"Signing away four young years"

Signing away four young years to causes greater, he

Thinks only of this journey’s end, glory that will be.

Family, comfort he leaves behind with everything he knew

To face uncertain danger among the proud and few.

Debased in files of lowest rank, alchemy begins

By stripping youthful tenderness, soft heart, fragile skin.

Engaging in noble violence, nations to protect,

Turns mind from thoughts of home to images blood-specked.

A weapon they make of him, a killer with cold eyes.

What used to burn, drip with pain, now weaknesses disguise.

Hard against war’s carnage, he packs his soul away

Until this conflict be resolved or body in stillness lay.

Unexpected were the horrors, nor pain anticipated.

Honored soldiers ever haunted by nightmares never sated.

©T.Lynn Smith 2009

Familiar Strangers

Days pass, lives touch
Along stockade fencing.
Half-hearted waves, watching cars
Age, children growing taller
Come and go, yet knowing so little…

Doorbell taped over, knock… knock,

Out of milk, do you think,
Don’t mean to bother…
Of course, sweetheart, come on in.
You’re not, sweetheart; I know how it is.
Meant to pick some up,
Children tired, rushing, forgotten…
…remember when mine were young,
so long ago, days pass so quickly.
Hopeful coffee percolates. Do sit down.
Can’t now, empty regrets.
Really appreciate this,
Can pay, pick up, bring by…
No need, sweetheart, just glad you came.
Welcome anytime—

—conversations cut short by closed doors.

©T.Lynn Smith 2009

Will Never Hurt Me

The fight escalates until we no longer care
if the words we say hurt, if the words we say tear.

We vent our frustrations through insults and blame
without ever considering our guilt of the same.

Razor-edged stones hurled with hateful speed
don’t give what we want, don’t get what we need.

They say, “Only weapons can harm us, only blows break our bones.
Words, they are useless, mere toothpick sticks, cotton ball stones.”

But words burn much hotter when spoken in rage.
They lie and deceive; they wound, and they cage.

They package suppressed pain, their poison seeps over time.
Their effects run much deeper than this one simple rhyme.

Consider the impact of a tongue on the loose,
with no thought taken for others or how it will bruise.

Then think of the mouth shut tight with restraint,
and the sound of forgiveness callous word did not taint.

©T.Lynn Smith 2009

Desolate Temptation

She calls to me with ice blue lips,
a breath’s caress against my cheek.
At the edge of sight, shadows creep.
I plunge into sapphire silence.
Drifting now, descending,
drowning in the cobalt bruise.
Glancing back, my eyes skip
across frigid shafts of light, translucent,
feeble under the press of this cerulean gloom.
Just one exhale, one raw gasp,
and I slip, numb, into her callous embrace.

©T.Lynn Smith 2009

"Feast On Me"

Their eyes hold me, steel and glass,

Captive in the suffocating color-wash.

Flat right angles box my eternity.

Fallen, my failures shine bright;

I hide from their dead light

Behind hands, hair, an imperfect veil.

Over me carrion beasts hover, savage, ravenous.

They illuminate my defeat with malicious glee,

Dissect my brokenness. Inflicting shallow wounds,

They segment my pain into delicate morsels.

I am a caged artist, empty.

An animal on display, injured and alone.

©T.Lynn Smith 2009

This was written in response to "Moscas," a digital art piece by Abigail M. Hernandez. After writing descriptive paragraphs detailing artwork on display around campus, my creative writing teacher challenged the class to convert the images and language used in our paragraphs into a poem. What follows is the paragraph I began with.

Scattered throughout the halls of the Tarrant Community College student-created art is on display. One such piece is “Moscas,” a digital art piece by Abigail M. Hernandez. The color-washed image shows a girl sitting in a dull room high in an industrial building. Shades of black, gray, and beige compose the concrete floor, steel struts, and overhead ducts give a suffocating feel to the flat expanse and right angles of the room. In the center of the room, the girl is positioned amid a chaotic pile of empty canvases. They shine as bright failures around her. She is broken, head in her hands, face hidden behind dark hair. The sky outside the sprawling rectangular windows, a dirty gray that hints toward pollution and neglect, projects dead light into the room. It also serves to illuminate the creatures that hover just outside the windows, two colossal flies. The flies, for which the piece in named, peer in upon the girl’s defeated state. Their red eyes and metallic green exoskeletons gleam maliciously. They signify a deadline, unpaid bills, a lost muse. She sits amid her failures while these beasts press in. Their cold, alien gaze dissects her brokenness. She is caged, an injured animal, an empty artist, alone.

