Green EyEnvy

This is a poem I wrote...

GrEEn EyEnvy

Looking at my learner's permit, you'd see that they list the color of my eyes as brown. In fact, they are green. Envy is a funny thing. I don't mean for it to happen, but it just takes a hold of me. It's a little plague that boils up and out of me whenever I see something that isn't me--pictures of stylish girls having a night out on the town and an empty corner where my smiling face could've been. My eyes go green.

Curled, crimped and trimmed hair sends flashes of red anger through my eyes and down my spine. I don't want to be this way. But, I can't help but mix yellow and blue hues when I travel back and forth to a part of town I wouldn't otherwise be in, to do work I don't get paid for and watch brand name big bags hanging from manicured hands swaying to the beat of the high priced high-heels clacking down the granite hallway.

I don't want to be mean. To take my mind off of things, I come up with every way imaginable to explain why those luxurious gifts aren't meant for me. And when my thoughts stray away, a calm relief washes over me, adding more yellow and a splash of red to the concoction. And I can see again. And I can breathe again. And I feel like a person worth being.

Then as sure as time waits for no one, a pain leaves my chest and grabs at my neck, beckoning me to release that pent up tension. Sexy stilettos step in front of me, reminding me of my of a life I can't have, a party I was denied because people found it easier to not invite me, and an ensemble I could never wear--peacock colors I would never be brave to dare step out in with a semi-permanent disfigured ankle. I envy the feet that dance all night long, to music that I wouldn't be able to along sing to, at places that would never be a part of my memory banks.

Hunter. My eyes grow ravenous, thinking only to tear down what isn't mine or can't be mine, while deep down inside I don't want to be that hungry. I don't want that yearning because I've grown to like the person that I've become--two sides to this one being, who has yet to walk out in her shoes, bought for the sheer fun, but have never graced the murky sidewalk. I don't like being greedy and so sometimes I starve myself. Then the green becomes moss and the hunger grows...

I try to think about other things. I try to make it seem like my eclectic tastes and my random wit and my distorted nature makes up for me being uniquely excluded on the ritualistically included norms of everyone's everyday living. That my difference doesn't hinder me, but gives me a way to see things differently. That my weird is a science only I can understand and what some find intriguing- a whole new world that some venture into with open arms, while others look away with blank bland eyes.

Though, if misery loves company, then my eyes must be filled with something full.

I don't mean to be mean, and I don't want my eyes to be ever-green. I don't want to want, but I can't help that when I see things, my eyes open wide, the colors change and I feel different inside.

My id says that my eyes are brown, but they can be green sometimes...though, I wished they'd just stay brown.

MY Mr. Fixit

Now where flowers bloom, once stood my father, tall and strong. He was a good man. Did whatever he had to do just to make sure we would eat at the end of the day. And if we went more than one day without food, he’d buss his ass to make sure we could eat twice as much the day after. Scrubbing floors, fixing cars, assembling furniture…man I believed that if there was something needed to be done, pops could do it. Pops would do it. And that was the old goat’s downfall. I remember like it was yesterday- I was ten. Mom had been working as a bus driver by them because all the men in our neighborhood had enlisted. Mom came home about six o’clock that evening. She said she was feeling sick and told old Mrs. Gruber to go home. She was a pretty nice old lady. Mom asked me to go to the fridge and pour her a glass of lemonade. That’s when I heard the scream. That’s when she read the stupid letter. I remember hearing a thud sound and running to the living room to see my mother passed out on the floor, her beige pantyhose with a run a mile long wrapped around her limp legs and her hair that was usually pinned in place loose. I though she was dead so I ran to Mrs. Gruber’s apartment and banged the door down. When she answered, I told her that Mom was hurt and needed help. The little on lady ran as fast as her small feet could carry her down the hall, saw momma laying down and said “Oh dear.” She told me to get a wet rag and then hand it to her. She had momma’s head on her lap at this point and I brought the moist cloth to her. She was wiping momma’s face and I saw the letter in her hand. I read it from where I was standing:

“To the family of James Earl Carter,

We regret to inform you that Mr. James E. Carter was severely wounded while fighting for his country on January 14th of the year and died on his way being transported to a military hospital center outside of France…”

They wrote something about him being buried at 1400 hours a couple days later with a proper soldier’s burial. When I read that, I swore I felt a searing hatred running through me. I couldn’t understand. Pops was ‘Mr. Fixit’, he could do anything. I felt my heart sink. I knew why momma had fainted. I felt that same weight drop in my chest. My breath had escaped me. I hated the war. I hated that Pops was so giving. For a while, I hated the Jews too. Did they care that a man was sent to war to help liberate them? I started thinking, that they were just as racist as the racist bastards in the states. They took my daddy from me. I wanted to cuss but momma didn’t like us knowing swear words.
And now, where flowers bloom, lays a man I once called father. Years later, I hold my little sister’s hand crying for the man she never got the chance to meet. The man who went to war, and couldn’t fix it.

LothLorian

I am standing atop a hill looking down at the large willow tree. Mother willow is what I call her. I try to spot who’s sitting by her trunk. I see a figure. I recognize the figure. I run down the hill, barefooted and happy, my gown engulfed by the waves of gentle wind. I reach to the trunk where my love is sitting, intertwining flowers that surround the tree with his long slender fingers. He looks up, stands and comes near me. He lifts me up and spins me around. My hair begins to dance in the billowing breeze. His arms give way and we collapse upon each other. My back lands on his legs. We laugh. The sun begins to set and the sky becomes a reddish hue with streaks of yellow and purple swirling in-between. He wiggles his body so that his back is on mother willow’s bark. My head rests in his soft lap. He looks down at me. The bright brown eyes and a sweet soft smile on his face that can light the thousands of flames that lay burning within my heart. A leaf falls and is swept up by a tiny gale. It falls on my chest. He tosses it aside. And grazes his fingers slowly up my neck. He stretches one finger and plays with my ear. He cups my chin and leans in closer. Strands of his silky hair begin to fall and I rest my hand on the back of those curly tendrils and embrace his kiss. His soft sweet petal lips pierce mine and uplift my heart with a tamed ecstasy. Soon our lips part. He places his lips on my forehead and we both look on to witness the sun set behind the beautiful green hill.