Below are writings and poetry, primarily from Stephanie M. Hayes.
I’m out
talking with friends
over a tall rum and coke
the coo liquid slides down
my throat, through veins
to nerve endings,
numbing inhibitions and loosening
my tongue from the constraints of
propriety.
I watch voices
reverberate off bodies,
drifting in and out
of the rhythm of sound and music,
leaning closer across distance and tables,
closer to lips that utter
confessions, promises, a kiss,
closer so the words
can’t get lost in the din.
I see,
Hemingway at a table
across the room, bottle in hand,
beckoning me to join him,
to fight bulls, traps through the snows of
Kilmanjaro, or perhaps
to sit idly by the Rhine
sipping the sweet essence of existing
within the realm of the Conversation.
I’m free
in the illusion
my mahogany friend creates,
hips swaying to the clamor of living,
building a wall between
the porcupine promises of reality
and the quintessential fantasy of liquid.
Date: 95-04-06 11:17:47 EDT
Stephanie Hayes to John Hayes shortly after his second heart attack
The alignment's
off
as tempers rise
and the road curves
endlessly round
and the speed of life increases
while we sleep
away days turned
into night
searching for a rest stop to recharge
batteries
worn out by
constant daily abuse
rust peels on the body
forgotten in the rush
from here to there
the speedometer reaching higher, higher
as the clock ticks on
and there are places to go,
people to pass
until the thermostat
boils over and
the engine coughs to a stop and
the "doctor" says
it will take weeks
to recover
from the trauma
of surgery
in the aftermath of
shock
pushing cautiously forward
gentler
in the quest to treat the vehicle
better, hoping to coax
a few more miles
a few more years
days pass puttering along
before
habit overcomes fear
and the pattern
revs into gear
once more.
Stephanie M. Hayes
Thought I had it all worked out. . . .
you know, life, the road,
the hallelujah and all that.
Thought I knew where I was headed,
what I wanted, whose face it was in the mirror.
Top of the morning to ya!
Thought I was at the head of the class. . . .
Then saw my world rocked upside down,
and I wasn’t in Kansas anymore,
and the old cliché didn’t work.
Saw myself on my ass,
moving picture time,
the whole audience laughing,
clapping, tears rolling by. . . .
Thought I’d stay there awhile,
waiting for the next punch line.
It didn’t work like that. . . .
Dust brushes off, bruises heal,
the show goes on, and by and by
I learn something new for the next time
I think I have it all worked out.
11:45 PM
Stephanie M. Hayes
O.K.
It’s 11:45
and I’ve just
called to make
sure you’ve got
a ride,
can’t see you
walking down the
road, alone, as cars
pass you by and
your splashing through
the past few days
of conversations,
revelations, exhalations,
and this is me world,
“Can you take it!?”
Thought you’d throw us
for a loop,
instead you found little smiles
of recognition, precognition, inspiration,
“Look at him world!!”
‘Cause we’ve all walked down
that long highway,
late at night, alone.
Stood on the overpass,
looking down, gauging
the speed, the distance, the sound.
Stood there, breath held, counting
until the sound of wheels
crushing gravel breaks
the trance, and the fascination with that
last step off the edge turns
into a spin that turns into a dance
that turns out to be another path,
another highway we all walk down
at night sometimes, not so alone.
Stephanie M. Hayes
It has been years now
since last we saw Villeneuve.
I long for the familiar stirrings
of our youth
when the hour before waking
was mine to steal a glimpse
before the day disturbed
the smells of early morning
and I was alone to wander
the moments of my freedom
when the rich red clay of the
earth would be mine to mold.
I would return, even now,
walk the road from the quarry
people starring,
seeing only the mud on my dress
and the wild look of creation.
You understood, years later
your words haunt the past
with their eloquence. You
understood that there was no other
work, no other passion that could
occupy my need, completely.
You, you would never return.
You feel only the emptiness
of space, feel the rocks
beneath your feet as needless
reminders of my present confinement,
“overwhelmed”, you whisper touching
my weary hand. Seeing
the place of my dreams
as the means of my destruction,
where father gave permission, you
supported, mother named me
*“Cacha-Diablo,” I laughed, and we all
hid our fears in the dust of the earth.
*Cacha-Diablo - Devil Child
Stephanie M. Hayes
Hollered a call,
and it took flight
across the distance.
Moving swiftly the Holler
swam through leaves,
down mountain gullies, tree lined,
up treacherous rocky inclines.
Mystified, the rivers glared
as the Holler shot the rapids,
sipping idly from their clean,
cool breath while takin’ a rest,
watchin’ the butterflies
grow into their cocoons.
Not long motionless,
the Holler bounded forward,
leavin’ even the time behind.
Gaining height it joined a flock
of feathered friends for a bit of conversation.
Did you know there are kids on the land
in wheelchairs who can do the same
things kids who can stand can?
And ain’t human life complicated?
Look at bubble gum, all sweet and chewy,
smell’s good too. Like the strawberry
best, reminds me of springtime.
Wouldn’t think nothin’ wrong with it,
‘till you go to the dentist and he tells you
it ain’t good for you. What do you
think about that?
Man, them birds can gossip.
Now dancing with the stars
at the Summer Solstice Moon Dance,
the Holler is introduced to the strangest
cloud alive. What a name. . . .