Japanese poetry forms

Haiku

Raindrops tint the soil
randomly beneath the oak
where light fails to reach.


Tanka

Graceful spiders dance
white-hot webs across the sky.
Their electric strands
precede the gathering storm,
a jagged strobe-light warning.


Cinquain

Sneaking
late frosts spread death
Sparkling crystal tombs keep
diamond encrusted blooms ever
silent.

©T.Lynn Smith 2009

"Today's Fan Girl"

Admittedly, I am a fan girl. In order to get the best seat for the midnight screening of my latest pop culture crush, I am willing to sit outside a mall movie theater for upwards of three hours if necessary. It is not beyond me to screen print my own t-shirt to express my support of some obscure fandom. I await the release of the latest teen vampire romance sequel with near morbid fascination, and then attend the release party hosted at the local Barnes and Noble with kindred, similarly crazed, spirits. It is who I am. A new trend, however, compels me to pause in my pursuit of fictional cravings.

My most beloved and bookmarked online movie ticket sales sites have begun to offer tickets well in advance of a movie’s scheduled release date. Tickets for Jim Cameron’s “Avatar” have been available for select theaters since mid August, a full four months in advance of its December 18th release date. Also in August, Fandago began selling midnight release tickets for the coveted “Twilight” sequel, “New Moon.”

I understand the urge to pre-purchase, the need to secure in advance that object of my fixation, to claim it as mine if only by means of a credit card and authorization code. However, I think fan girls have lost something through these extra-early advance ticket sales. Lost in the black hole of internet purchases are the warbling lines and ragtag mobs of sleep-deprived, half-frozen, and soaked to the bone ticket seekers. The mouse click offers no element of chance, no thrill of the hunt, or luck of the draw. As ticket providers procure profits by their manipulation of supply and demand, we fan girls are left longing, however internally, for the challenge once provided by the pursuit of our desires. There is no ticket that the savvy and monetarily supplied fan cannot acquire. At our fingertips lie the web addresses giving availability and purchase information for nearly every addiction-soothing event. Today’s fan girl has traded the adrenaline of uncertainty, the challenge of competition, and the textile feel of actual tickets complete with perforated stubs for a reassuring computer screen and an 8 1/2 by 11-inch confirmation page. Do we even realize what we sacrifice in the name of progress, what we surrender for profit?

In this world of unlimited technological connectivity, we experience a physical disconnect. Buying tickets online is such a solitary interaction; positively isolated in comparison to the press of bodies in lines past. I, for one, choose to remember the days of victorious rush and crushing disappointment wistfully.

To the groupies, Trekkies, and cosplayers among us, let us not forget the thrill and challenge. Let us paper our social web pages with pixilated images of anime characters in html code to prove that we fanatics still exist. Know that when you see me in line at the local supercenter sporting my World of Warcraft hoodie, that, though I will not be meeting you in any lines locally, I cannot wait to be elbow to elbow with you in the queue outside the next Comic-Con.

©T.Lynn Smith 2009

woMAN VS. WILD

Now, I consider myself to be a fairly brave person; I no longer squeal when I see a spider (as long as it isn’t too big or too close), but I went through a particularly trying experience that caused me to rethink this perception.

I live in a small suburban community fairly close to more rural farms, fields, etc. We get the random mouse, frog in the flowerbeds, that sort of thing, but other wildlife encounters are rare. So, when I crossed through my postage stamp back yard to put something up in my 10x8 metal shed, I fairly ignored my surroundings. I put away whatever it was and headed back for the house a mere 10 steps away. It was then that I noticed something off to my left. I took a few more steps before my brain registered what it was I saw. I screamed and did an awkward high-stepping jig in my rush to put distance between myself and the horrendous monster of a snake I had so casually strolled beside. Safely on the other side of the backdoor, I panted as the adrenaline surged.

