The Perfect Rose
Check out everyone on Match.com.
Keep looking for that perfect rose.
Find the one who wears the white robe just for you,
And not because she likes it too.
Find the one who would never fight you to speak her truth.
Who has no thorns to prick your heart and make it bleed.
The one who already dances like a ballerina,
Who knows that arithmetic in not mathematics.
Find the one who will wear the sexy, pointed toed heels for you
And never complain of hurting feet while looking for the car.
Find the one who is already thin and does not need to lose weight.
Find the one who has a house on Cape Cod and Key West.
Find the rose that grows with no thorns.
___ Beverly Smith
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Response to April's Journal - "Love Story" - Week 5
April, I loved this. What a great description of how it feels to be
pregnant! Your specificity, metaphors, and similes are brilliant. I
especially like: "My chest is a road map of blue veins that drive into
dark areolas." I love this imagery: "I wish I could pop my legs off
and reattach them like I used to do to my Barbie dolls.
Sleeping on your side with pillows propped, especially between your knees and then having to get up to pee and then rearranging them again. No alcohol, not even a Tylenol. Suffering through a cold with no medication to alleviate symptoms. All for the love of Baby-to-be. Although my Baby-to-be is now 31 years old, it seems like only yesterday.
Sleeping on your side with pillows propped, especially between your knees and then having to get up to pee and then rearranging them again. No alcohol, not even a Tylenol. Suffering through a cold with no medication to alleviate symptoms. All for the love of Baby-to-be. Although my Baby-to-be is now 31 years old, it seems like only yesterday.
"Improv-"ing / imitation - Week 5
I imitated two limericks :
There was an old man on the Border,
Who lived in the utmost disorder;
He danced with the cat, and made tea in his hat,
Which vexed all the folks on the Border.
___Edward Lear
There was a young girl on the sidewalk,
Who lived just to hear herself talk;
She yelled at the boys, and made fun of their toys,
Which bothered the men on the sidewalk.
___ Beverly Smith
There was an Old Man of the East,
Who gave all his children a feast;
But they all ate so much, and their conduct was such,
That it killed the Old Man of the East.
___ Edward Lear
There was an old man from the West,
Who gave all of his children his best;
But they tossed it around, til it fell on the ground,
Breaking the heart of the man from the West.
___ Beverly Smith
There was an old man on the Border,
Who lived in the utmost disorder;
He danced with the cat, and made tea in his hat,
Which vexed all the folks on the Border.
___Edward Lear
There was a young girl on the sidewalk,
Who lived just to hear herself talk;
She yelled at the boys, and made fun of their toys,
Which bothered the men on the sidewalk.
___ Beverly Smith
There was an Old Man of the East,
Who gave all his children a feast;
But they all ate so much, and their conduct was such,
That it killed the Old Man of the East.
___ Edward Lear
There was an old man from the West,
Who gave all of his children his best;
But they tossed it around, til it fell on the ground,
Breaking the heart of the man from the West.
___ Beverly Smith
Free Entry - Milking the Cow - Week 5
After suggestions from April and Damyr, I decided to re-do my piece about milking the cow:
"Mother, please don't make me milk the cow today. I have a date with Bob tonight, and the sweat will make my hair stink! Please make Phyllis do it!"
"You know it's your turn, so just do it, and I don't want to hear another word about it!"
"I hate living on a farm! If I lived in town like Sandra, I'd never have to be your little slave!"
It is a steamy, hot, humid day in Webster County in southwest Georgia. The humidity must be 99.9%. One more tenth and the droplets of water vapor would coalesce and fall to the ground as rain.
I squat beside Sukey, our cow, and grab hold of her teats with both hands. As the first squirts of milk fall, making a tinny sound in the metal bucket, my thoughts flow as freely as Sukey's milk. I think of what to wear tonight, of the interplay of our fingers as we drive to the movies in Americus. I anticipate the luscious, passionate kisses from Bob's beloved lips later in the evening.
While I continue milking, the smell of freshly mown grass permeates the sultry air. Sukey shifts from one foot to another and gently swishes her tail to swat flies from her undulating reddish-brown coat. Sweat drops begin in my head and roll down my face and down the valley of cleavage trapped in my bra. The bucket is almost full. Soon I will be free to soak in the tub and scrub the cow-tit smell from my hands.
Suddenly a huge horsefly bites Sukey, and she switches her tail violently, catching my wire mesh rollers in her coarse tail. Half of the rollers become entangled in her shitty-smelling tail, and she jerks them out of my hair.
With all the theatrics that a fifteen year old drama queen can summon, I let out a loud scream of frustration and exasperation that brings my mother running out the backdoor to see what is causing all the commotion.
"What is going on out here?" When she sees me with rollers hanging from my hair in disarray, her face wears an amused expression.
"A gigantic horsefly bit Sukey! Then she got my rollers tangled in her smelly tail and jerked half of them out! Then she kicked the bucket and spilled the milk! I wasn't born to live on a farm!"
Mother thinks the whole scene is hilarious and collapses on the grass in hysterics. Her infectious laughter breaks down my defenses, and I dissolve in a fit of tears and giggling. The absurdity of the situation provides much-needed levity and release from the mundane monotony of another day on the farm.
