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On Writing

She'll find a place for them soon
Somewhere they can call home
A place of their own that she can visit
on long nights

They fill so much of her time,
these books.
The words they hold,
hold no special meaning
for anyone other than herself.
But isn't that how it's supposed to be?

They must have thought her mad
at the stationery store
to pick this odd assortment
of pages to be filled
all with purple ink.

Individuality had always been a priority.
And so it should be with books
she reasoned.
And she was nothing, if not reasonable.

She never got around to "showcasing"
the mantle above the fireplace.
Showcasing being such a silly word to her.
She wondered if it would ever find its way into her writings,
and giggled.

Trash rescues are the best finds of all.
And so with ritual and humility,
she tenderly set the books
between mismatched bookends
from Mrs Graingers trash can.

Mismatched bookends
cradling mismatched books
that held the words that meant nothing
to anyone but her.

On The Stoop

She sat quietly on the steps contemplating her smallness
though she didn't quite know why.
"I should get to it" she muttered to herself,
slightly annoyed with her habit of speaking aloud,
seemingly to no one.

But the night was still and perfect for her.
Warm summer breezes washed over her
like a lovers caress...
tentative and gentle.

She often gave in to her tactile nature.
It was a simple enough thing to do
if one only paid attention to it.

Almost unaware, she ran her hand through her tumble of hair...
this simple gesture calming her.
From deep within and from all around her, she heard...
"It takes time for oranges to ripen, you know.
It's not something one should try to hurry along
as though there were some dire need of it."

"You again." she half gasped
"Am I never to be rid of your silliness?"
Almost inaudibly came the musing..
"What's silly is an orange without pits, ya know."

Musings From My Vantage Point On The Fire Escape

She lives alone according to the other residents.
But that's far from true.
McKuen and Cohen and Plath
are cherished company.

She doesn't socialize much.
Another untruth
as the librarian will attest to.

It seemed odd to her
to find guests leafing through her mind
with no thought
that they might be violating her very soul.
But people have quirks
as she could attest to.

She wondered why no one understood her
She'd seem clear enough in her own mind.
But minds play tricks on you, you know,
often having their own way
when your hand would will it otherwise.

Why do people feel obligated to review your soul?
Shouldn't that be for you to do?
There were so many things she didn't understand about people in general.
Like, what was Jill's obsession with a straight part?
Or Mrs Graingers obsession with bows?
She tried hard not to think about reflective tape on a dog with no name.

Summer breezes carried portions of her soul,
at the insistant request of the "Courtyard Clan" as she called them.
It didn't sit well with her, this labeling.
She admonished herself for it.

"Kooky" chirped Jill, perkily so.
Was that even a word, she wondered?
"offbeat" nodded Ben, knowingly.
"louder dear" called Mrs Grainger from her third floor window.

Only Fred offered an accompanying prayer
as he picked up his flute and gave rhythm to her non-rhyme.

The Muse

She wonders where The Muse has gone to now.
She seemed so long away.
California maybe, where they say it's always warm.
But that contradicted the ski resorts.

It didn't matter that others had said
her thought process was somehow lacking
in definition and structure.
She liked being taken along on trips to the desert
or the mountains or into the far reaches of her own mind.
She always arrived home safely
and in time to set out a saucer of milk for Mrs Graingers cat.

She felt in control of her life, if not her surroundings
although it was harder without The Muse.
Pen put to paper for want of what to do
she idled away an hour.
Waiting for The Muse to return.

She had gone to California once
a lifetime ago.
It rained for three days straight.
She collected the odd looks she got from the natives
(is there really such a thing as a native Californian?)
and saved them for a day such as this.
Alone, without The Muse.