Weekly Wrap Up

Seven things that moved me, grooved me, or improved me.

ONE: Interesting use of Advanced In-Vehicle Technology by Honda to integrate social media into the driving experience. Introducing car horn emojis.

TWO: Incredible read. This story is equal parts sad, inspiring, and hopeful. “A 22-Year-Old Entrepreneur Moves Forward After a Life-Changing Accident Left Him Paralyzed”

THREE: Need a gift for a copywriter in your life? This t-shirt is aces.

FOUR: And speaking of copywriters, this is pretty much the most brilliant website by one I’ve ever seen.

FIVE: I don’t know about you, but I’m sure ready for the weather to break. There’s certainly no shortage of things to do in my home state when it does. Here’s a great list of Ohio Festivals to check out.

SIX: I’m so incredibly proud of my nephew who took third place in his poetry division. He recited Kenn Nesbitt’s My Dog Lives On the Sofa . Cheers to schools that support poetry!

IMG_5443

SEVEN: Happy for new music from Aimee Mann. Her latest Mental Illness is definitely worth a listen. Spotify.

What moved, grooved, or improved you this week?

Until next time, be kind to yourself. And each other.

xo,
mG

Note: All opinions expressed here are my own. I have not received any compensation for writing this post.

 

the metamorphosis

“all humans are subject to
decay,
and when fate summons, monarchs
must obey.”
John Dryden, Mac Flecknoe, (1682) 11.1

born several months early
and under the wrong sign,
capricorn’s curse
encased you in glass,
a diamond
in your unwed mother’s dowry.
jaundiced skin
pulsated the morse
of a monarch’s wings
on a killing jar at sunset.
the glowing orb dimmed
and all but the swish
of rayon tights
was silenced.
discontented orderlies took gondola rides
down hallways they never intended to travel.
the institution was alive
with navigations across carelessly waxed terrazzo,
while an unattended lily
wilted
in its Waterford vase.

chessie

on the balcony outside my bedroom window
stands a lonely stranger.
the heels of italian shoes
click endlessly
as he paces the redwood planks.
he tips his fedora
in the direction of train’s distant hum
for he knows the pain
wrought by one locomotive’s whistle.
a mother’s frantic prayer
clothespins released from a panicking grip
splintered on hardwood
exciting the dogs
to the possibility of supper.
stunned amidst the chaos
he just couldn’t react.
the expressionless boy
a mere reflection of the stoic faces
on copper coins.
yes
it is he
who haunts my sleep
singing the songs
of famished beasts
and moonlit copper coins
tossed hastily to trains.

Until next time, be kind to yourself. And each other.

xo,

mG

grandma and her big bad friend

Wolf2*

mothers never see the truth.
didn’t mother find it odd
that you returned on sunday
with stains on your crimson cape,
paw prints on your new blouse?

did she look for cookie crumbs
on your chin,
milk
on your lip?

riding hood, it’s not your fault.
grandma knew you were coming.
maybe she was just sick
of the milk and cookie routine.
whatever the reason,
she laughed under too many sheets
as you never took note
of the fur coat
in her closet
or the size wolf snowshoe tracks
embedded in her front lawn.

Until next time, be kind to yourself. And each other.

xo,

mG

*not a legit wolf print…

the vector

IMG_6030

discard the theory
about the window screen you’ve been meaning to repair,
it came in through the front door.
in fact,
you let it in yourself.
remember calling the children in
for a bedtime story?
compassion misinterpreted as invitation
to anything within earshot;
it happens all the time.
tonight
it occurs in a four-bedroom house.
of course,
it manages to tackle the steps,
gently edge under the seam
of your bedroom door,
hover over the defenseless flesh
of your sleeping body.
a violin begins to play
and slumbering hands punch at the dark
hoping to silence the unwanted serenade,
but it seems that your irritation
is only the blood that it draws
from your veins
when it has the nerve

to touch you.

photo: mary e gilmore, may 2013. I’m a Crane fly. And I don’t bite.

Until next time, be kind to yourself. And each other.

xo,

mG

Nine Fifteen

140915_JWIII_Cleveland_Show_0340-800x533

On rain-struck stage, our mighty captain wails;
With each riff, chord and plectrum, the blue ship
Pounds ahead into night, dark as vinyl;
Winds roil, whipping the steadfast sail.
Drenched by drops, we click our screens off,
Clutch the rail, gaze upward, and ponder how much longer

His force can last, but beyond, the landscape view
Shows soul on soul; his craving fans advancing.
Below, soused rock-drunk, devotees stand
Swaying in bright blue beams; a ghost
Looms, thin as air, among guitars, weeping
Under the taut cloak of her misery.

Miles from the fiery glow of that southern sun
In which our preacher is betrayed, we pale
And marvel at the blatant indifference
Of nature: no better way to test our mettle
Than against this assault, these impulsive walls of squall
That scuffle with us like demons; the mere thought

Of reaching truth through this rampaging flow
Jeers us to courage. The prophets said that our crossing
Would be full of warmth, earth milk, and honey flecked
With moonbeams, amber-tinted; instead, dead leaves
Arrived early to dot our journey, while ground
Curdled over with dirt and ore boats passed

In cobalt light of the mysterious eve.
Now, freed, by fortune’s hand, from the jealous plague
Thumping his detractors down, we take a stand
Like three musketeers, to fight for deathless love
From this restless soul, which no vessel can contain;
Sound and fury at odds; abrupt silence

Stills all hearts cold; private lives are split,
Splintered in the light of day. We disown
Our own selves now, impelled by blood, by blues,
To keep our tacit oath; perhaps esteem
Is worthless here, overboard, yet we must make
The effort, dance and hold the tortured man’s gaze.

And the band heads towards venues, lanes and towns
Of other fans, where headstones eulogize
Greats who strummed through war, and peace; the music
Dies; blue beams snuffed; we right ourselves,
Our keepsakes, as calm halts our grand voyage; no bonds
Sustain arrival; we storm the dock as strangers.

~ mary e gilmore
©2014

Photo credit: David James Swanson

Until next time, be kind to yourself. And each other.

xo,
mG

Note: All opinions expressed here are my own. I have not received any compensation for writing this post.