Reflecting on how the situation developed from this point. I am conflicted as to whether my mental capacity had been affected by fear and if this played into my decisions. I looked out the glass at the snake—SNAKE!—in my yard trying to decided what to do about it.

The first thing I did was call my husband, who—God help him—was too far away to offer any assistance and didn’t even answer his phone. I left him a breathless half-crazed message about a snake and backyard and I’m okay and something about animal control. Getting off the phone, I shooed my kids away from the door—they were enthralled by whatever it was that could so quickly turn their normally rational mother into a dithering mess. Pulling myself together, I considered the situation.

FACT 1: There was a snake in my back yard.
FACT 2: That snake was not likely to stay put long enough for someone more qualified to arrive.
FACT 3: A snake I couldn’t see was worse than a snake I could.

I arrived at two options; I could either leave the snake alone, letting it wander out of sight, perhaps around the corner, under the shed, curled up in a corner of the kid’s playhouse, leaving me to suspect every step into my backyard as progress through hostile territory. Or I could take care of the snake myself. By take care of the snake I mean "Kill It Dead!" I’d seen the survival shows, Man VS. Wild and Survivorman. They kill snakes all the time. I just needed a sharp or blunt object. I first considered a shovel, but that was in the shed—which would force me back into the snake’s domain—and I felt that the handle wasn’t nearly long enough to keep me at a comfortable distance from the reptile. So then I thought I could throw something at it. Large enough rocks would do the trick if I could get a few good hits in. I had some good irregularly shaped rocks in the corner of the back yard, but again, that would put me in the yard with the snake and that was something I was unwilling to do. But what else did I have that I could throw that was heavy enough to do some damage. Then it occurred to me that the weight bench in the garage held an assortment of rounded but solid weight plates.

So, this is how it all went down. I lugged the weights a couple at a time from the garage, through the house and to the back door, all the while checking to make sure the snake is still in view. Cautiously, I exited the house with an armload (which in my case equals about four plates) and proceeded to climb atop the metal picnic table I have out back. From this vantage point, I felt safely distanced from the snake that was eyeing me but hadn’t yet determined whether I was a threat or not. I grunted as I flung one weight after another at the snake making trips back into the house to get more weights as needed. The majority of my throws missed, only causing the snake to curl up defensively. He didn’t slither away; however, but stayed within range of my miserable aim. I did get off a few good hits. One weight actually trapped the snake's head, but the next throw bounced the first weight away and the snake was freed to hiss at me some more. Eventually I ran out of weights, more than twenty total. Retrieving some of the weights that missed and rolled away into the yard wa not an option though so I headed back in and hoped that I succeeded.

When my husband finally came home, he investigated the damage. His weight plates were strewn across the backyard and the snake had retreated to beneath the shed where it did, indeed, expire. He dragged the snake out, proud and perhaps a little incredulous at me for the damage I inflicted. He proceeded to take pictures and measure the thing. Turns out it was a 6-foot-long bull snake.

Looking back on this incident, I wonder as to whether my actions demonstrated fearlessness or if they reveal a dangerous lapse of judgment. Like I said before, I’m still conflicted as to which, but nevertheless, were I to face a snake in the yard again, I know I’d react the same way.

A Blessing or a Curse

Profanities, obscenities, expletives: We use these terms to describe words considered inappropriate in our language. By definition, a profanity is a word, phrase, or gesture that is abusive, vulgar, or irreverent, but many of these condemned words merely articulate intense emotion. These words fill a void in our language with their predominately-negative expressions of scorn, disgust, pain, or surprise. Many words used today as curse words did not originate as such. These once harmless words seemed to make that transition when it became common to use them to express some of our strongest emotions. This would indicate that we are not condemning the specific words, but the emotions they convey. Is our anger only valid if we express it through acceptable language? Do we lessen our pain by describing it calmly? While we should refrain from language whose only purpose is to abuse or offend, why must we censor expressions used solely to color our informal speech? We should be free to make full use of our language; if through conscious decision we find that the best word available is one our society considers unacceptable, then that should be only a factor in our choice, not the final ruling.

