Overwhelming Beauty

 

Fuck. I can barely look at you.

You are so far beyond perfect, you overwhelm me.

I can only steel glimpses, then quickly look away.

You really do hurt my soul, with your perfect beauty.

It’s agony.

I can’t even put into words how you make me feel.

I want to bite you, I want to consume you, I want to freeze you in time.

I want everyone in the world to experience the eyegasm I am feeling.

But to my dismay, some look at you with indifference.

I am baffled.

How can they deny your magnificent glory?

They are lucky, in a way.

It actually hurts me to look at you.

 

 

I wrote this while trying to look a vase of pink peonies. But I could barely look at them. 

 

 

 

Meandering On You

 

I want to crawl up your body

Like a vine

Wrapping around columns of perfect proportion

Attaching to muscular curves

As I slowly make my way up

To nestle in your beard

 

I’d walk around like I own the place

Grabbing fistfuls of hair

Both bristly and soft

As I make my way to your bottom lip

My diving platform

Into the soft bristle-beard-forest

Landing on my back, bouncing, and rolling about

Contently basking in your beard

 

Eventually, I’d crawl into your ear

To deliver an inaudible message

At decibels too low to be heard

But clearly understood

“I am here, everything is okay, you are perfect”

And I’d feel you relax

 

I’d make myself so tiny, that I could crawl into your eye

And sit on the edge of your lower lid

And dangle my legs off the ledge

So I can witness everything that you see

Including the gaze of a beautiful woman

 

She stares at you

and her pupils shoot tangible rods straight into your eyes

I could walk across that bridge

It is stronger than steel

 

It embarrasses me to witness such intimacy

But you are unaware of my existence

When you two connect

No one else exists

Besides,

The woman is me

Ambivert

Enough, I say

Please go away

I love you so

But what a price I pay

 

I can not endure

another word

give me the sound

Of a chirping bird

Or the wind in the trees

the waters that flow

The sound of a bee

humming so low

 

I can not hear

Through all this chatter and fuss

It clutters my mind

And makes me cuss

 

Fuck

 

I love you so much

When you are gone you are dear

But I love myself too

And my own voice is clear

 

I’m checking out now

I’m going to unplug

I’ll see you tomorrow

And I’ll give you a hug

I’ll tell you a story

I’ll listen up too

Because I love too much

It’s just what I do

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Edge of Loneliness

We sleep on the edges of a giant bed
I’ve memorized the landscape
each freckle on your back
every blemish on the ceiling

We sit at a table
in close proximity
but worlds apart
minds adrift

The vast space between us
feels insurmountable
I try to cross the chasm
there is no bridge

I love you some days
but the space between those days
is growing wider
it is me who is drifting away

Reel me back in
it is not so difficult
but kindness does not come easy
and coldness breaks my heart

I am looking over the edge
considering the unknown
over the deep freeze
on your side of the bed

 

By Donna Beck – 2014

 

The Y in the Road

It seemed like a Y, that day in the parking lot. You two went one way, I went the other.

I imagined you veering off from me, further and further away, and my heart broke. Then I realized it is your dad’s branch, not your’s. You are free to go back and forth. You couldn’t hold the branch together, that was never you job, but there’s love for you on both sides.

You are mine. You always will be my boo. Just look down at your belly button whenever you doubt that.

 

Our song:

 

Just you and me, sitting under a tree,

You and me, you and me,

talking about electrons and God and space

Why a twisted donut is better than a bar

 

Just you and me, sitting under a tree

You and me, you and me

I ask what you’re thinking

And you thank me for asking

 

Talking bout’ Fibonacci and doing art

Listening to Neil Young

and I won’t stop singing

Mom’s are meant to sing

 

Just you and me, sitting under a tree

You and me, you and me

It will always be

You and me under a tree

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Frogs

I thank God for my dead babies. Now I do. Seemed cruel at the time, and I couldn’t see the point of going through all that, but now I’m thankful the last three babies didn’t make it.

I couldn’ta left him with more than one kid. It was hard enough to leave him with one, but if there were two, I’d still be there, I know I would. Still livin’ with a man that hates me, but won’t admit it.

I can’t tell you the day he started hatin’ me, anymore than I can tell you the day I stopped lovin’ him. Didn’t happen like that. Someone told me you can boil a live frog if you put it in lukewarm water and turn up the heat real slow. The frog don’t have the sense to jump out.

My heat got turned up real slow. Over years. Plus when you become a momma, you don’t just think for yourself anymore. The rules changed. It became okay to tell me to shut up. I’d never marry a man who would tell me to shut up, but I guess I’d stay married to one.

I should probably mention that he never actually hit me. That’s important. He didn’t want to be a man who hits his wife, plus he knew I’d leave if he did. So he never hit me, he just meant to scare me, is what he says now. He did a damn good job, somedays.

But a man’s voice can do a different kind of damage. So can his eyes. Funny thing about the eyes, they can say so much. I love you. I want to kill you. Or I won’t even look at you.  For days on end.  A whole lot can be said without ever speakin’.

His eyes reminded me of Clint Eastwood in the old westerns, cept’ there was nothing handsome about someone lookin’ at ya’ like they want to kill you. At first I would look in those eyes and wonder where my husband went. Could I reach him if I spoke in a sweet voice? Could I get past the anger and find my husband who loves me? Was he still in there behind those crazy eyes?

