Carrie on

When I was a little girl, and sometimes even now, I would lose my compass and tilt ever so slightly until my shoulder drooped and bumped against the person standing beside me. As a child, it was often my sister whom I fell into. She'd forgive me, give me a shove or a budge, and we'd be okay, she and I. I berated her, negated her, envied her, pittied her, pinched, hugged, winked, poked, brushed, loved, charmed, swarmed, hit, bit, lept with, crept with, rolled, bowled, and scolded her. We dreamed a thousand dreams out loud on our backs in the darkness with our eyes wide open and our lives soaring clumsily with the nightbugs above our heads. I could love her and hate her and she'd be my big sister just the same. She gave me skater boys to hang with, Zepplin and Pink Floyd to roll with, and fireflies to light the world.... Copyright © 2011. Carrie Ellen Campbell. All Rights Reserved. http://carriellencampbell.blogspot.com . Please respect Carrie's intellectual pr...

Feet kick My seat Rhythm of a song In her head To herself Mad at me Because I said no Frothy melted mess On a brand new Tu tu Not in the budget This week Or next Halfhearted slurps On the lollipop Slipped by the teller With a wink Forty dollar frilly Thing Worn once a week Pink Billowing happiness Bought on credit. Copyright © 2011. Carrie Ellen Campbell. All Rights Reserved. http://carriellencampbell.blogspot.com . Please respect Carrie's intellectual property. Sharing blog posts is permitted, but no part of this material may be copied, downloaded, reproduced, or printed without express written consent. Contact Carrie at: carrieellencampbell@ icloud.com.  

Live Oaks We grew in singularity until, with age, weather, and season your arms spread just within my reach. We mingled in the closeness of summer air our breath sweetened with honeysuckle, yet sirens and banshees (blustered forth on Autumn’s chill) taunted our courtship.

Today: your words were fingernails inside my spirit. That place inside My heart where most of ME resides. That place that’s full and bounces when you fill me up with love and I laugh; no, I giggle.

For Christine and Mama Brooks: (April 8, 2011) I am a sieve. My calloused fingertips worn smooth grapple, grasp, grab swift and fleeting time and life and is that slip finely through. Could I catch but one grain I would raise it high. No, I would hold it close… and covet it. Elbows and wrists and fingers pulled in around the speck cradled within.

"He will know he's not worthy Because he will die alone you see That's his reality But I'm not sick I am lovely And hatred is the curse of man And I will not feel unworthy Because I have washed my hands you see That's my reality." ~Zac Brown Band We are tested in this life, in this world. I don't know if it is a matter of earning wings, or proving worth, or merely surviving. We brace for the unexpected, but even the anticipation of the unexpected is no consolation--or diversion--when it arrives.  A singular event leads us to question, to doubt, to search. We go day by daybyday in relative normalcy until some THING happens to disturb this--or destroy it. That's what I want to talk about.

She's standing in front of me. Her belly pokes out because her back is bowed forward, and she's looking at me saying,"Innawannagonabed," but her eyes are saying something different. He's flung across the couch, Nintendo DS beepingandbooping, eyes glazey and glossy. Her hair is like rabbit fur, so soft it's almost unfeelable. It slants across her face and her left eye isn't visible unless she leans forward, and she's not. She's leaning back, belly still punched out, the small of her small back against my knee. I'm sitting Indian style (I wonder if that means real India or Native American) in the recliner. My left knee is the one sticking out.

I love Merle Haggard. It's true. I've loved that man since as long as I can remember. That's twoyearsold...as far as I can remember. I grew up with Merle. Not literally, of course, but as long as I can remember having music in my life, Merle's been with me. On summer trips across the mountain, tucked into the hatchback of Mama's Datsun, my ear pressed against the popping speaker, my eyes closed and I sang to myself, sing me back home with the song my mama sa a ang....Daddy Frank played the guit tar and the French harp, sister played the ring ing tam bour ine....If we make it to De cem ber, everything's gonnabealright I know... . I turned 21 in prison doing life without parole. No one could steer me right but Mama tried. Mama Tried. I love that song. It makes me laugh. It makes me cry. Isn't that what music's meant to do? For me, it is that way with Merle's songs. I've never been to prison--I've never even been arrested, thankyouv...