Tag Archives: random

Big Band


Out on a limb

And full to the brim

A cat up a tree

Is me

Yes, siree


Walking on air

Not a fear, not a care

Just a bird in the clouds

Sing loud

Sing it proud


I wished for a while

On that last sleepy star

And with a sad little smile

Said, “Well, it’s too far

To hear a wish from a fool.

And besides, as a rule,

Wishing won’t take you a mile.”


But then the big band played

A hot yellow song

And you came and you stayed

And we sang along

To some bright brassy tune

About spring, or the moon,

And I knew I had it made.


Out in the sun

With a song that’s begun

And a smile big and wide

Can’t hide

Down inside


Flight without end

Knowing I have a friend

Now I can’t help but sing

Of spring

Of anything


Give me a band,

A big brass band,

And I’ll sing.


Dreaming a Dream


I have a dream. A dream in which I can go through a whole day feeling well rested.

I dream of a day when my skin no longer looks like a minefield and the dark circles under my eyes are banished. 

I dream of a time when I will again feel healthy and not exhausted. 

I dream of a time when I’ll know where I’m supposed to go and what I’m supposed to do. 

I dream of a day when I’ll be able to look an extrovert in the eye unflinchingly. 

I dream of sleep. I dream of gingerbread. I’m dreaming of a white Christmas. 

I clearly need to go to bed. 



Undone am I

On the brink of finality

Holding hands

With the sandman


Unraveled am I

Asleep in my feet

Walking yet heavy

Adrift little boats


Unable am I

For looking beyond

Darking lids

Twitchingly sleepish


Unbound am I

In my dreams

Flying softly

On freedom wings


Unafraid am I

For at second star

You wait

And your dreams

Chapter’s End


My paper fetish often gets the best of me. I have more empty journals than I could ever fill. Most of them are gifts; some of them are gems I bought for myself. I am mesmerized by blank paper. I have started many journals but finished very few.

I started one my freshman year of college. That journal holds a lot of stories. Sadly, most of them are stories I would like to forget. I never finished that journal. There are a few blank pages at the end. Not a happy chapter.

The summer after my sophomore year, my best friend gave me a journal. It’s blue with swirling white designs all over the cover. It’s hard bound and opens flat, as all my journals must, since I have bad enough handwriting as it is without fighting an obnoxious, unyielding hill of paper sloping down to the book’s gutter.

I started this journal the first day of my junior year of college. I filled it with everything. I wrote at least once a week. This book is the story of how I rediscovered the world. It contains poetry, stories, snippets of my family history, my daydreams, my fears. What I was afraid to say aloud, I wrote down. What I did not think anyone would understand, I wrote down. The things I hated about myself, I wrote down.

But most importantly, I wrote down the things I wanted to be sure I’d never forget.

I finished the journal yesterday. This may be the first journal of its kind that I’ve filled from cover to cover. I’ve filled prayer journals and devotional journals, but never a journal of my life. What was really lovely was that it ended at a good part. It was a successful conclusion that tied in to how the story began.

I feel prepared for the next chapter—the next book.

I have the next journal lined up: a Moleskine journal, Hobbit edition, that came with a map to the Lonely Mountain, just in case I ever want to go there. It will follow me around everywhere, just as the last one did. I shall write my adventures, for I know now there will be many.

Life, after all, is an adventure, isn’t it?



“I like pickles,” said she. “Do you like pickles?”

“Yes, rather,” said I. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason,” she said innocently, taking a sip of tea that was still too hot.

“Hmm. Sure.” I looked over at where my untouched mug of spearmint tea sat on the desk, waiting for me. i have a post to type. My hands are still occupied.

“Your ‘I’ should be capitalized,” she said. I chose not to fix the error, but to record the moment instead.


“Yes, I thought so,” I replied. I am running out of ideas. My brain is too shot, and my head is too flighty too think of anything at the moment. 

“Hot chocolate trumps pickles,” she mused, staring at the screen from her perch at my elbow. 

“Most certainly,” I agreed. “Especially when shared.”

“My thought exactly,” she replied, smiling. 

“Three more days, and then we’re free.” She laughed. “You know you’re excited about something when you bring it up every ten minutes.”

“Free to do what?” I asked. 

“Oh, you know, sleep. Eat.” Her smile got a little wider. “And other nice things.”

I smile, too. The world is full of such wonderful things. Pickles. Hot chocolate. Tea. Thanksgiving. And friends–the best of friends. 

Even in a random world–even in a pickle–friends are still among the most wonderful things in the world.



What are you,

strange little miracle,

that pushes its head from the hard ground

into the icy air

defying the frost of autumn


What are you,

creature of earth and life,

uncurling like one awaking

from the deepest of dreams

yawning like a baby


What are you,

funny tickling being,

green and gold and glowing

with starlight and moonbeams

even though the sun is up


What are you,

strange little miracle,

and what is it about you

that seems so familiar—

like a memory of spring 

Poems from the Side of the Filing Cabinet: Three


my own  poet

I confess in this book

                        of your perfect heaven


            eternal kingdom

                        which beauty

            resurrects the world within me


kindness breaking curses

            voices new freedom


my shadow heart rejoices here


            always fill this page in beauty







Somebody tell me I’m not the only one with a place in her head where she goes where everything is precisely as she wishes it.

That was a clunky opening sentence. Kids, don’t write that way. Rizzy’s not firing on all cylinders today. Today was rough. I’m human, and I’m human enough to admit to the whole internet that today did not go very well, and I may have lost my cool on one or two occasions.

But in my head, in that place I go, things are not so frightening.

It’s green and gold there, and eternally early autumn. The sky is blue, and it only rains when I want it to.