Eventually I learned not to reason with crazy. If he got to that point, if he crossed that line, there was nothin’ to do cept’ try and weather the storm. I’d  agree with every bit of nonsense that came out of his mouth, or I stayed quiet. I became someone I didn’t recognize, passive and dishonest. But if I tried to talk sense, he’d take it as arguing and he’d stand on his toes with gestures of a streetfighter, asking me if I wanted to fight. All I ever wanted to do was not fight.

Later he might apologize, or still be mad, or forget about it, claiming whatever he said when he was mad didn’t really count. I never felt like it was resolved properly and came to expect it would happen again, just didn’t know when.  Drinking didn’t seem to be much of a factor. He’d never over indulge, or go and bar drink or anything like that. There were spurts of days of drinking a tall beer, and spurts of days with no drinking at all.

Occasionally he would go on a marijuana holiday. I always loved that at first, since he’d become real nice. My shoulders would relax during those times and I could breathe easy knowing I wouldn’t see crazy eyes. Plus he would be sweetly reasonable. Once I even convinced him we should get a kitten, but the weed holiday ended and he remembered he hated cats and the cat had to go. The weed vacations were only great at first anyway, since eventually he’d turn slothy and grumpy. Then there was the time he accidently lit the garage on fire. I left something at home and we had to turn back and saw the smoke coming from under the door. He was quick to get the fire out right before the firemen arrived and right before the gas can in the garage ignited. It was a close call. The plastic gas can melted a bit, but all our belongings in the apartment above were safe.

The fights started coming closer and closer together, and in between the not looking at me or touching me got worse, and the days I felt like I loved him got further and further apart.  I started thinking about leaving and he must of sensed it. It made him crazier.

His behavior those last few months is something I don’t like to talk about, it sure embarrasses me. I was damn near a boiled frog. I’m grateful now, thankful he couldn’t just be nice. Just like the dead babies that hurt so bad at the time that I now thank God for. I’m thankful he couldn’t be a decent human being when he needed to be.

I don’t need to rehearse the misdeeds to remember.  I still see him on a daily basis, since we are sharing our son. He has tried to convince me he is a new man, but now I can see the turbulence under the calm surface.

Besides, he can act as nice and polite as anyone, but nothing in me wants to hug him, touch him, or go back to that iceberg bed. I can breathe now. I can think of other things. I no longer feel my heart racing. Not for fear or for love. He can look at me with longing or contempt. Doesn’t matter. The frog is dead, but I survived. I learned that the frog isn’t really me, just my marriage. I did have the sense to escape, but the frog got boiled and there ain’t no way to unboil a frog.

frog-cold-water

Felina Ponders

Felina’s thoughts were interruped by a splash of water on her foot.

“I have been trying to catch your attention,” the fish said. “I have been shouting your name and finally had to splash you to get you to notice me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Felina answered, removing the buds from her ears. “I couldn’t hear you.”

“Obviously. What are you listening to?”

“Myself. My own voice.”

“You’ve recorded some music?”

“Oh no,” Felina laughed. “I am not listening to music. These are ear plugs, not headphones. I wanted it quiet so I could hear my own voice.”

The fish swam in a circle, pondering what she said. “In this pond, it is always quiet. I don’t need ear plugs.”

“Well that is why I came out here. To get away from the people and noise and hear myself clearly.”

“And instead you are listening to a fish. I’ve interrupted your solitude and if I apologized, it would be insincere. I get very lonely in this pond and am happy for a brief exchange, even if it is unwanted.”

Felina was quiet for a moment and the fish was sad, thinking the conversation was over, but then Felina lifted her head.

“Thank you,” she said. “I have now heard what I was meant to hear. The real reason I came out here was unknown to me until just now.”

The fish remained uncharacteristically quiet, hoping Felina would explain. He got his wish.

“I came out here to get away from people and experience solitude. You can not leave the pond an have the exact opposite problem. My legs can move me from company to solitude, while you have to wait until companionship comes to you. It must get very lonely.”

“It does,” admitted the fish. “Will you promise to come back and visit me regularly?”

“No. You are a fish and I am a girl. You must accept the limitatiions of our frienship, or you will always want more than I can give. Besides, fish of your type are meant to be solitary. You are clearly not a schooling type of fish.”

“Yes, you are right. I am a very evolved fish. I might just crawl out of this pond and kiss you.”

Felina threw her head back and giggled, then looked at the fish in his one eye she could see. “What makes you think I want to be kissed by a fish?”

“I don’t know. I am just a crazy talking fish with big ideas.”

“A dreamer with time for imagining the fantastic.”

“And you are a strange girl who seeks solitude and ends up talking to a fish.”

Reminded of her quest for quiet, Felina stood and said goodbye.

“See you later?” The fish asked, and Felina just shrugged and waved.

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Sensitive Bliss

After I reached my destination, I but sat in my car to keep listening to the song.  And the next thing I knew, I was crying. No, it wasn’t one of Gwen Stefani’s God-awful break up songs. It wasn’t a heart break song at all. There weren’t any vocals, and I was not experiencing a flux of hormones. I felt moved by the sound of bows being pulled across strings, and my eyes flooded over.

Why does it slightly embarrass me to admit this? If someone says my writing made them cry, it is the highest compliment I can receive.  I have really touched them and they became invested in my characters.

I embrace my sensitivity as part of being fully conscious and alive. If you have never been moved to tears by music, art, or writing, then you have something to look forward to. And I am immensely grateful to the musicians that moved me so. (Do you want to know who it was this time?)

 

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