This poem is spillover from the August 15, 2017 Poetry Fishbowl. It was inspired by a prompt from dialecticdreamer. It also fills the "family of choice" square in my 7-31-17 card for the Cottoncandy Bingo fest. This poem has been sponsored by Anthony & Shirley Barrette. It belongs to the Shiv thread of the Polychrome Heroics series, and directly follows "An Atmosphere of Shame."
Warning: This poem is flangst. Highlight to read the warnings, some of which are spoilers. Shiv has trouble relaxing and having fun, due to his history of abuse and neglect, so a beach trip is more complicated for him than for most people. ECR Boy! The poem includes multiple flashbacks, social anxiety, financial anxiety, extreme body modesty, hypervigilance, reference to past near-drowning, emergency manhandling (by Aida of Shiv and by Shiv of Edison), flibbering over acceptance vs. rejection, awkward interactions with another family, mild overstrain of superpowers, awkward apologies, Edison is blunt as a bowling ball and has no filter because he is four, and Shiv is little better due to past abuse, frustration over solar limitations, and other challenges. On the whole, though, it has a positive tone. If these are sensitive issues for you, please consider your tastes and headspace before reading onward. This is the second in the beach thread, and you'll need it to make sense of later poetry as well as dialecticdreamer's story "Family Stories."
Title: A Little Gossip Goes a Long Way (the Only Good Things Remix) Fandom/Rating: Captain America, rated G Beta: mlraven Word Count: 1255 words Summary: Everyone in the building had noticed that Steve Rogers seemed happier ever since his new roommate moved in. A lot happier, actually. Author's Note: Written for Jain for Remix Revival 2017
"Branded in His Memory" is fully committed, so if you pledged money toward that, now is the time to send it (not counting the person who specified a later date of donation). Look on the sale page to see the tally; I had to put it there because the donor comments kind of spread around several posts.
The discussion "Working Around Microphones" has gained a lot of attention. If you're concerned about accessibility and diversity, please check out this list of ideas for supporting everyone's comfort and communication. If you're an organizer, or you know someone who is, by all means print it out and pass it around.
Poetry in Microfunding: "The Inner Transition" belongs to Polychrome Heroics: Berettaflies. Stylet enjoys a shower and Valor's Widow starts cooking. "The Higher a Monkey Climbs" belongs to Polychrome Heroics and has 23 new verses. Pips and Jules discuss what to get for G and Joshua after the fire. "Two Foxes" belongs to Polychrome Heroics: Iron Horses. The Iron Horses tell Kenzie what happened to the gaybashers.
Weather has been hot and muggy. Currently blooming: dandelions, marigolds, petunias, lantana, million bells, firecracker plant, white and red clover, morning glories, frost asters, torenia, purple aster, sawtooth sunflowers, pink sedum, purple sedum.
The problem with the rewatch going - so far - better than expected is that I start really dreading the point where it goes wrong. That point being this chapter, with this show failing middle school bio (it's sequences not strands, geniuses), D'av taking unreasonably long to kill the people torturing his brother (and then killing only one of them) and - well, these two things are the big things, but Annoying White Men and Dead Black Women don't help this episode's case.
No real Fact Sheet material in this ep (except noting the Hullen and Human plot-lines are definitely synched here), but on my first rewatch I failed to notice that the aforementioned White men are named Cardiff, James and McAvoy.
Otherwise, this ep was adrenaline-y and fun... if I fast-forwarded the Idiot parts.
Anyone who knows me knows that I love dinosaurs. I have loved them since I was 6 years old. When I was small, I checked out all the books in the library about them and drew pictures of them all the time. One of my classmates loved to draw them, too, and he gave me drawings. Oddly enough, we're still friends aft6er all these years. So here is a poem about dinosaur bones.
The Dinosaur Bones
The dinosaur bones are dusted every day. The cards tell how old we guess the dinosaur bones are. Here a head was seven feet long, horns with a hell of a ram, Humping the humps of the Montana mountains.
The respectable school children Chatter at the heels of their teacher who explains. The tourists and wonder hunters come with their parasols And catalogues and arrangements to do the museum In an hour or two hours.
Warning: This poem contains imagery which may disturb some readers. Highlight to read the warnings, some of which are spoilers. It takes place during and after World War II. Thus it features genocide, discrimination, extreme violence, death and destruction, killing captive Nazis via superpower, jailbreaking, erotic art, orphaning, traumatic rage, war trials, extrajudicial execution, and other mayhem. Please consider your tastes and headspace before deciding if this is something you want to read.
I'd appreciate some good thoughts and fingers crossed tomorrow around 11:00AM. I'm finally getting to take Gidget to the vet to have her breathing issues examined. Hoping upon hoping that it's something simple and/or simply (read, inexpensively) treated - pollen allergies or minor asthma, along those lines.
