My Heart on Ink

I recently tweaked a poem I wrote awhile back for a former love. With Valentine's Day coming up, and coming off of two breakups in 2008, one might think me a cynic; but, to the contrary, I believe in love, more than ever. Heartbreaks no longer make me jaded...I've had enough of them to learn that growing bitter accomplishes nothing other than anger, high blood pressure and emotional paralysis. I recently submitted this poem to a contest; we'll see how I fare. I'm not a perfect lover, nor am I a perfect girlfriend. Indeed, my flaws are plenty. But, I can always promise this: I love with all my heart. I love with wild abandon, because that is the only way you can really love - or live.


"The Curse of Love"


If I could write your heart a rhyme,
It'd tell you that for every time
Your dimples smile, my heart dips, then dives,
Victim to those valleys beneath your eyes.

If I could sing your heart a melody,
It'd sound just like the autumn leaves;
And as each one fell, I'd fall, too
Each day more in love with you.

If I could wear our love around my neck,
I'd string pearls of prose from right to left;
Each word picked, then plucked, from sailing shores
That stretch across my heart to yours.

But, my love, apologies --
I can gift none but this: my poetry.

The Death of the Twentysomethings

Some people my age have kids already; others are married. Some are celebrating an engagement, putting a downpayment on a house with their significant other, and buying a puppy as a precursor to parenthood.

I'm living at home. I do not know the first thing about cooking lasagna, fondue or homemade chili. I also killed my cactus plant. Yes, folks...a CACTUS PLANT. The once vibrant, sturdy green shoots have wilted into sickly yellow, flaccid appendages. In my defense, this death was not an act of rage or malice. Rather, I simply forgot to water it - for the better part of six months. Oops.

Other signs I may have been born without the domestic/maternal gene: accidentally feeding my roommate's dog Xanax; causing a fire in the kitchen on more than one occasion; and my recurring nightmares about dropping my own future baby on his or her head.

As a fledgling, pocket-sized twentysomething, I'm still figuring life out, one awkward mistake at a time. Yet, I'm learning to embrace this nebulous time in my life. A springtime dandelion floating across the field of youth, I'm trying to enjoy the scenery and not rush my final destination.

However, sometimes I really do feel like the old maid with the cats (except no cats, just plants tortured through accidental malnutrition). Yet, at age 24, I shouldn't feel this way. But I do. Half of my high school friends are married; the other half are engaged or living with their significant other. What has happened to the twentysomething? A dying breed, this endangered species flocks to coastal regions and abroad. Here in the Midwest, it's a rare sighting indeed. Here. everyone rushes to become an "adult," in the Pleasantville sense of the word. So many are in a hurry to get married, get a house and have kids. But, you see, the thing about white picket fences is...they're fences. Premature domesticity has a price, and that price is freedom, independence and self-growth.

It's like life is a television series. You can't peak too early, otherwise your elevated expectations set you up for disappointment or boredom. I like to think I'm still on the upward climb. While others are taking Christmas pictures with their spouse, I'm taking pictures of Machu Picchu, or Ecuadorian volcanoes. That's my Christmas picture. And I'm very proud of it (even if I can't maintain a desert plant...whatevs)

Don't get me wrong - I'm happy for those who are genuinely content and happy in their settled-down life, career, marriage. However, I wish there were more like me around in Minnesota. For now, I'll keep killing cacti, eating frozen pizzas and traveling the globe. :)

Is That a poem in my pocket? Why yes it is!

I recently entered a poetry contest put on by an eco denim brand. Each designer for the brand puts a bit of their personality into the jeans, and the fabric itself is made from scraps of leftover material from previous jeans, combined with recycled cotton fabric. Pretty interesting. If I win, my poem would appear on their jeans' pockets, along with a tag with my name on it - how cool would that be?! It's not the most amazing poem I've written, and I was restricted to a very short word limit...but I think it turned out alright. Here goes:

My mother – Earth,

My father, fashion,

From love I’m birthed

With pride and passion.