There are hills painted in sunshine, rolling up and down like waves of grass. There are trees too, of course, tall and twisted and bursting with colorful leaves.

I live in a wagon. It’s a little two-gabled house on great round wooden wheels and pulled by a Clydesdale. But I don’t live in the wagon all the time. Sometimes I live in a tree and sleep in a hammock strung up between the branches. Like I said, it only rains when I want it to. When I do want it to, I sleep in a house built under the tree, into the side of the hill. This house winds back and back into the biggest hill, and is full of twists and turns and interesting rooms and the biggest subterranean library you can imagine.

I am alone there most of the time. Not always.

You see, I never grew out of Neverland. Neverland just sort of changed as I grew up. There used to be castles and dragons and wild adventures, but now there’s just the hills and my hollow tree. It’s peaceful there.

Why am I writing this description of a place that doesn’t exist? Because I am forcibly avoiding writing about all the things that went wrong today. I am reminding myself that while I may be an airhead who bungles things most of the time, at least I have a good imagination.

And everyone needs something pleasant to think about as they try to go to sleep. 

Poems from the Side of the Filing Cabinet: Two


Come, sister—read us the truth:

who can explore with no strength?


They, on sacred will, persecute

the wanted mind of thy soul pleasure—


then your powerful memory

plants desire as a good seed.


Up, up through some house above

we see and write our promise


that no radiant daughter

will dance in everlasting dark.






(Yeah, I know it’s lame. At least I wrote something—right?)


(I’ve started writing poems when I think I don’t have time for prose. This needs to stop.)


(Crumb. I don’t think I can.)



They’re funny things, they are. Storms.

You can see them coming. You can feel them. Like when a person walks into the room and you just know that it means trouble. Your skin prickles. The air is harder to breathe, even though it whips around you, pulling at your hair and your clothing.

The world gets darker. The sun is hidden and your environment, once bright and filled with singing birds, is now dark and hushed, save for the wind, who shushes every other sound so it alone can be heard.

The sky may still be blue, but now it’s black-and-blue—a bruise on the eye of the heavens. The sky is hurting, and tears tumble from her bruised eyes.

Wailing, the wind rakes the trees, tearing handfuls of leaves from the branches or ripping whole trees down. Cracks of lightening split the air, every explosion heralding the death of some tree or some other unfortunate creature caught in the crossfire.

If a person had never seen a storm before, he might think the world was ending.

But the world doesn’t end. Not yet. No, the clouds rumble away, the sky dries her tired eyes, and the sun leans down to inspect the damage and warm the survivors.

Peace. Be still.

We get used to storms. They come, the happen, they go. Every storm is different—some are milder than others, and some make you want to lock yourself in the basement until the earth stops shaking. But there is one thing that all storms have in common:

They all end. 

The Book


I looked into the Book

and the Book looked back at me


and the Book said, “Tell me, writer,

what exactly do you see?”


“I see my past on printed page

precisely as it was


before it ever happened—

all the fears and all the flaws.


I see the failures and the triumphs

and the pain that’s come and gone


I see my days of slavery,

battles lost and battles won.”


“And what about the others?

The friends you’ve written by your side?


“I see the one who learned at last,

and come into his stride.


I see the one who lingered,

love holding her home.


I see the one who fought,

but never fought alone.


I see the faithful teacher,

the ever-present friend.


I see the one who fled the nest

for romance, in the end.”


“And what about my closing chapters?

Have you read my final page?”


“When I see it, I know it will mean

the passing of an age.


I will see us as we were, and are,

and ever more shall be:


Knight and lady, warrior, sage,

Princess—king and queen.”

Rainy Monday Observations


Speaking of the Carpenters, today was both rainy and a Monday—talk about a double dose of getting you down.

On this rainy Monday, all I can offer the blogosphere is a short list of observations that accumulated during the day.

  1. Not drinking coffee is hard.
  2. If you make an effort to go to bed early, I can guarantee you that it’ll take you about an hour and a half to fall asleep.
  3. My mother took an online class this summer and didn’t lose a single point. She made a perfect score in the class. She is AMAZING. I will elaborate on her amazingness in later posts.
  4. Yellow has got to be the happiest color.
  5. For some inexplicable reason, people find it hard to distinguish between the different members of the big cat family. I hear people calling lions “tigers,” despite their obvious lack of stripes, or, oddly worse, calling tigers “lions,” even though they obviously don’t have huge, distinctive manes—not to mention they’re bright orange. Leopards get called “tigers” all the time, even though they have spots, not stripes. Why is this? Can people not tell the difference between spots, stripes, or the absence of both? Weren’t they paying attention in preschool when they taught this stuff along with the alphabet? This has been a lifelong question of mine, and maybe one day someone will explain it to me. Okay, I’m done with that one.
  6. A lot of my female friends from high school and engaged/married. There are more every year who achieve this attached status. I guess this sort of thing is to be expected, but I’ve known most of these women my whole life, and I confess to being really, really weirded out every time I think of these people I knew as little girls being all…married.
  7. My cat is afraid of Doctor Who. Every time we watch the show as a family, she crawls into my mother’s lap, staring at the screen as though it’s the source of all that is evil, her ears back and her eyes dilated. Dad just has to whistle the theme song, and she wigs out. I mean, the show is traumatizing and all, but you’d think a cat would be impervious to that kind of thing.
  8. If things get a bit slow at work and it seems like there’s nothing to do (if you have the kind of job that allows for such pauses, and especially if it’s the kind of job that keeps you on your feet), all you have to do is sit down, and something to do will come to you. It’s like magic.
  9. You can’t force a poem. If you try, you will just end up depressing yourself. So don’t go there.
  10. School starts in a little over two weeks. Ack. Oh, wait, I did a post on that. Never mind.