The Juggler

I am a Juggler;
I wear a mask,
A mask with a huge grin.
A frozen smile,
Forcing me to keep dancing.
The mask hides the mistakes,
The anonymity shields tears and ecstasies.
Yet now this façade that has become my reality.
In my nightmares the mask cannot be removed;
Am I my mask as well?

I am a juggler;
“A paid entertainer.”
They are my fans and my critics
They can laugh and jeer,
Yawn and walk away.
I can only absorb and bewilder.
(There are some,
Some that watch.
Their eyes never leave the balls
Their eyes see every flip of my wrists
Their eyes ask questions.)

A Juggler –
Tossing balls,
Adding more and more.
The secret thrill of the challenge jades
The pride of stirring my audience.
Each ball is a little life,
I refuse to allow failure.
Confession: behind this plaster grin,
I admit – I care for my mini-audience (so)
I study them through the slits of my mask as
I juggle these balls for them.

- Fall 2008 (Inspired by a First Year of Teaching)

Ashley Garner

am i my mask as well?
This is sooooo good! I haven't written in so long and you inspire me, because I love how metaphors help you explain, but also understand yourself. And then other ppl read it and understand you and themselves better too.... We all wear some sort of mask. :)
I love you lady and am so happy to know you. 

Oksana Agapova ‎=))) I think you are not just juggling for them, you are juggling them =)) I love the metaphor =))

Rachel Beetschen I love it. I am learning this year that wearing the mask is a balancing act in itself. 

Spasm

I’m sitting on the porch as the rains whisper gently and the lightning flashes and somewhere the thunder crashes and a little red light blinks on the top of the marble building and Lady Justice shines her faithful light above the golden dome and the cars whiz behind me and the wind blows my hair over my face and teases my toes and I feel a raindrop. I shiver and wonder if the incessant rain cries the tears I cannot cry or explain if the thunder is my anger and vengeance that will never wreak havoc if the lightening is my momentary and fleeting bits of wisdom intuition and understanding. I’m still cold and my thigh spasms as the rain blows on me. Alone yet not alone and I should be in bed yet I must be here – here in my elements with the city and God and Mother Nature weeping for me and the silent people so very close yet enveloped in their own cocoons. This strange suspended seat where I feel at home curled on the wooden planks yet as if my spirit was soaring with the storm a fairie that must run before the lightening yet is emboldened by the wind. Somewhere a bird is chirping – how can she in the storm? Who can interpret the words of the thunder the melody of the tears and the symphony of this night? After the tears my soul feels whole again.

Lorena Ganser I LOVE IT! ...i think i can relate........................with the bird :) hahaha i love you angela this is too cool tooo toooo cool

Lauren Thornton-Giugliano cool..."the silent people so very close..." i like it.

Danielle Klueber wow...amazing. "I wonder if the incessant rain cries the tears I cannot..." Really beautiful girl...  

The Napkin

He sits next to me on the couch after a few beers, and chokes back tears. “I don’t want her to leave me,” he groans. “I love her… but how can you hurt the person you love the most?”

Her blush deepens as the story is told of a shattered romance and unappreciated sacrifices. She wonders if she should leave him, but looks out the window and quietly states that “the problem is that I love him. I look down the napkin she was twisting has become a ring on her finger.

“Twuu Wuv”, crooned the priest. Yet we grind our teeth, swallow tears, and bury heartache for a happiness that is too often only short lived. How few relationships survive. How many hearts have been shattered into pieces only fit for concrete edifices. How many live in guilt and confusion, blaming themselves for the decisions that take two. Whether the agony is worth the ecstasy seems to vary by lover and the time of day. For now, I sit on the sidelines and count the fallen.

Don’t Fence Me In (or, All Hail Incorrigible Ikea the Great)

It was my first time in the (in)famous blue-and-yellow store. Apparently one of the last nations to catch on to the fad, Americans still seems fascinated by furniture that was made, according to the owners, “in places that are the most economically efficient.” As I stumbled around people and furniture of every shade, color, origin, and texture imaginable, the bold statement on a lampshade tag filled my already overwhelmed head with questions “Child labor?” “Free Trade?” “Maquiladoras en Tijuana?”

Something in me has always wanted a life of adventure – I slept on a wooden box for a week at the age of 7 because I wanted to prepare myself for the hardships of a life in a faraway place. When people talked about “settling down” for a career and having a house with things and a “white picket fence,” I’d inwardly laugh because I knew that could never be me.
Slowly life began to build fences around me, and I find myself constantly clawing my way over, under, and through them – yet I find I must treat the Fence with respect, learning to walk on it and quell my longing for the wide open world that still calls my heart to continue an infinite quest … the “fierce independence” that is ME.

Laughing with my friends, I kept telling myself to stop freaking out – that it was just a store, just a sofa. But I felt as if I was carrying around the furniture on my back with me… how can I buy things that tie me down? They are simply pieces of furniture; contracts to a place and inflexibility to an often-thankless job. I left with a plastic silverware divider.

There will be adventure in my new places and new people in a new part of my old city. And I could always buy a $199 black-and-white photo of the Eiffel Tower and pretend I was in Paris.