I wrote this in response to an English definition assignment. It has always been an irritant to me how variable the rules for accepted speech seem to be. While I personally choose to refrain from using questionable language, under many circumstances I do not find it offensive. As with many subjects, I secede from the usual preferring to judge according to motive than by appearance or socially set standards.

The Raptor

The tangle of rods and strings, of paper-thin material lifted lightly from his small hands. It seemed intent upon dancing away from him with every pull of the breeze. His tiny fingers clutched at the insubstantial mass with great care. He was certain it would snap and tear if he gripped too tightly. Within moments, he reached his destination. Laying his slight burden upon the beach, he held it down with a sandy toe as he fumbled to untangle the dragging cords. He felt the burning heat of the sun against the exposed skin at the back of his neck.
With the strings now in order, he stepped away from the delicate bundle, holding thread and breath. Instantly the wind caught the fibrous material, drawing it up and away, tumbling and twisting toward sure disaster. The crash of the waves amplified in his ears with the howl of the wind, a warning, a threat to rip apart this new intruder to the sky.
He almost closed his eyes, not wanting to witness the imminent destruction when suddenly, unexpectedly the cord pulled at his palm, the thread line now taunt and singing with a slight vibrating whistle.
And it rose, away from the menacing waves, past the foam and spray. The wind strained against the thin rods and brightly colored canvas, but there was no snap of breaking, nor sign of a tear, only soaring.
The glitter of the sunlit wave caps caught in his wide, lifted gaze as the fragile, lifeless creature transformed into a powerful lord of the sky, like a raptor or eagle, a bird that dominated the sky, bending currents to its will. Among the clouds, in flashes of saturated color, it flew. It twisted and dived only to right itself and soar again. His brows relaxed and a smile overtook him.
He remained there, his attention fixed upon the sky, reveling in every gust of breeze. The wind carried his treasure to nest among the clouds and lifted sweat-dampened hair from his forehead, cooling his face and neck.
Only when his arms tired and his skin had pinked from the afternoon sun did he draw the string back, reigning in this noble flight. The bird lowered smoothly, caressing the current with an effortless descent. He gathered the cords, rods, and fabric panels of the now silent creature into his arms. With new reverence for his delicate possession, he started home again.

Again, in first person.

Jacob’s Kite

The rods and strings tangled together in my hands. It’s so thin, I thought. A slight wind came by that almost lifted it from my grasp. I clutched at it as carefully as I could. I was sure the material would tear at any moment. Please don’t break. Not yet. I was almost there. Just a little bit farther.
When I reached the place, the empty beach where I usually play, I set it down. The sand was warm. I used a gritty toe to hold down my new toy while I tried to untangle the mess I’d made of the cords. The sun was hot on my neck as I bent over the stubborn knots.
After I dealt with the knots, I held the string tight in my hand. I held my breath just as tight as lifted my toe and stepped back. The wind caught the material as soon as I moved and lifted it from the ground. It was tumbling and twisting, over and under. I was sure it was about to crash back down to the beach in a heap of splinters and ripped fabric. The wind was pulling it closer to the froth at the water’s edge. I heard the wave’s crashing louder now. It wasn’t the gentle rhythm I was used to. It sounded more like a warning; a threat for daring to invade the skies.
I wanted to close my eyes. I tried to. I didn’t want to watch destruction. Then the cord, the one still held tight in my fist, was pulling at my arm. I looked down. The thread line that had laid in lazy loops beside my feet was now stretched tight in the air. It pulled so hard that it vibrated with a slight whistle.
The wind had caught it now and it rose. It rose away from the angry waves, away from the foam and spray. The wind strained against the thin rods, but they didn’t break or snap. There was also no sign of a tear in the bright canvas. Against the sun and wind, against the ocean and the waves, it only soared higher.
The sun off the wave caps glittered in my eyes as I watched the flight. My lifeless, fragile creature had transformed. It was now a powerful lord of the air. High in the air, like a raptor or an eagle, it dominated the sky. Warm air currents bent to its will. Saturated color flashed in the clouds. It twisted and dived, but I wasn’t afraid for it any longer. It knew when to turn in the wind. It knew how to climb the sky. I smiled.
My treasure was at home here. It had made itself a nest in the clouds. My face and neck was hot, but the breezes cooled me. It lifted my dampened hair from my sweaty forehead.
I don’t know how long I stayed that day, my eyes fixed skyward. Only when the sun had burned my skin pink did I pull the string in. The bird lowered smoothly. Its descent was easy, graceful. It landed softly. I gathered the rods, cords, and fabric panels into my arms no longer worried. It wasn’t as delicate I had thought.

