It's a Wrap!

Forgotten candy in pocket
slightly sticky with age.

The coat?
I haven't worn in months.
 

Car stalled,
highway dark,
waiting for triple A.

Cold.
Hungry.

It nudges.
It worms it's way
into my thoughts.
 

Fingers fondle wrapper,
squishy, but firm.

Oh, what the hell!
Still tastes good.

Elizabeth Munroz

Shenandoah

There are certain voices that, when you hear them, evoke a response deep in your psyche. They cannot be ignored. I had carelessly uploaded a mix of new music to my IPOD, and while taking my walk yesterday, Harry Belafonte  began singing Shenandoah. (Who's Harry Belafonte you may ask?)

Shenandoah plucks my heartstrings, a piece of music about a river valley,  brings up long lost thoughts and emotions for me. It wasn't that I remembered a bad time. No, it brought up a poignant memory. Childhood walked beside me singing her heart out to Shenandoah and Harry Belafonte. Nostalgia breathed it's way up my nose and tickled like dust. What a strange sensation! But, that is what brought the tears and I almost lost it right there on the sidewalk in my own neighborhood.

I stood there a moment to collect myself. My childhood instinct said to run! But, there is no way to run back home. My childhood home no longer exists.

Should I turn it off? Change it to another selection? Or suffer? With the flood of joy enveloping me while my legs melted into jelly, I decided to suffer. After all, there is healing in music. Belafonte's Mr. Bojangles, and Matilda soon gave me a more grounded and upbeat experience. I soon made it home uplifted in spirit.

I have a theory. Sometimes life gives you what you think is more than you can handle. But, try running away from it, and it just follows you. Hide from it and it will find you. What we are supposed to face, will face us off, unless we will ourselves to turn to it, embrace it and heal ourselves in the process.


Oh, Shenandoah, I long to hear you,
Away, you rolling river
Oh, Shenandoah, I long to hear you
Away, I'm bound away, cross the wide Missouri.

Oh, Shenandoah, I love your daughter,
Away, you rolling river
Oh, Shenandoah, I love your daughter
Away, I'm bound away, cross the wide Missouri.

Oh, Shenandoah, I'm bound to leave you,
Away, you rolling river
Oh, Shenandoah, I'm bound to leave you
Away, I'm bound away, cross the wide Missouri.

Oh, Shenandoah, I long to see you,
Away, you rolling river
Oh, Shenandoah, I long to see you
Away, I'm bound away, cross the wide Missouri.

On the Book Shelf

If I were a book, I'd be sitting pretty on the bookstore shelf. As people walked by, I'd wish they would stop long enough to get a glimpse of me. Out of all the other books competing for attention, once they see my intriguing title, they'll pull me off the shelf and judge me by my cover. It's a  fine cover, dazzling the eye and enchanting the mind. As they flip through my pages, I would feel all warm and fluttery. Take me! Buy me!

I would gasp in delight if I were taken home and placed in a prominent location. Yes, over there. Right on top of that stack of books by the bed. I'll be waiting in anticipation to be read.

If I were a book, I wouldn't want to be too heavy. I'd like to be lightweight. I'd be like one of those books the reader can't put down and continues reading while walking from bedroom to kitchen in the morning. I'd get to smell coffee while being propped up against the toaster with a sunbeam enhancing my font.

As a book, if I am a good one, a fast read, one of those books you can't put down, and read all night fighting off sleep, if I am one of those books, then, my life will be over soon, unless I am passed on to another delighted reader. Oh, how wonderful to be held in someone's hands, to have the reader's full attention, to make them laugh, to make them cry, think and ponder, just because I exist!

When the very last page is read and my cover is closed once and for all, I know the excitement of my life will be finished. I suspect I will end up on the third shelf on the right side, next to "The Life of Cleopatra". She might snub her nose at me. But, on the other side "The Zen of Nothingness" might be interesting if I can find the Roshi. I think, without an engaged reader, I would simply fall asleep from boredom, collect dust, perhaps go into a trance never to awaken, and pass into the beyond where all good books go.

I'd like to believe that books reincarnate. When I'm asleep on the shelf never to be touched again, I'd like to imagine I've been published and entered a book store once again, all shiny, with another great title, enticing cover, and pages inviting an eager reader to pick me up and take me home. Perhaps this time around I'll a fascinating historical novel.

Reading at the Bribery

Though I read to my daughter when she was a little girl, once she was in school and knew how to read on her own, I began a systematic method of bribery to get her to spend more time reading.

She was a social butterfly and liked to play with friends or watch TV more than read. I knew there must be a way to get her to explore the joy of books without forcing a resentful child to sit through bedtime with mother reading another boring story. Or so, that was my thought process at the time.

The bribery system worked so much better for both of us. No longer would she have a shortage of cash to expend on her heart's desires, and no longer would I worry that she'd never develop a love of reading.

I bought many books from thrift shops and yard sales. Investing in my child's future reading pleasure was worth it. The easy reads, the ones with the delightful pictures, I wrote "10 cents" on the inside of the cover. If she read the book, I gave her ten cents. The not-so-easy reads, with less pictures were 25 cents. Books without pictures, still within her reading level were 50 cents. And books beyond her reading level had a bribe price of one dollar.

Now, you may think this is a perfect system for my child to get money for doing nothing. But, as a part of our pact, my daughter gave me a synopsis of the story or book she read. In the beginning this habit was developed and not too long after, I realized it wasn't necessary. She did not have to prove to me that she had read any book she said I owed her money for.

One night I awoke to realize a light was on in her room and wondered why. I got up and discovered my little girl sound asleep, book still open in her hands reading the story in her dreams.

Once all the books with the bribe prices on them were gone, my plan succeeded. She became a voracious reader. It was no longer necessary to bribe my child to read. After all, she was choosing her own books. And now, decades later she gives me books and makes recommendations as to what I might find interesting. Now, if only I could get her to give me money for reading them!

Good Day! Sunshine?

Awakening into today

Does today have a label?
A designation selecting it out from any other day?

How does today,
This day,
Differ from any other?

Obviously not the same
Yet, it seems like just another piece of hell
Infusing itself into existence.

Doesn’t begin.
Doesn’t end.
Just another day.

Foggy, cold, empty, gray
Like my pain,
Medicated and Polluted
with poison smog-thoughts

Cyanide tetrachloride images
Twist their bizarre sneering faces.
Racing in fast-forward,
Everchanging clouds of human misery.

Compassionless, tortured souls
Caught there,    
continually escaping

By channeling themselves
Into dimensions
Beyond the realms of time.

Only to reappear again
More grotesque
And pathetically devoid
Of being worth salvaging.

The cat, in heat, yeowls,
and growls again.

Does she see them, too?

Elizabeth Munroz 
March 1991
Photos by E.M.