iPad cake for Owen

Today I labored a labor of love for my youngest nephew Owen's 8th birthday. The labor? A request for an "iPad cake". Never having seen an iPad, let alone held one, I think I did a pretty decent job. Also considering that it is all buttercream frosting, not a lick of fondant! Hate that stuff! I hope he likes it. I can't wait to see his face on Sunday when I bring it over for his celebration!

Oreo Cheesecake? Say what?! :D

Home made from scratch Oreo Cheesecake Bites topped with chocolate and white chocolate :) Yum! Decided to make them just to keep me occupied for the day. Delicious! And it was perfect planning finding the recipe because it kept me distracted while Josh was battling yet another house fire this week. It's just too dang hot in SC! I plan on sharing them with family and of course, firemen, over the weekend

. First though, Josh and I have our childbirth class on Saturday which will hopefully relax me a little for labor and delivery. I'm all about having the facts before trying something new! ;)

My Little Sunshine

Addison's nose and lips making a funny face to us :-) Can't wait to see her cuteness in person!

Their Whole-Selves

Humans create art in awareness of death,
so she said and so it was. An act of
desperation to remain, be remembered,
exist outside our world, artists all.
We write the brush strokes of our lives,
individual moments, memorable.
A century, decades less perhaps, is given
to each, gifted only , but she continues to quote
Bishop, and Keats, move forward.

She’s wrapped up in the Holocaust,
Jew teeth and fallen historical societies;
while I wait here with contemporary novels,
the FX channel and broken families.
Small and judgmental is my life
to her beliefs, her darkness.
She is a poetry momma pushing for wisdom.
There is no good way to do things sometimes.
Organization waits for poetics, and lesbian
code-writing. I care for death, and
wait for art.

Openness

Always it is there already.
What do I become if I let love in?
Once more I may be whole
if she comes back to me.
I will wait for her.
A drinking straw and Turtle
are what keeps in my pocket
with the key. I locked her in there.
In the closet Emily Dickenson
pauses for attention as ambition and ego fight.
We must. We care for the reader
but speaking is policed. I know what I write.
Embrace motherhood in Brazil
and cry openly with emotion.
What do we keep from ourselves?
– I meant to say that there –
Partners, friends, siblings; instead of we.

Not In Color

Music drifts around, curvy notes left hanging in the air
by the doorway. They cover the faces of imaginary
people who bustle by and whisper hello, goodbye.
Their presence rivals window dressings and losses. Sounds,
very much like slow jazz, played on a piano
as trumpets or sousaphones nudge their way in.
Subjects do not exist and abstraction does not work
here. Here, where the world is made of words,
some in color but most, black and white.
Temperature drops degree by degree but I stand there,
watching the men load the letters into a truck
and while sweating in the gray air.
Then a pack of dogs runs by howling and tracking
language, startling me from my sights. Bark. Run.

No Symbols

Cigarettes and God don’t mix forms,
and the succubus sits on my chest
to stop my mouth from chasing insanity.
I search it out and cry in pain
with discoveries of the they.
There is a warning label on all,
attempts to control spirit and lust,
but it fails. They fail.
Terror balances lust, emotion,
and red covers the street dispassionately.
Hold your comments ‘til the end,
please. But there he is, glancing at me
from behind the flannel curtain
and I can’t help but to undress slowly
in front of the long mirror, to entertain
or beg forgiveness.

Lemon Peels

Anger is something that takes over
uncontrollable and binding of my soul.
Fingernails bite into palm flesh
as my fist clenches tightly,
like finding lemon juice in a pulp,
while I listen, swallowing repeatedly.
I divide my life into three parts:
the first is before my parents’ divorce
when everyone was whole,
the second is the space afterwards
where we waited to heal, or for redemption,
the third, and happiest, my marriage,
when I came together with myself again.
But now there is a fourth;
another affair, another divorce
for my mother to go through,
for us kids to go through.
The taste of peels puckers my face,
tight lips bound from fresh air.
Old memories enrage me so;
the fake persona he portrayed at my wedding
or at home around the family table.
I ask him of betrayal in hope of answers,
or just the one: why?
I don’t care which or when however.
There is always a
father
right in the middle of pain commenting
and contorting the image in front of eyes.
“She’s just a friend” means the end of bonds,
“I’m sorry” is just pretend words in a fairytail,
the worst, “You don’t understand” rings true.
I don’t.
But I know the answers of secrets.
Even lemon peels have a purpose
when placed in potpourri –
bitter no more.

Affection

The loaf of bread resting on the counter
was supposed to be eaten by October 13th.
It’s November 5th.
Casseroles: green bean and sweet potato
specifically, will be eaten by the children,
but there are numerous kinds filling the cold shelves
of the fridge. Ramen noodles are a food group like pizza.
She eats nothing, instead lying in bed
silent or sobbing.
We cry for her. We cry with her.
There is no reason to shop for groceries
but plenty of time to paint the walls.