©T.Lynn Smith 2008

This was a writing exercise in which I needed to describe in 500 words a child's first encouter with a creature, substance, or object.

Mortification

I know the meaning of mortification.
No, I intimately know what it means to be mortified.
There is a reason he’s called a mortician.
It is so much worse than the red burn of embarrassment.
The phrase “I wish the ground would swallow me whole” takes on a whole new meaning. If only that were possible.
If the ground would open up, take me down, and spit me out somewhere around the Polynesian Islands that way I would never have to see the people who witnessed the shining moments (yes, plural) that brought me to this point.
What’s a mortician do exactly?
Doesn’t he take out your organs and replace them with filler?
That would be nice.
Take the brain that can’t stop the replays.
Take the heart that makes me care what they think.
Take my stupid stomach that won’t stop churning.
Take it all and give me cotton. Nice, soft, fluffy cotton.
Cotton doesn’t judge you; can’t tell you how ridiculous you looked; won’t force you to face your embarrassment tomorrow and the next day and the next.
Why can’t I just drop this?
They will forget it long before I can.

I reserve the right not disclose the details of the event/events that inspired this piece.

Friend

We’ve been friends for as long as I can remember. Well, longer than that. We’ve been friends since before I was capable of remembering, since before I even had conscious thought, before I could see or breathe or had a heartbeat. There was never a time that we weren’t part of each other. We are the same down to our DNA.
What’s it like to have a friend like that? I don’t think I can accurately describe it because I’ve never known what it’s like not to have a friend like that; a friend so close that we finish each other’s sentences and with a simple look, know what the other is thinking. No, I’m not talking about telepathy here; it’s much more simple than that. When you know a person, really know them inside and out; know everything they’ve ever done, everything they want to do, and experienced most of it with them, knowing what they’re thinking is easy.
As alike as we are physically, we are still two very different people. Even though we’ve lived through near identical experiences, those experiences have shaped us differently. Like fingerprints, though our DNA can confound the best PI, one look at our fingerprints and our identity is exposed. Shaped differently. Slight differences in the uterine environment caused this defining individuality. Slight differences in perception and opinion shaped us into different people. I like blue; she likes green. I love to organize; she’s the decorator. I write; she paints. I can’t live without her, but I can’t be everything she needs. She loves my company, but sometimes all I need is space. Still, we are as close as we want to be and share a bond closer than many people will ever experience.
Is there anything that can come between a bond like that? Yes, there is, and actually, it’s the small things that do it. Tiny annoyances, if allowed to fester, can drive a wedge between even a perfect companionship. Small acts of selfishness can undermine a confident relationship. The biggest struggles, the hard, deep things only draw us closer. Distance, another one of those friendship enders, is no obstacle; we connect remotely as easily as we do face to face. Time or lack of is also a non-issue; we are as comfortable with each other after a month of silence as an hour.
There’s nothing like the feeling of being unconditionally accepted. Of revealing your darkness and finding it a mere shadow; not as black of deeds as you imagined for the one person you trust and believe in more than anyone else in the world deals with it too.
Consider this: if we all had a friend like this, would we be happier? I think so, yes. Isn’t that one of the profound things people search for, to have someone that truly understands and accepts them? The only difference is that I didn’t have to risk anything to trust myself, my truth with my sister. Put any two people in identical situations with identical experiences to direct their reactions and the ability to empathize with each other would be unavoidable. We would all feel the same pain or joy or love or hate. Discovery of your “twin”; however, will take much more courage. I’m just lucky God did my search for me.

For my sister.

Beware Jalapenos!

