Another poem from my thesis that will never be published

Again, not good enough, but definitely an insight into my soul.

Magic

My mom thinks Harry Potter’s probably wickedness,
but this is progress. When I was five, Rapunzel
got a haircut, became Lydia, New Testament
seller of purple, sponsor of apostles. Every
frog and owl was tossed away. Demons.

No He-Man, as God alone
was Master of the Universe.
Only Aslan had the kind of power
we could celebrate, wild as Jesus, and each summer
we read his endorsed enchantment together
in my parents’ king-sized bed.

Now when my aunt hears Bible babbling
from my brother’s lips, from mine,
she chides, expounds the magic of change,
warns us not to be so sure of anything
in our twenties. She remembers when pants and
bacon came from the Devil, when the TV
hid shame-faced in the closet, when exorcism
was en vogue. She fears we might be under the spell
that made her sister a troll, hoarding the jewels of
revelation with Mine! Mine! Mine!

She must not see the wands
behind our backs. We’ve turned that troll
into a jolly Mother Goose, and she’ll be a princess
yet, well-versed like us in the magic of change,
of granite turned to soft, pink flesh.

Spring Broke...

is how I'm usually feeling at the end of spring break. Usually I've spent most of my time sleeping, eating, and wasting time on the Internet, and by the last day, I'm regretful of my choices and anxious to get back into the routine, if only to save me from myself.

This break was different. I visited the wonderful old Southern city of Charleston (to which I'd never been), crammed my head full of history, walked all over the place, took in the sights, enjoyed time with family, finished a book and started on another one, and graded all but one set of papers. It was a wonderful break!

A few pics from our time in Charles Towne (I took very few, as I had forgotten to empty my SDcard before I went and didn't have my USB cable with me):



at The College of Charleston, which I heard one local refer to in passing as "The College" (in a lovely Charleston accent)


















Daddy at the grave of "Our Beloved Pastor" in one of the fascinating old cemeteries


























at the Battery















the amazing Angel Entwife (I mean Angel Oak)