Elvanies

     Four miles north of Animal Ville, the Elvanies lived in a Willow Grove that had two varnished, pale, wooden floors. A store occupied the first floor which was structured with pale pine, where there were many types of homemade knitted sweaters and toys like wooden cargo trains the creatures of Animal Ville and the Elvanies liked and needed. Many of the older Elvanian women had taken up the trade of knitting beautiful, simplistic designs of snowflakes or animal picture-sweater patterns. The Elvsnies made sure they had their store stocked up on vegetables and meats and protective winter gear like woolen coats and bright mittens, needed items throughout the Holidays and the rest of the year.

      The younger Elvanian children had a fascination for the knitting they saw done in front of them throughout the night after dinner. The curiousity of Caitlin was so great that she asked her Grandelvanie mother to teach her the trade. The youth's style of knitting with her unique mixture and usage of color in vibrant pastels of yarn became the popular fad.  Soon the older Elvanian women began teaching all of the youths their knitting process.  The younger Elvanies created knitted bracelets, which they gave to their weaving teachers as thank you gifts. 

     The weaving room was on the second floor in the bedroom.  Upon going up the squeaky wooden steps to the second floor, one lands on the softness of the green-matted carpet representative of the grassland outdoors.  They have natural beds made from tree branches seamed together with vines.  The Elvanies made bunk beds for their children.  Throughout the day, the wives and grandmas home school the "vanies" (the children) while the husbands help tend the store downstairs.

 

A message and new poem from Ruth

I wanted to ask if there's any way new posts, including comments, can be flagged.  I am trying to post only one new piece a week, but as I work on some of the older ones, I am trying to keep most of my changes in the comments.  Now that we're getting so many posts, it's hard to figure out when something has a new comment without looking at each post and their comments.  I don't want to have to make a new post every time I try a little change in an older poem I'm working on.

I have some new comments on some of my older poems and intend to add more.  What to do?

Now, here is my new poem for the week--one I referred to, in one of those comments I mentioned above, as weird.  I'd like to know if it's comprehensible and interesting enough to others for me to pursue:


     The Scientist on the Hill, a Non-Love Poem


I drape a sweet scented sheet
on the line, and a beetle,
the same iridescent black and gravid shape
as my husband's VW, flops at the top
of the white percale border, then descends
in silence toward the ground,

     like John's Bug, engine unfired, rolls
     down the lab's steep-streeted hill
     to our house.  Smug with his success
     to save a few ounces of gas,
     with his strategic knack
     for coordination with traffic,
     John treats himself to a splash
     of good country red from France
     to complement the earthy chicken chasseur 
     he taught me to prepare,
     before he drops to my limbs,
     slides down my skin,
     his heart not sparking hot enough to kindle
     my body nor warm the cool linen.

When the scarab reaches the point
where the fabric ends, it scarcely hesitates,
then hastens out of my story
into the unknown world

     like John and his Beetle,
     leaving me with a recipe
     for fowl and a squeamishness
     about my sheets.

I Remember

Debbie Johnson

10/8/2010

I REMEMBER…

Walking in a forest in the fall with the leaves crunching under my feet,

Gliding gracefully around the skating rink 12 hours a week,

Running as fast as I can until my heart was pounding and my muscles ached,

Sometimes tripping and falling down. 

The feel of the dirt between my toes as I walk barefoot in the garden,

The feel of sand under my feet at the beach,

Being able to get in the car and drive myself somewhere instead of waiting for the handicapped bus,

Peaceful walks by a tinkling stream-feeling at one with nature,

When others looked at ME not just my disability,

When children didn’t look at me as a freak as their mother told them it wasn’t polite to stare,

Tending to my perennial garden as the first flowers of the season broke through the dirt,

Being able to walk upstairs,

Being able to reach my kitchen cabinets,

Taking my dog for a walk late in the evening when most of the town had already gone to bed,

Getting in and out of the bathtub with ease,

Using a ladder to hang a picture or replace a light bulb,

Having energy, now it seems most of it is sapped by my disability,

Shoe shopping and being able to try on both shoes, my one shoe is now just a cover for my foot,

Working out on my exercise equipment and do aerobics,

Being able to get up off the floor if I fell without someone to help me,

Having a whole lap to put things on-now I only have half a lap and anything placed there slides off,

Being able to carry something in both hands at the same time, now I require  one hand to steer my chair,

Working and earning a decent salary instead of subsisting on disability and relying on food banks for most of what I eat,

Being able to reach items from the top shelf at the store without having to track someone down to assist me,

I remember the morning I hit the semi head-on on the highway on my way to work. I don’t remember the actual impact or aftermath, but I will never forget that my left leg was amputated and I will never be able to walk again.