She wheezes and wheezes, but it's not consistent, just persistent. Worse after activity, mostly on the exhale. It doesn't distress her or prevent her from being active. She'll kill a laser bug like nobody's business and she can jump, run, pounce. It just makes her wheeze. Which, to be fair, I do too. XD
So we're all just looking to hope it's nothing that would require a lot of medications or surgical treatment, that sort of thing.
SO. Fingers crossed and best wishes, please. Would be very appreciated and thank you kindly.
This poem is spillover from the August 15, 2017 Poetry Fishbowl. It was inspired by a prompt from dialecticdreamer. It also fills the "naked / vulnerable" square in my 7-31-17 card for the Cottoncandy Bingo fest. This poem has been sponsored by Anthony & Shirley Barrette. It belongs to the Shiv thread of the Polychrome Heroics series.
Warning: This poem contains some touchy topics. Highlight to read the warnings, some of which are spoilers. It features multiple references to past child abuse and neglect, social anxiety, financial anxiety, extreme body modesty, jealousy, shame, sex/gender diversity, creepy mannequins, visible scars from past abuse, unwelcome attention from Dr. G who quickly extrapolates the origin of Shiv's scars, unwelcome touching of Shiv by Edison who is too young to have learned better, lingering awkwardness from Halley's prior violation of Shiv's boundaries, and other challenges. If these are sensitive issues for you, please consider your tastes and headspace before reading onward. However, this is the beginning of the whole beach thread, so you need it to make sense of the later poems and the story "Family Stories" by dialecticdreamer.
My goodness, it HAS been a while since I updated. I think I was just coming down with the Con Crud the last time I posted...I literally spent a week and a half doing nothing but sleeping 18-20 hours a day...the other few hours I spent lying very, very still and trying not to cough.* However, while I don't shake things off as easily as I did a few years ago, this was nowhere near as bad as last winter's cough (which was NOT the same as a cold--I DO know the difference!). I still tire easily, but I'm not trying to lose a lung day in and day out.
I managed to make it to the appointment with my ophthalmologist, where I got a new glasses scrip (though god only knows when I'll be able to afford a new pair!) and news that all is well. Found out that I had misinterpreted something he'd said about taking aspirin, which he says is perfectly okay. Good to know, since I've been taking them, and relevant in light of my OTHER doctor visit.
Last week, I met my new cardiologist...back in May, my old cardio said she was moving from the hospital-based office she had to private practice--except when I contacted the number she gave me, that had fallen through. They referred me back to her old practice, which collectively shrugged. So I made an appointment with someone else there (at least they have my records, right?) and hoped for thee best. Alas, I strongly dislike that someone else. I'm already on aspirin, but she wants to put me on Coumadin, and she's being very pushy about it. Look, I'm on enough goddamned pills, alright? And something that I need to have additional lab work done on every time I turn around? I think it's time to start looking for another cardiologist.
I haven't been writing, but hopefully that will change now that I no longer have to do the high jump to get into the office. Friday, GK brought over a neighbor of hers and we finally got the shelf up in my room. AND they brought my dresser in from the porch. Doing that required massive effort on my part--I had to completely shift the living room furniture around so they could get the dresser through there and down the hall. That took me hours and hours over the course of several days. (The dresser, sadly, is still resolutely brown--I never did get it painted, and the drawers are still out on the porch--but at least it's where it needs to be.)
It seems strange to walk down the hall and see a shelf full of stuff up there--but it's very nice to have my hat boxes off the breakfast bar! That's all still a work in progress as far as styling it goes--getting it out of the living room was just the beginning--but it'll get there.
Meanwhile, I need to focus on the living room, because Lambie Pie gets here in just over a week. She's coming out for Balloon Fiesta, staying with GK, mostly, but we're going to have at least one night of her over here for a slumber party, which I'm really looking forward to, because GK is the only person I've had to talk to, and she's not always satisfactory. Sometimes she's what I need to talk about....
Anyway, that was my September. Love to all!
* My birthday was dismal. I tried to do too much on too little sleep and ended up very cross. All I did was go to Target for free Starbucks and to spend the GC I'd gotten for Christmas on a new shower curtain--it still isn't up yet--and then over to Jason's Deli for a baked potato (which lasted me til Tuesday, because I was still at the barely eating stage), and waiting in the car while GK ran into Walmart for something she needed. That was it! Then I got home and slept for six hours. But next weekend we're going to see the new Kingsman movie, which I've been anticipating eagerly for months.
mama_kestrel says, "I'll be able to put in $50 on the 29th. Can anyone join me?"
I am willing to extend the quarter-price option for "Branded in His Memory" beyond the sale proper if people have confirmed their intent to sponsor it. These mega-epics are so big, they rarely sell at full price, so it's to everyone's benefit to catch them in a sale. If you're looking to shop in the sale but have not yet done so, here's a great opportunity to get the most bang for your buck. The one person who's seen this piece so far is raving about it.
You can see, smell and even feel the season in this poem.
Ode To Autumn
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cell.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers; And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--- While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft, And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.