Sunglasses
No Woman No Cry

Honey

She rubbed her eyes to the southern Florida sunrise
Said, "I can't see the city lights from here."

Struck art and love in Louisiana blocks from lullabies and voodoo tears

Rooted dark blue under the Carolina moon
Orange clay made everything the shade of poor

Sweet tobacco dirt between cool tough toes
Cotton bowls, green bean rows

She blinked her eyes to the southern Baptist sunrise
Said, "Jesus, make me free."

Broke tradition and bread with Yankee pride to root honey hues amongst thorny bloom

Planted her soul and family below a rainbow
Hope rocks, faith rolls

She opened her eyes to the southern Carolina sunrise
Said to the mountain, "Move."

Braced wildly against life and mediocrity in the West to sew solid love in streets caked in doom

Staked and anchored by a shoeless memory
Solely planted for purpose, joy, and hope.


With faith entangled between her fingers, she moves.

Intensity is..

Pinot 0: Intensity 1 - I'm listening through a closed door at my mother and sister discussing plans for her upcoming wedding. Well, I say discussing, but it's more like my mother raising her voice and giving my sister the "it's not all about you" speech. I wish I could say this is the first or last time I'll hear this speech, but it's used when it's needed and changed to the "it's your wedding, do what you want" speech when altruism is suggested with pure motive for future references of manipulation. "Excuse me, but I specifically recall telling you to do what you wanted because it's your wedding and the only one you'll ever have, Lord willing." "I will NOT be blamed if a strong wind blows the linen table clothes, not my idea, off the tables, when I vehemently suggested raw silk." "I WILL not be blamed for this."

Pinot 1: Intensity Tied - My father, the man who can watch paint dry, is desperately trying to appease my mother whilst, preventing tears out of my sister. Not an easy job. My mother automatically assumes the worst (and to her credit the truth) and sees a coup. She's about to be defeated by pure majority. Not on her watch. Switch motive. "I was only making this suggestion, because as an Executive Chef and Caterer to Charleston's Elite, your cousin Barry knows what he's talking about. And if he's willing to cater your wedding (famous shrimp and grits included) than you're the one that's going to tell him you are not interested. (Side Note) My sister HATES shrimp. Has ALL her life. If there was one food, you could associate to her loathing, it would be shrimp - and my mother knows this. (End Side Note)

Pinot 2: Intensity 1 - I can't hear them as well now. My mother is no longer bellowing demands and guilt - she's in fact flipping intensely through a magazine plotting her next maneuver. My father is sitting quietly, as usual, as my sister gives a heartfelt plea for her sanity. It's touching really. I've since let the Pinot stoke the inner peace that lies within. Wait. My mother is speaking again.

Pinot 3: Intensity a fleeting heartbeat...

Crack Magic

You're on to me with your birdshit stains and scuffed Mary Janes.

My Secret Diet by Anna Fields

Check out Confessions of a Rebel Debutante author, Anna Fields, in Marie Claire.

Don't make me regret saying cheese.

Cheese. Cheese. Cheese. Cheese. Cheese.

Fromage. Gouda.

That's not my photogenic side. Turn me, twist me. Take my side.

Fill in my blank stare.. I know ____

Not your block of film, white and black.

I am your frame.

All you need is one.

The perfect one that screams at you in the dark.

"This is it."

The one.

Her breasts are too big and pull at the garment rather awkwardly.

I like it.

It's not what we're looking for, but I like it.

For hours I could stand in the corner of my kitchen, against the granite cool. I am secure and tight in my space with grape in hand and feeling rather different. My thoughts flow rapidly like the Mississippi after cold cold days. I place my hand on the counter top to brace for my next daydream. I play out future moments, sing the words to Train, and stir rice. I'll do it again tomorrow night. The future moments will change and rolls will reverse like the tide of the great Mississippi. And tomorrow it will be rice. Again.