Sea Memory

For a friend who lost a friend too soon.

Sea Memory, sumi and India ink on 9×12 watercolor paper.


Eye Shot an Arrow

Eye shot an arrow
When the turtle told me to
He failed to specify direction.

Eye shot one north
Then turned around and shot one south
Eye spun, stringing and loosing.

Eye shot at the moon
And snacked on a red apple
Out of arrows, Eye went to sleep.




A Change of Plans

I can’t tell yet if I’m dreaming or just waking up. The feeling of comfortably floating is the most prominent sensory input I can process right now.

I’m awake.

I feel the footprints of awareness pacing through my head, slow and muddled like a tortoise in quicksand now, but they’ll catch up.

They’ll catch up.

I”m still floating, but in my bed now, my big comfortable bed. I’m floating among the big fluffy comforter and the heavy feather pillows and the soft cotton sheets. I snuggle in a bit deeper and cross my fingers that I’ll simply fall back asleep so I won’t have to make any decisions today.

I open my eyes.

My dream of dreaming was not meant to come true today. It’s time to get up, get dressed, get ready. I’m not sure what I have on my schedule for today. Maybe a lot, maybe a little.

I roll out of bed.

I groan slightly with the effort; standing is a much a shock to my relaxed muscles as the blinding sunlight was to my sleep-adjusted eyes, but once I’m up, I’m up and at ’em. A few quick tosses and corner twitches, and my bed is made.

I rise on my toes.

Reaching my arms to the ceiling and rolling my shoulders provides a satisfyingly deep stretch, and I lower myself to my heels slowly. I glance left, and the key on my dresser reminds me of the mission I set for myself today. Time to get a move on.

The clock chimes seven.

I’m not sure how early the locksmith opens. I google it while brushing my teeth. He opens for business at eight. I brush a little bit slower. No point in loitering in the parking lot when I can loiter at home.

I’m out of sugar.

This does not bode well. My morning was going along swimmingly until the extremely light heft of the sugar bowl let me know that something is very wrong.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

I tip up my mug and power through the dark bitterness of black coffee. Not my favorite thing to do, but it’s nearing time to get the heck out of Dodge.

My shoes wait next to the front door.

I jingle my keys in my fingers as I slip into ballet flats for the short trip to town. I trot down the front porch steps and hop in my car, and try to crank it.

I try to crank it.

But the damn thing’s dead. Too bad I couldn’t get back to sleep this morning. I guess I’ll get a spare key made tomorrow. Or the next day.


Cubing the Stories at TBP
See, I told you those ‘rules’ were optional. Rules schmules.