"Mother, please don't make me milk the cow today. I have a date with Bob tonight, and the sweat will make my hair stink! Please make Phyllis do it!"
"You know it's your turn, so just do it, and I don't want to hear another word about it!"
"I hate living on a farm! If I lived in town like Sandra, I'd never have to be your little slave!"
It is a steamy, hot, humid day in Webster County in southwest Georgia. The humidity must be 99.9%. One more tenth and the droplets of water vapor would coalesce and fall to the ground as rain.
I squat beside Sukey, our cow, and grab hold of her teats with both hands. As the first squirts of milk fall, making a tinny sound in the metal bucket, my thoughts flow as freely as Sukey's milk. I think of what to wear tonight, of the interplay of our fingers as we drive to the movies in Americus. I anticipate the luscious, passionate kisses from Bob's beloved lips later in the evening.
While I continue milking, the smell of freshly mown grass permeates the sultry air. Sukey shifts from one foot to another and gently swishes her tail to swat flies from her undulating reddish-brown coat. Sweat drops begin in my head and roll down my face and down the valley of cleavage trapped in my bra. The bucket is almost full. Soon I will be free to soak in the tub and scrub the cow-tit smell from my hands.
Suddenly a huge horsefly bites Sukey, and she switches her tail violently, catching my wire mesh rollers in her coarse tail. Half of the rollers become entangled in her shitty-smelling tail, and she jerks them out of my hair.
With all the theatrics that a fifteen year old drama queen can summon, I let out a loud scream of frustration and exasperation that brings my mother running out the backdoor to see what is causing all the commotion.
"What is going on out here?" When she sees me with rollers hanging from my hair in disarray, her face wears an amused expression.
"A gigantic horsefly bit Sukey! Then she got my rollers tangled in her smelly tail and jerked half of them out! Then she kicked the bucket and spilled the milk! I wasn't born to live on a farm!"
Mother thinks the whole scene is hilarious and collapses on the grass in hysterics. Her infectious laughter breaks down my defenses, and I dissolve in a fit of tears and giggling. The absurdity of the situation provides much-needed levity and release from the mundane monotony of another day on the farm.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Reading Response to "The Pain of Pink Evenings" by Rosemary Moore
I really enjoyed reading this play. Moore uses interesting details and lots of specificity to breathe life into the story of a timid, mousey woman in her forties. Tracy was emotionally paralyzed and unable to move on since her husband's death ten years ago. He comes to her in a dream and tells her what to do to move on with her life. She reluctantly begins the process by finally selecting a pretty white sweater with pearl buttons to dispose of as a symbol for moving on.
The dream served as a catalyst to propel Tracy to move out of her depression. The fact that she made her bed on the morning she got the sweater out suggests that her energy was beginning to return. When she laid it on the bed, she felt that it glowed with radioactivity. When she tried it on, she felt a pain in her chest, and a button just fell off.
As she dealt with the sweater, she felt her father's presence and allowed herself to remember her evenings with him before he died. That she sat there folding, unfolding, and refolding her napkin as he talked revealed that she was even timid around her own father.
Before going down to the Potomac, she lay on the ground in the median in a futile attempt to contact Henry again. Her strange behavior attracted a Japanese couple who wanted to photograph her. This interruption served to let her know that she was the star of her life and that it was time for the action to begin. She finally got up, tore the bag open, and threw the beloved old sweater into the Potomac River. She watched as it slowly sank. Hopefully, now she will begin to move on with her own life.
The dream served as a catalyst to propel Tracy to move out of her depression. The fact that she made her bed on the morning she got the sweater out suggests that her energy was beginning to return. When she laid it on the bed, she felt that it glowed with radioactivity. When she tried it on, she felt a pain in her chest, and a button just fell off.
As she dealt with the sweater, she felt her father's presence and allowed herself to remember her evenings with him before he died. That she sat there folding, unfolding, and refolding her napkin as he talked revealed that she was even timid around her own father.
Before going down to the Potomac, she lay on the ground in the median in a futile attempt to contact Henry again. Her strange behavior attracted a Japanese couple who wanted to photograph her. This interruption served to let her know that she was the star of her life and that it was time for the action to begin. She finally got up, tore the bag open, and threw the beloved old sweater into the Potomac River. She watched as it slowly sank. Hopefully, now she will begin to move on with her own life.
Junkyard Quote # 4 - Week 5
"The author must keep his mouth shut when his work starts to speak."
_____ Friedrich Nietzche
_____ Friedrich Nietzche
Response to Kay's Journal - Week 5
Kay, I thought you did a good job of showing the boredom, frustration,
and pain of being ignored while your boyfriend lived in his virtual
world playing a video game. Focusing on the uneven stripes of the sofa
and removing a layer from your back molars are such good descriptions
of ways you manage to keep your mouth shut. How would he react if you
told him that you could not visit next time because you cannot afford
$3.42 a gallon for gasoline to watch him play video games? Or what
would he do if you decided to move away from him, clearly in his line of
vision,and lose yourself in a good book wearing only some very sexy
lingerie?
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