I’m old, yet new

From many I’m paired

Once green, now blue

I’m born to share

My maker’s creed

Stitched into the seams:

Art, love, respect –

It’s in my jeans.

Destined, designed,

I’m fated to find,

A soul whose genes

Fit perfectly with mine.

--Rachel Anderson

To all the Katies...

"Ladies, I'm having an epiphany. The world is made up of two types of women. The simple girls and the Katie girls. I'm a Katie girl." // Carrie Bradshaw, Sex and the City //

I wrote a poem dedicated to all the "Katies" in the world - including myself. We're complicated, layered, colorful and diverse. We have many wonderful, diverse traits and talents, and are often highly creative and intelligent. But we're also a bit neurotic, and difficult. We don't just sit back and smile and "whatever you want, honey." We demand and ask for a lot - sometimes justified, sometimes not. Yet, when do you know when you're simply asking for what you deserve, or are being too demanding and high maintenance? Where do you draw the line between self-respect and stubborn selfishness? Either way, I think life would be much calmer, stable and happy if I were less complex - if I were a 8 color crayon box, instead of 64. Maybe there's a happy medium, or maybe I just need to decide which crayons are most important (forest green? yes. magenta? maybe not.) But you can't know which crayons you need until you try them out.



"The Simple Life"

I wish I were a simple girl,
Solely defined by curves and hips;
My only flaw, a freckled jaw,
Whose constellation lured men
To my lips.

I wish I were a simple girl,
Who never asked - just gave;
Who needs respect, no,
Just a neck – pearled
Proof of my title: slave

I wish I were a simple girl,
Who never spoke her mind,
Opinions are a dying breed,
To keep a man, you must concede;
And noose your voice with twine.

But if I were a simple girl,
I’d die a double suicide;
My pride, my brain, both slain in vain,
But behold: the most beautiful bride.

Poetry time, kids...

"The ship of true love never did run smooth." - Shakespeare

I'd say...

The best way to describe my love course? Tsunami. But with my pen as my paddle and my heart as its compass...I always manage to find, and write, my way to dry land. People can try to help me with optimistic cliches, or self-help books by those holding a Ph.D. in B.S. But if you're a creative like me, then you know the drill. When we're stranded at sea, only we can steer ourselves to land. We must sink to the bottom - feel it, taste it, fear it. But go there we must. And only from going there, into abyss, can you truly ever emerge on top. Poetry becomes my paddle, as an artists' brush stroke is a breast stroke, bring them closer to clarity and dry land. The good thing about being compeltely, and uttery drenched, is that at a certain point, you can't get any more wet. Shivering, panicking, cursing...nothing can change it. At some point, you just have to accept your saturated state, and remember to relax: you're alive, you're breathing.


"Surrender."

After the anger subsides,
And the fists unclench,
The spiraling rage,
Unravels repentance

Asleep, my ‘locks
Mop up the tears
By morning’s breath, our battles
Reek cavalier

The sunrise slaps my face,
And drags me to the sink
Cheeks red, and drenched,
I panic, I blink

I blink, and I stare
I gawk, and I glare,
Interrogated eyes:
Confess the slayer!

Crawling to the couch,
I cushion my pride,
But slowly, she slips
Through the cracks in the side.

Shuddering, I cloak myself
In quilted guilt,
Each patch, patterned proof
Of this enemy I’ve built

I burn the blanket,
And bury the bitter,
But this heart, while flawed,
Will not die a quitter

With a crushed heart, and ice
I swallow my words – my knife
Drop your ego, your gun
Let me into your life

True love must bend itself
to compromise,
I’ll walk six steps,
My plea: take five

For the table of love
Seats not four, but two,
Wear your heart, check your pride,
Stripped down: me and you

For now, I’ll silently sit
With hope, and not hate
Does your heart have the muscle
To step up to the plate?

