Guilo's in the House of Ma.

Alabama was drunk when I got there, his head giving evidence of the struggle against sleep. Paul and American Dave were drinking Harbin Draft beer and chatting about chicken. I had my eldest with me, she’d cried her way into boys night out. Ma, the head waitress/girl-next-door beauty stood at the ready, amused smile and bright eyes. Time skipped into fast forward and in a blur, I watched the night progress; Annie leaving with her grandma, Alabama’s miraculously slow descent into drunken slumber, Pauls Scottish accent becoming more and more pronounced before he and his buddy, the man from Alabama, stumbled off to who knows where, and Dave, the rock, drinking glass for glass with me and half the patrons of Ma’s restaurant. My watch tells me the sun will arrive soon yet my head begs another beer; Ma’s gone home and so must I, but first I manage to swipe half the dishes and a toothpick holder from the table. Dave’s got his 175cc “chopper” and I’ve got my mini-Mazda, time stopped skipping, exhausted from the night, and I awake amid twisted sheets in the bright sun streaming though cast open curtains.

Grandma

Her face, lined with every hardship ever endured, brightened when the kids exploded into the house. “Grandma!” were their excited shrieks as they hurled themselves upon her emaciated frame. A small bag appeared in gnarled, spotted hands and with a rustle and little fanfare, sweets materialized, as if by magic.

Their faces, creased with frustration and anger, darkened when the sweets showed in tiny hands. “Grandma!” was their barked cry as they rushed to snatch away the children from her emancipated frame. A small bag disappeared as if by magic and gnarled hands curled in bleak despair as her face, etched ever deeper, grew dim.

Dog gone meal

Lunch was at the new "countryside" style restaurant in my neighborhood. Their specialty was deer meat, which is fine.

Like many other restaurants of this style, they keep the doomed creatures in a pen for you to select from, or to let the kiddies have a look before the butchering. Halfway through the meal Annie wanted to go see the deer, so I took her.

In the pen with the fly ravaged mangy deer was a collie as sweet as Lassie. Annie asks me" Daddy, are we going to eat the doggy too?" Changing the subject, I hustled her back to the table, asking myself the same question over and over.

Mother of Exiles

Mother of Exiles

Daniel Stine ©2008

(written upon the Stutue of Liberty)

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
with conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
a mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame,
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
with silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

I respond:

Oh Mother of Exiles raise up thy flame,

Glow world-wide welcome just the same.

I wish to hear your silent cry once more,

“Give me your tired, give me your poor”.

Oh Mother of Exiles hear my pleas,

Thy imprisoned lightning o’er seas.

Command again against storied pomp,

Thy tempest-tost Uncle Sam did tromp.

Oh Mother of Exiles guarding golden door,

We yearn to breathe free upon your teeming shore.

Standing there at those sea-washed, sunset gates,

I implore you to intervene in this our wretched fate.

Oh mighty woman with your flaming torch,

A grave injustice your beacon must now scorch.

Behind you lies a brazen giant of American fame,

He huddles behind the masses, refusing in your name.

Calling my wife wretched refuse and much too poor,

She wanted only to visit upon your golden shore,

To bring our children and beautiful mixed race smiles

To my homeland. My wife is the new Mother of Exiles.

Writers block - now of all times

NaNoWriMo has stolen my time. Blogs, twitters, six sentences and random poetry written on napkins and cocktail coasters will be on hiatus until December. I think. I suspect I will enter a realm of insanity where my every breath is punctuated by internal dialog fighting to reach the cursor that is my weapon of wordage. My wife, my life will be rife with strife as I seek that which eludes me now.

Save me oh muse de mio, infuse me, amuse me, please don't refuse me.

I wanna write but writings hard.
someone send me a sympathy card.
What can I say, What can I do
to make this story run through?

I want to write but writings hard.
Someone send me a traveling Bard.
Where should it go, how do I know
is it the high road or the low?

OK, so enough cry baby blues
I gotta go pay my writing dues
I trust you my mighty muse
with you I cannot lose.