Micropoetry Monday: Contemplation

Reflections, Saint Patrick's Day

Liza Beth Higginbotham
traded in her name badge
for a nameplate,
her apron for a tweed suit.
She chose to be called Elizabeth.
It was in this way that she made
a name for herself,
only to marry an even bigger name.
It was then,
& only then,
that who she was once only mattered
because of who she now mattered to.

She spent the days
with her hands in flour,
her nights with her head in words
so that her cookies tasted like paper,
& her books tasted like cookies;
she found that lunchtime afternoons
were her sweet spot,
for she could eat her words.

Tamira stargazed
to look at the past,
& gazed at her child
to look at the future.
They were glorious,
for they were made
of the same stuff—
the dust of the heavens,
blown
with the breath of life into
sculptures more resilient
than glass.

Seven Wonders in Every Wonder

Me and Kel.jpg

Through my child eyes,
the ordinary was made extraordinary—
the ivory delicacy of snow in a Florida winter,
the heat that made roads shimmer like infinity pools,
the chocolate milk that came from “How Now Brown Cow,”
the kaleidoscopic rainbow of a pepper mélange under a microscope;

stargazing in the backseat on the way to
Poplar Bluff, Missouri, counting the diamonds,
collecting seashells that washed up like
mermaid Christmas ornaments,
blowing the dandelion seeds
to twirl like tiny pinwheels,
the fascination of lying under a Christmas tree,
the candy lights sprinkling me like a cupcake;

spinning in a chair ‘til I got dizzy,
sliding down the hall in fuzzy winter socks,
swinging in the air, head back, flying with eyes closed,
jumping up and down on the bed
‘till the box springs broke,
falling back on a pile of pillows,
taking the breath from me;

singing songs through the fan on the floor,
my words rippling like music notes on a page,
the feel of bubbles, like glassy mother-of-pearls,
popping like a raindrop rainbow on my sunburned face,
blowing on the window and drawing swirls and smileys
and hearts with names inside them;

the feel of the wheels rumbling up my legs during a hayride,
standing on a stepladder and seeing things as my father did,
running through the sprinklers in bare feet on freshly mown grass,
sitting on the screened-in porch swing with Grandma and Grandpa,
watching the lightning merge day and night in 30 microseconds,
feeling like I was inside-out and outside-in all at once;

watching a helium balloon float to the moon while I imagined it
landing on Mars with my name on it for an astronaut to find,
the underwater ballets at Weeki Wachee Springs,
butterflies, hummingbirds, and things that glowed in the dark.

As a child, there were Seven Wonders in every wonder,
and through my child’s eyes, I live the magic all over again.

as published in the Dec/Jan/Feb 2017 issue of Bella Grace Magazine.

Micropoetry Monday: Opposites

Opposites

The Shutterfly edition

He was a hard-boiled journalist
who believed that truth was so soon buried,
he would outscoop his colleagues
so that he could put it all out there ASAP;
she was a soft-hearted historian
who believed that by letting the dust settle,
the truth would either present itself
or degrade altogether.

She had an overactive imagination,
he, an overactive pituitary,
yet it was she who told the tallest stories,
him being the only one who understood any of them,
for his head was as much in the clouds
as her feet were off the ground.

He was journalism,
she, reality TV.
When they came together,
they created the fake news
that surpassed every rating
they’d ever had.

Micropoetry Monday: The Writer’s Life

Writer's Life

The Shutterfly Edition

He was a showoff
whereas
she just liked to tell people off,
but it was he who wrote the better stories,
for he followed the rule of showing,
not telling.

She was the Author & Finisher of the Book of Faith,
for she could take 5 sentences & 2 words,
& enlighten the masses with 5000 stories.

Her husband said her imagination
ran away with her,
but it was she who had run away with it.
All her life,
she’d followed that imagination,
like an imaginary friend,
& through it,
she had met the most amazing people
with whom she’d had
the most amazing experiences.

On Books

Books are little things that lead to big experiences:
They open minds and doors,
they let you live large,
even while of meager means.
You open a book,
you open up a whole world,
wider than you could ever have imagined.
The words on a page
are like a roadmap to discovery,
but the spaces,
that reading between the lines—
that is where the imagination goes to work.