Tag: wordsmithing

Saturdays In The 80s

Photo by Tima Miroshnichenko on Pexels.com
It's Saturday in the mid 1980s
Fashion Island Mall is hopping
I am at the ice rink
My happy place
Skating circles while the beeps and boops of video games, 
The clatter of quarters dropping into the tray of change machines 
Spills out of The Gold Mine arcade across the way
Movie goers in neon and Aqua Net buying tickets for
Risky Business
Ferris Bueller's Day Off
Ladyhawke
Teen Wolf or
Mannequin
At the DJ booth a 17 year old white boy
Wearing a black sequined windbreaker and a single white sequined glove
Introduces himself as Hollywood Hans
Where he spins vinyl into a vibrant soundtrack featuring
The Bangles
Culture Club
Michael Jackson
Madonna
Eurythmics and
Wham
I am in the midst of it
Skating laps and laps
Avoiding the teen hockey skaters with their scary sharp blades and recklessness
The kids and teens begging Hans to play their favorite songs:
"Play Thriller, Hans!"
"I want Eye of the Tiger!"
"Wake Me Up Before You Go Go!!"
"You got Everybody Wants To Rule The World?"
"It would be rad if you play Like A Virgin!"
"Dude!  Play Broken Wings!"
"Like, totally play Love Is A Battlefield"
"Walk Like An Egyptian would be bitchin'!"
You might find me throwing quarters down the gullet of 
Dig Doug
Pole Position or
Donkey Kong
While the Zamboni resurfaces the ice once an hour 
Or, begging my mom for one of Sbarro's signature giant slices of New York style pizza
A food court staple 
Bonus prizes if she throws in an Orange Julius
Aspiring figure skaters owning center ice
Spinning and jumping dramatically
Kristi Yamaguchi among them I'd later learn
I am here to glide in endless circles to the music
Flying fast and free
Occasionally spinning or trying to Shoot the Duck
With mixed results
Singing along to all of the songs
Always sad when Hans calls the last skate of the session
Reluctantly drying my blades
Pulling on my skate guards
Following my mom out of the mall to the car
Exhausted and happy
Already dreaming of the scratch of blades on smooth resurfaced ice
The rhythms of the 80s 
Taking my broken wings and helping me to fly again
Time after time
A holiday
For a girl that just wants to have fun

-gws

Slay

These poems are a journey 
That began in the light of hope and love
Then slowly meandered through increasing darkness 
They dare to expose the skeletons and demons 
Barely hidden behind my front door for too long
The narration begins in the middle 
After darkness had well fallen
And documents my struggle to breathe
My desperate journey to find myself again 

And for those who live with horrors who wear human faces
If I found my way free
I know you can too
Let these poems serve as proof 
That though it is not easy
Freedom can be won
You can take your life back 
Write the story exactly as YOU wish it to be

Sometimes the dragon burns down the world 
As long as you’re standing 
No matter how wounded
You can slay that dragon
You ARE the hero of your story
YOU get to say when the story is over
YOU get to decide how the new book starts
YOU get to do whatever the hell YOU want
Take my story and forge it into your sword of courage 
SLAY

-gws

We All Might Just Be Alright

I fucking hate homework 
And projects 
And assemblies
And parent-teacher conferences
It’s a gauntlet of pushing and pulling 
Begging and beguiling 
Praying and pleading 
I have to pretend I know what I’m doing 
Convince teachers I’m a capable parent 
When I feel like the absolute worst 
I’ve used all the gas in my emotional tank
Before my children walk back in the door 
“What’s for dinner, Mom?”
“I ripped my pants, Mom.”
“I have a field trip, Mom.”
“I have a project due on Monday, Mom.”
There are more moments than I am proud of
Where I mourn my party of one days
Then one of my sons says
“I love you, Mama.”
Points to my chest and asks
“Are you ok in there, Mama?”
Takes my phone and tucks me in and says
“You’re sick, Mama.  You need to rest.”
I start feeling like less of a fuck up
Like I might be getting something right
Like we all might just be alright 

-gws

Ode to Audiobooks

In the days of old
Storytellers traveled far and wide 
Plying their trade at hearth and square 
Sharing tales true and mythical 
Of heroes and villains 
Triumph and tragedy 
Honing the sharpness of their wordplay 
Weaving captivating tales for coin
Where are the bards of today 
Spinning tales for the eager 

I host a phantasmagoria of storytellers 
Tucked neatly into my pocket 
Poised to share hours of narration
For an audience of one
A tap a screen whisks me away 
Into a plethora of elaborate worlds
Thousands of hours of storycraft 
Read by hosts of skilled modern bards
Memoirs and poetry
Worlds fictional and factual 
Could the traveling rhapsodist
In their pre-modern world
Dare dream of such wonders
As the miraculous audiobook 

-gws

Red

Photo by David Bartus on Pexels.com
Roses and rust and rivulets of blood
Rubies and robins and radiant flame
Victory red lipstick of defiance
Red flesh of cool plums in summer
Winking red of garnet facets in grandmothers' rings
Washington Reds hanging from autumn apple trees
Red hand prints representing the missing and murdered
Blinking red lights lining dark empty streets
Red dresses whipping and swirling to tango on stages
Crisp red uniforms of Beefeaters on guard
Red sports cars cruising the streets of LA
Cardinal red of Stanford Sports
Crimson Red and Columbia Blue of my high school
Cherry red inside a pie
Glossy candy apple red
Ripe red strawberries perfuming summer picnics 
Enflamed red of flushed cheeks
Sacred menses red 
Red haze of rage blurring vision
Bruised red of kissed lips
Fruit punch red staining faces
Watermelon red dripping from hands
Red wine glowing in glasses
Berries bright red in winter snow

-gws