I will never, repeat NEVER, cook with jalapenos without the proper use of gloves again. Here’s why…
It was balmy Memorial Day, or Labor Day, whichever one comes at the beginning of the summer, and I was visiting my family back home. We—and by we I mean my family—had a huge gathering planned. My family does this. A lot. My parents own a restaurant, so large parties with tons of food are common place. So, we have this huge cook-out/swim party planned and since my cooking skills are rather pathetic in comparison to just about every other adult in my family—You know what, scratch that. I might as well admit it. I'm the worst cook in my family. Needless to say, I’ve never worked a day behind counter of previously mentioned restaurant Don’t feel bad for me. I really don't mind being on the receiving end of all that good food. So, I decided to help prepare one of the side dishes. You know, stay safely away from anything I could render inedible. You may think I’m exaggerating, but I’m not. I've screwed up Hamburger Helper before. Don't ask me how, I don't know.
Anyway, my safe option—or so I thought at the time—was to help prepare Stuffed Jalapenos. Halved and seeded jalapenos, stuffed with cream cheese, wrapped in thick-sliced bacon, then grilled. Is your mouth watering yet? So my sister and I are moving along, prepping up peppers. No big deal, right? Yeah, that's what I thought until we started coughing. The fumes from the peppers we were slicing and deseeding were irritating our throats. We’d never had that experience prepping peppers before and we’ve made this dish several times if not on such a large scale. We probably had about thirty large jalapenos to prep. The coughing might have been our first clue, but we were almost done and didn't think much of it. A little later, just as we were finishing, my hands start to heat up. Uncomfortably. Still thinking nothing of it, I wash them off and keep going. Within minutes my fingers are searing; my palms and the skin underneath my nails is on fire.
Now I've worked with peppers before. I've made this dish before, with no problems whatsoever, but apparently this specific batch of peppers had something to prove. I tried washing my hands again, didn't work. I scrubbed them with the gritty stuff you use to make your feet soft. That only made it worse. Aloe Vera Gel, the kind used on sunburns, that was bad news also. Finally, I found that if I kept my hands in a bowl of ice water, it numbed the heat. Unfortunately, it also numbed my fingers and then I had to deal with the pain of defrosting digits. I spent the whole party alternating between the searing pain of a first degree burn and the half-frozen stinging sensation you get from playing in the snow too long. I was the life of the party that day, let me tell you.
Taking pity on me, my wonderful brother-in-law (love ya, Trey) offered to search for some remedies online. You would be amazed at how many normally intelligent individuals have made the mistake of brawling bare-handed with proud peppers. I would have been laughing at the comments we found... if I weren't agonizingly distracted at the time. We came across every remedy you could think of. One person would post a remedy, then the next person would reply, sometimes in all caps, whether the remedy worked for them or not. (Usually, the all caps meant not.) After several pages of this hilarity, we found something that looked useful, baking soda.
You see, the culprit in this scenario was the capsaicin oil in the peppers. Once that oil gets into your pores it does not want to come out. At least not without letting you know about it, loudly. After scrubbing my hands with the baking soda, the heat would diminish for a few minutes, but while that did alleviate the pain, it was tedious and my hands were raw already. Exasperated, I made a paste out of the stuff and coated my hands in it. Ah, finally relief...until it dried. And started flaking off everywhere on everything, but at least I wasn’t burning up anymore. I had to sleep with my hands coated in baking soda that night. As long as I left the baking soda on my hands—and a good thick coating of it I might add—it absorbed the oil as it left my pores. By morning my hands felt more or less normal with only residual heat detectable under my nails.
I have learned my lesson. So if the next time I’m with family and I go a little manic about proper pepper prepping procedures, you'll know why.

Sandglass

by T. Lynn Smith

A mirror like sand changes each wave.
Who can trust the reflection?
Beauty and disgust, both a temporary tide.
Each low removes a layer of truth.
Lies like sediment build.
Sands wash away, bare stones revealed.
Ebb and flood, view unclear.
Jagged and bleached, deceived.
Not a retreat, but a prison
Enclosed in a gold frame.

©T.Lynn Smith 2008

This poem is about how I sometimes see myself unclearly. Each mirror I pass is yet another occasion to judge myself. The image I see tells me who I am, what I’m worth. Like a troll that I must pay to pass the bridge, the mirror takes from me each time I see less, each time I pass sentence upon myself.