Wishing Life Away

Wishing Life Away by Deborah johnson – 10/8/2010

Wishing life away starts young, We can't wait until we am old enough to... In all our wishing and wanting, What about the children Waiting for love, hugs and kisses Wishing life away School comes We finally feel big until we realize there is Junior high and high school to get through Wishing life away Attending college The same thing happens We can’t wait to get a diploma Wishing life away   Armed with that and a resume, the job hunting begins An offer is made and accepted, “I'll keep this until I find a better job” Wishing life away Marriage and children follow Think of how often we can't wait For them to grow up Wishing life away Then think how many days We wish we could Have them back Wishing life away We work hard Can’t wait for The next vacation Wishing life away As we work We can’t wait for Retirement Wishing life away Once retirement comes We speak of what we had And wish that we had not Wished our lives away If we spent less of life wishing for what we don't have and more life focusing on what we do have and do, What a rewarding life we could have By not wishing life away

High speed, High Impact

High Speed, High Impact

It all started with a little crack. The crack developed tentacles as it spread very slowly and seemingly quietly, shattering my windshield, my life and nearly my whole being. That crack led me straight into a life unlike anything I had previously known, one that seemed incomprehensible before. That simple crack would leave no part of my life untouched. The lack of noise made the incident seem innocent enough, but it would turn my life upside down, never to be righted again.

In the latter half of February 2004, things began to be different, strange as though something other than me was in control of my life. I would wake up in the morning, or more likely afternoon, completely confused about who, when and where I was. Answers came after determined investigation. I was always late leaving and late returning. I thought I had a time management problem. I doubled up on planning, organizing, and doing what I was supposed to do. I was dizzy, my head swimming somewhere outside of my body.

People would notice was different and not so helpfully suggest that something was wrong. Usually these were told in second person, “Jane thinks you have been acting a bit odd lately.” It seemed like no one was concerned about me, but how I was reflecting upon them. I had had Major Depressive Disorder for years, but my wellness seemed to be of limited interest, how I was affecting others seemed to be their primary concern.

I had been assessed, interrogated and analyzed to no avail. The medical doctor thought it was a psychological problem. The psychiatrist thought it was a physical. I thought I was losing my mind. The police had stopped me more than once for suspected OWI and taken me to the hospital only to be pronounced “clean” with a recommendation to keep better hours and get more sleep.

Now sleep posed a major problem, I couldn’t get any and if I did, I would wake up dazed, confused and incoherent. My sleep pattern had become 60 hours awake followed by 18 hours of sleep. Nothing seemed to help with the sleep deprivation and confusion.

I was self-employed, divorced with limited financial resources. I had to work. My relationships were in ruin. My mother and sister had not spoken to me in years.. My work was precarious at best. It was all I could do to make it to work. My best friend was angry with me because I could not just “snap out of it.” My ex-husband was trying to be supportive while insisting something was terribly wrong.

One day I could not even stand up with a walker, let alone walk. Somehow I made it out of the house and to the ER. My potassium level was critically low and I was given IV’s to correct it. My balance improved and I was sent home to rest. I was told to take family medical leave which was denied by my employers.

My employers insisted I work. Three days after I was discharged from the hospital, the administrator at one of my nursing homes insisted I present myself to work the next morning. I felt I was unable to, but forced myself out of bed and left for work. My ex-husband tried to stop me, but I was determined I had to go. I later found out he followed me out of town trying to get me to turn around.

My last memory before the crack is getting in my car. The first memory after that is the need to go to the bathroom three days later and being told I had to stay in bed because I had broken my leg. Broken hardly describes it. The surgeon later told me I had shattered my femur, the bone in my upper leg. It was the worst he had ever seen.

I spent the next few days in and out of consciousness. I knew who I was, but I couldn’t remember where I was or what had happened. Even when this information was posted on a dry-erase board, I could not figure out the answers to these simple questions.

Ruth, Salad Days

Another week, another poem.  I'm trying to think "short," so the style is different for me:

                          Salad Days

Soft tortillas spread with creamy green avocado,

the Aztec love fruit-- and fragile young leaf

shoots, succulent smooth verdolaga, crowned

with rounds of fleshy red tomato.

Our first mouthful and the world tastes new.

It floats down our throats to our hearts,

which split open like ripe love apples,

spilling the sweet juice of youth.

Eat slowly. Before we know,

it's gone except for crumbs

and smudges, like the few

years we have left.

Wipe them away

with a white rag,

a shroud.
............................
I could move the first word, "the," of the second line up to the first line (and same with "shoots") to make the triangle style more precise, but I didn't like that.  Any opinions about that?  It wasn't intended to be a triangle in the first place, but it does diminish as it goes, which is also sort of the theme.  It just happened.

Nameless Revisited #2

Nameless

Debbie Johnson

Sept 14, 2010

My name was given to me,

An infant, no choice was had.

My Biblical name a chance to rejoice,

Spiritual mother expected perfection,

I should rise up and do my best.

Debra, most common girl’s name of 1962,

But the Deborah spelling made me feel inadequate, blue.

Biblical name emphasized, I felt I had to

Be perfectly honest and get an A on every test.

Much thought was given to changing my name

To have my own identity and leave the past.

I pondered a change to my middle name Ellen,

Not biblical, would I get to heaven?

I grew and realized many had this name.

It made me sad, I was not unique

I longed for a name of my own, not a variation of what many girls had.

Deb, Debbie, Debby, Deborah and Debra too much alike.

If folks aren’t careful when using these

I often don’t know if they are speaking of me

Or some other Debbie.

Most deal with the confusion by calling me Debbie J.

I guess for now I will keep it that way.