GOLDEN SLIPPERS

Some days I have to wear my golden slppers to remind me that I am His princess.

Other days I have to go without them to remind me that I am nothing without Him.

MY SWORD AND MY SHEILD

I have two very good, old and dear friends. They are, I think, supposed to reside on a bookshelf. My friends, however, never seem to make it home. They live like gypsies. Their covers and pages are worn and stained from the friction of my caresses. I keep threatening to replace them. Even my cats are jealous of them, as witnessed by the bite marks on them.

I met them in high school. They are fast approaching their thirties now. They have been ever faithful, fruitful and forthcoming with their combined knowledge. They are never petty, jealous or grudging. They wait patiently for me to pick them up and drag them along on all moves and every adventure. They clarify newly gained knowledge. They inspire higher elevations of creativity in my vocabulary and writing. They correct my bias toward incorrect spelling. They expand my communication borders. Like the edges of the universe expanding and mutating in a reflection of my growing soul.

Many people call my friends tools, like they are implements or utensils. To me they are lovely acquaintances, bosom friends, partners, companions and intimates. I come to them with privation or need. They dole out insight resembling alms for my diction.

My compatriots names are Dictionary and Thesaurus. They are and always have been requisite in my life. The striations of diversity within their pages are poetic to my optical and auditory nerves. They bring color and life to what I read, hear and say.

Mr. Webster and Mr. Roget, I thank you and applaud you. You have brought insight and multifariousness to my utterances and my scribble. You have armed and guarded me against ignorance, repetition and error in both oral and printed communication.

To my friends: I pray your binding never fails and your ink never fades. You are essential components of my referential arsenal. Without you my poetry is flat, my speech is stale and my writing would be illegible and dull. The depths of my appreciation, my devotion are fathomless. Your succor is never ending. Your patience in correcting me is merciful and incessant. I could live without you, but I would be mournful, vapid and imprecise for the loss of your companionship.

MY BOYS

-Look, aren't they pretty? (Yes, I know that they are boys.)

-Listen to their giggles. It's like the tinkling of bells or chimes.

-Watch them. They are growing. They are playing. They are learning.

-Listen, hear their voices? They have life songs to say to us.

-Hold them. When they're sad, they're never to big for a hug.

-Enjoy them. They are gifts from God so we won't grow too old or lonely.

-Love them. They need us and we need them, too!

ODE TO TIKA

Tika-poo, my little boo, Oh, how much I love you. You are my little one, Orange and white patches,like the sun, mar the blackness of your fur. The loveliness of your purr is a poem to my ear. Yes, I love you, Tika dear.

A LETTER TO MY INNER CRITIC

9/3/08

Hello Critic,

I've come to set you free. That's right, this is a Dear John letter from my soul.

My beautiful inner-voice has brought it to my attention that you have out grown our relationship. You have been bullying other constituents of my Self. You have insulted, belittled, badgered and otherwise offended my creativity. Your ego has heaved itself upon my conscience until I am crushed beneath its vulgar magnitude.

I am ordering you to cease and desist in these actions against me. You are hereby and forthwith extinguished. Your voice will be subdued. Your size will be diminished to an infinitesimal speck. Your influence will be less than that of a flea on a shark. You are banished from my presence henceforth. All communication will be filed in the burn barrel with yesterday's trash.

Go out and away from my person. Never again will you be permitted to darken my door with your doom and gloom.

Today my inner voice breaks free from your bonds. She will speak her mind. She will dream her sparkling visions. She will glory in her inception. She will revel in her liberty.

Goodbye inner critic. I will spare no tears for your interment. Your death will warrant no sorrow. You will not be mourned or missed. Your disease is inoperable and incurable.

Revelation, creativity and fecundity will replace your suppression and hollow enmity.

No longer yours,

Rosa L Culp

JOURNAL'S NOTE TO ROSA

Open these pages. Open your heart. Reveal your soul. Heal your life.

WORST MEAL I EVER HAD

This happened as a result, not of the food being bad but, of the circumstances of the day and time in my life. I had done something bad, wrong, or least wise punishable. Then while being berated by my mother, we all sat down to eat supper. Her boyfriend was a hunter, so we ate whatever meat he provided from the field. This meal was rabbit, mashed potatoes, corn and the ever-present butter bread. Now I had had a pet rabbit that had been killed in the house fire at my Dad's house. So, this was a food I was loathe to eat anyway. On this particular day my appetite wasn't good because of anger toward mom. I ate everything on my plate, as usual, except that rabbit's hind leg. I could not even look directly at it. Mom asked what was wrong. I said I can't eat it. (Now remember she is already very angry with me.) She said you will eat it or you will sit here and look at it all night. Dinner was at 6:00pm in our house. When everyone was finished eating they got up from the table and cleared it off. My brothers washed the dishes. There I sat looking at Snow White's leg on my plate, and tears started to stream down my face. I wanted to be obedient. But, I couldn't eat my pet, my friend, Snow White. Around 9:30 or 10:00 mom's heart had finally softened enough for her to ask "why" I couldn't finish eating. When I explained, through wrenching sobs, what the problem was, she excused me from the table, and the chore at hand. I thought my mom was very mean. The funny thing is she never put rabbit, or squirrel, or any other small game on my plate again. The rule in our family was "waste not, want not." If you put food on your plate you were expected to eat it, all of it. Since she knew it was an exercise in futility, as well as making me physically ill, she didn't try it again. She may have been mean, but she wasn't dumb.

AUTUMN FLORA

The rain and snow and wind remove debris. The cold slows the sap. Respiration stops as an open hibernation takes place for the whole world to view. Plants are cleaning themselves, showering away the old fashions, preparing to rest naked under a blanket of snow. Waiting for God to stimulate the life blood within, to regenerate as a new year (or season) arrives. Nature is teaching us how to carefully, systematically prepare ourselves to be cared for by the world as it moves around and through us. We can watch just for the sake of the beauty. We can watch and take away a lesson. We can watch it all happen so slowly that time seems to stop. We can visualize ourselves cleaning out our closets. Giving our discarded things to be used by another, the way the forest reuses the leaves. They are a bed for animals. They are a warm blanket for perrenial flowers and plants. They are fertilizer for new seeds. The earth teaching us to recycle and how to do it. Oh, God is good! If you don't learn the lesson the first time, He's patient and will teach it again next year. Like a professor in a college.

Aunt Rose's Little Men

Kyle, Zane, and Zachery. Just saying their names is poetry. Their voices are music to my ears, most of the time. They are Aunt Rose's Little Men. They carry sunshine and wonder in their pockets and their faces. They walk on air in my memories. Smiles, hugs and kisses are free-flowing gifts of currency. Kyle loves baseball. Zane does too. Zach's game is football. These are my nephews, the lights of my life. The reasons I understand unconditional love.

ODE TO GINGER

Orange and white, She moves through the night. Sees a bug on the wall. SMACK! Death by paw. Little "Wide One" Same color as the sun. Crouches, twitches, prepares to use paws as snares. She's all that matters, Here in her little world. Listen to the sound of her purr. Touch her soft, warm fur. Likes to play with ball and string. Jumps and peeks through rings. Thinks making the bed is a game. Loves when I call her name. My big girl rules our nest. In her opinion, cats are best. She is my Ginger cat and I love her so much!