loud, louder, so loud I felt like I was forcing out the sound with sheer will. 1,2,3,4,5, train cars, 6,7,8,9,10. I could hear the train crush the pennies I laid out to greet it's steel wheels. Then, loosing track of my counting, it faded softly until I could only hear it promising to return.
Then, I would sneak out of bed to the dresser at the opposite end of the room. I opened the door quietly, silently reaching to grab my treasures of the day. Wrapped in cloth were the pebbles and rocks I had collected. They were mostly the lonely, ugly ones because they needed to be wanted too. Then I would quietly reflect on that days activities: Looking for snakes in the gutter and spying on the old man next door who only came out to dump his trash at dusk, catching butterfly's that were caught in the screen porch and unearthing old aspirin bottles my mother once used as bottles for her babies. I soon got tired and crawled into bed to dream.
I was never ready to leave my Grandma's house and always eager to return. I always thought I loved that house so much, sometimes thinking I loved it more than her. My Grandmother is gone now and I will forever carry the memory of the last time I saw her: standing on the curb, waving goodbye to me beneath the Chestnut tree that seemed to be keeping her safe under it's brave silhouette. I waved back until we couldn't see each other any longer. I went back to the old house on Chestnut after she died. It was full of all the things it always had been full of but there was no "heart" there anymore. It was nothing without her to greet me at the door. She made everything special and once she was gone, the train was just a train without her snoring in the next room.

love isn't a lark

2010-01-24T00:42:00.000-08:00

love is like the wind
hot and cold depending on the season
meandering through quietly decorated halls
reminiscing with old memories along the way

if your not a love song
what are you?
a limerick
poetic and rhythmic
spilling the entrails
of love for me

if you love me
it may be shown through works
bringing me your heart
leaving it on the porch
trotting back to your hiding grounds
cowardly kind of love...

or are you obsessive and insecure for me
clinging emotions
tangling and twisting to me
molding beside me
unwanted love, you are...

are you the patient kind?
waiting, longing, loving from a far
writing poems along the pages of life
carving names into a tree
unreachable kind of love...

love is like the wind or the ocean's waves
coming in seasons
waves of emotions over me
this way I never bore of you
your old and then your new
cold as the winter
fresh as the spring
warm as the summer
lovely like the autumn leaves

time will not wait...

2010-01-23T21:00:00.000-08:00

wait for me time
i'm not ready just yet
i'm not able to let go
of the little-ness she harbors
lipstick cache
butterfly and eskimo kisses

please just wait
the sun in the summer is so warm
how long will she blow bubbles
for hours, just blowing and laughing
when will she want to grow?
when will she need to?

wait for me time
i'm not ready to let go
not ready to give in to you
she is mine, all 3 years
blond hair and rosy lips
sneaking my makeup in front of the mirror

wait. no... stand still
just for this season
i don't want to watch your sand
or hear the sound of your ticking
stay quietly out of my sight for now
she is sleeping and dreaming in my arms

but the time just keeps on going
flowing like waves or clouds or green meadows
never waiting
always pacing me
always

Star Gazing

2010-01-07T21:19:00.000-08:00

She tugs gently at my shirt,

clenching tightly the idea she holds.

"Can we look at the stars tonight Mommy?"

I answer quietly with a nod.

We creep out the sliding door,

bare feet treading the cold concrete.
Just a few steps more

until we feel the grass beneth our feet,

green blades bent at our weight.

The sheet we carry floats up

quietly, gently it falls-

Corners tucked under-

white like moon.

"Let's make snow angels momma!"

Arms and legs like angel wings.

Our heads and bodies still,

holding our breath for a shooting star.

Satellite interruptions-

big and little dipper.

Quietly scouting the stars.

The moon is tucking in for the night....

And then

a white flair,

brightly streaming through the sky,

gently fluttering.

Out, out, gone.

Goodnight bright lights.