I can’t make you

turquoisetangle:

I can’t make you

I wish I could

you’re bigger than me

I can’t stop you

you won’t listen

I won’t beg

do what you have to do

the door closes

I cry then

my eyes are dry now

no longer tired

I wonder

when you will come home

knowing that you will

I won’t call

you know the way

when you’re ready

come home

even though

I can’t make you

© 2011 Turquoise Tangles

That feeling when someone suddenly “Tumblr loves” something you wrote a few years ago. You reread it. Sigh deeply and cuss (just in your head). Somehow you nearly forgot. Does anyone else tag real life personal drama as, “creative writing” and hope the outer facade of reality doesn’t crack? No, me either. After tagging that way a few times my husband “called me on it” so I stopped. Stopped writing quite so honestly. Stopped tagging anything “creative writing.” Started talking about the dog, Blue, then just a puppy. A lot. Time flies. Speed varies. I’ve logged nearly 1,000 posts here at Tumblr since joining in November 2011. Poems. Photographs. Stories. Quotes. Reblogs. All tweeted too, if you’re counting. The best, most interesting, jaw dropping, heart aching, twisting, tugging, wrenching, soaring writing from the past several years has all been done behind the scenes. Just in case you’re wondering, this poem, written on a long ago night, was foreshadowing. I’m glad I was brave enough to write it and say it at the time. I still remember the fight. Faded. Fading. Letting go. We were fire and fire, fire and ice, hot and cold. Yet, we ended “just right.” We came through the fire, all pride set aside, and we loved with our walls down for the very first time.

January 6, 2014

bedtime mayhem

I said, “It’s bedtime.”

My oldest son heard, “It’s time to put on a stormtrooper helmet, grab a noise-making blaster, blare the Imperial March from your back pocket, and come down to the main floor looking for a fight.”

My youngest son minded by getting pjs on but heard, “Grab a sharply pointed pencil to wield like a lightsaber, while simultaneously threatening your big brother with a glass of ice water, and moving quickly from here to there dodging blaster fire.”

Blue heard, “Mom’s tired. Everybody GO CRAZY!”

December 17, 2013

reflections

today I found myself wondering
what was Poe like as a child
was he all moody, broody darkness
from an early age
or did he have an impish grin
and a way of laughing at his own joke
before saying the punch line aloud
what did his mother think
did she worry
did she fret
or did she love him a little more
and stand between him and the world
lookin’ for a fight
if anyone dared hurt her little boy
for it’s all right to be different
to not follow the crowd
but it’s not all right to tease and belittle
those who see the world through poet’s eyes
today I found myself wondering
about Edgar Allen Poe’s mother