From the Lips of a Goddess

I personally love Anne Sexton's poetry. Utterly, unapologetically confessional. Perhaps it's because I often find my own poetry completely vulnerable and personal. As they say, "Writing is easy; you just open an artery and bleed."

This poem beautifully describes the love-hate affair writers have with words. Both enemy and lover, words can inspire, transform, disappoint and frustrate. Yet, words are our palette. We depend on them. We pretend we are the wordmasters, when really...sometimes I think I'm the puppet, and the words are my master.


"Words"

Anne Sexton


Be careful of words,even the miraculous ones.
For the miraculous we do our best,
sometimes they swarm like insects
and leave not a sting but a kiss.
They can be as good as fingers.
They can be as trusty as the rock
you stick your bottom on.

But they can be both daisies and bruises.
Yet I am in love with words.
They are doves falling out of the ceiling.
They are six holy oranges sitting in my lap.
They are the trees, the legs of summer,
and the sun, its passionate face.

Yet often they fail me.
I have so much I want to say,
so many stories, images, proverbs, etc.
But the words aren't good enough,
the wrong ones kiss me.
Sometimes I fly like an eagle
but with the wings of a wren.

But I try to take care
and be gentle to them.
Words and eggs must be handled with care.
Once broken they are impossible
things to repair.

Rachel: Chart Warrior

In a few weeks, I'll be celebrating my two year relationship...with my job. Yes, my friends, two glorious years as a receptionist and medical records "expert." While, I'm thankful for my boss for taking a chance on a lowly college graduate with no medical experience, I outgrew and outqualified this job nearly six months into it. High on stress, low on pay. High on work, little on respect. I can handle being short - but not the stump of the medical totem pole.
However, by far the worst part of this job has been witnessing my creativity drain out of me like a catheter. After awhile, realizing my own mental mortality, I diagnosed myself as creatively brain damaged and promptly wrote myself an Rx for fun. I jazzed up clinic life and injected some much-needed Scrubs sass into this barren tundra.
For example, sometimes I need to direct calls elsewhere - to the nurse, scheduling receptionist, or business office. I've devised a warning code system for certain patients/parents. For example, "Code A" stands for accent. This is not meant to be prejudice; rather, it flags the clinic member to listen carefully and tone down on the multi-tasking while on this call. Code "B" is a favorite, and stands for "bitch." While self-explanatory, this code advises the clinic member to be respectful, but to also not take any of their verbal sh*t they try slinging at you via phone like a pissed off monkey.
Now that I work back in Medical Records, I've invented names for myself, and the [very] important things I do. If a doctor needs a chart STAT, I consider myself "The Chart Wrangler," or "Rachel: Princess Wrangler." This inflated title motivates me to deftly locate the chart with extraordinary efficiency and accuracy. I suggest you try this with your own job title and job description. For example, you aren't "just" a dog walker, missy. My, you're a certified canine cardiovascular trainer. Try THAT one on for size at your next neighborhood soiree!
Sometimes it can be quite tricky pinpointing the exact location of a medical chart. In these infrequent cases, I "send out the search dogs." These highly specialized canines are actually my co-workers with whom I'm closest. I'll shoot them a secret email, asking if they can help me locate the chart. But it's always in secret. To the doctor, to the nurse, they're simply my "search dogs." It's best to keep those sorts of things under wraps.
I'm in charge of all records and dictation on new patients that come into our clinic. Once they are seen by our cardiologist, I review the dictation and determine whether they will be a "frequent flyer" at the clinic (regular patient) or "one-timer." Sometimes, it's hard to tell; they may or may not return. In these cases, I've created my own section in Medical Records: the simmer shelf. Are they done, or still need to boil? We aren't so sure. Better let them simmer for awhile until a more conclusive decision can be made. Nurses laughed at first, but now find this simmer pile quite helpful.
You see, working in a medical clinic doesn't have to be so dull. You just have to invent your own ways of fun. I'm the Jim (or Pam) of the clinic (if you watch Office Space). You gotta spice it up in order to save your sanity.