HERMAN BUSBY DOMINIC GIBSON, III!
Whew! He said to call him Herb.
He comes from Swanannoa,
in a place called N C.
He’s just visitin’.
Anyway, he told that Holler
all sorts of strange things. . . .like:
“Ii tenki desu ne” means ain’t it fine
today in Japanese; an’ if you sneeze too hard you’ll make it rain in timbuktu;
and when you touch a Cat Tail you can hear
the whole world purrin’! Or more important,
as his voice whittled down to a whisper,
the purple King of Please is really a woman.
Would you believe?
Well, up there groovin’ was fun and all
but the Holler had a mission.
Dawdlin’ too long the sun might not rise,
the moon would go into overtime,
and what a mess that would cause administration.
So bidding farewell, the Holler moved on,
as the wind began to blow yellow kisses.
Under, over through towns and through
cities, twisting and turning away. . . .away.
Law and Order Dreaming
May 23, 1997
It’s shortly after 11pm and I’ve been watching Law & Order. Watching people on t.v. deal with the fictionalized judicial system that is our reality. Crime has always existed. Since the beginning of recorded history there have been unjust rulers, thieves, white collar, blue collar criminals, wife and child abusers, rapists, and murderers. You name the crime and they existed. They were caught sometimes, punished sometimes, got away sometimes. Same as today. Only we’d like to think ourselves more sophisticated, perhaps even more enlightened. We blame crime on society, on the failing family life, the government, unemployment. Same as yesterday. We say that our parents or our grandparents worlds were better. But were they really? They had World Wars, we have gang wars; they had the Civil Rights Movement, segregation, lynchings, we have the Gay Rights Movement, segregation, beatings. We have aids, they had syphilis; we have teenage mothers, they had teenage mothers.
Nothing much has changed really. We just have names for what ails us. We have excuses for our dysfunction. Not to belittle a child who has been abused and the mental and emotional anguish that the reality of that violation causes, I’ve known too many people who live that reality. But those people have taken control of their lives by refusing to live in the shadow of victimization. They’ve taken responsibility, realized that though they have suffered, to an extent what the prisoners of a concentration camp have suffered, they have a responsibility to themselves to take action. It’s not been easy, and perhaps if the violator were within striking distance their reaction would be different, but they also have not killed, maimed or injured another person.
It seems to me that we are unwilling to take responsibility for our actions. We are forever willing to place the blame on someone else. “Then it’s your fault. If you hadn’t beat me up, molested and protested, I wouldn’t be in this spot.” No we wouldn’t. The politicians and the religious leaders are right about one thing. . . .It is within the shelter of our family that we learn how to relate to the rest of the world. Generally, if we have found love, understanding, support, even forgiveness within the family structure we somehow manage to walk away with a stronger since of ourselves. Unfortunately, too many of us are ill prepared for the realities of parenthood. We are too wrapped up in our own egos and our own needs to recognize the fragile ego of the child. We superimpose upon our children our reality, never realizing that if we are unhappy with our place in life that this is the lesson we are teaching. “Children will listen.”
So what do we do? Do we stop having children? Should mothers stay at home, fathers bring home the bacon? Is the traditional life the answer?
Speaking as a semi-independent, late twenties woman, I still tend to believe we can have it all. We just have to trust ourselves. Seek outside help when necessary, take pride in ourselves as individuals and as a family unit. More importantly like ourselves. There will always be criminals, we can’t all be insane (yes, I believe sanity is the root of all evil). There will always be people who live their lives outside the walls of justice and people who will continue to persecute others for being different; white, black, brown, gay, lesbian, or heterosexual. Hopefully, however, the majority of us will stand strong, realize that we can’t be perfect but we can be tolerant, forgiving and open, and find a balance that allows us to take responsibility for our lives.
Maybe I’m just dreaming.
Stephanie M. Hayes
Stephanie M. Hayes
I heard the words today,
their resonance echoes
through my body, my veins,
set free to hold me back,
tie me down, reel me in-
to someone else’s memory
of what these words mean.
I remember the girl in front
of me at the post office,
how she knew, we knew,
her dirty secret, that she
had been poisoned, was
being poisoned still, and
that the evidence of her
betrayal was clear, the hat
couldn’t hide it. I hear the
whisper of the truth written
across her t-shirt, like the ringing
of the bells of the cathedral
at Notre Dame, only instead
of growing distant, this truth
grows in volume until I’m
almost deaf from the constant
ringing in my ears, and I
look up at the clock
on the wall of this office,
and realize that years have
passed that I no longer
recognize in the moments
since the words were uttered
and I took stock in my mortality.
Stephanie M. Hayes
I brought myself a ticket
to the conversation. . . .
You know,
the one we’ve stood on line
years to get. . . .
Of course,
now that I’m in
I’m not sure what I’m
supposed to do, or say. . . .
If I speak too loud will they
throw me out, or did I come
on the wrong day?
If I speak too loud will they
understand what I’m trying to
whisper, the point I’m trying
to make; can you make sense
of the words I’ve been whispering
all the while I stood on line
waiting to be admitted.
There once were two friends, Skunk and Frog, they did everything together. On nice days they would go fishing at the pond or hiking in the nearby mountains. Sometimes they would hang out with their friends at the local watering hole.
One day while at the watering hole for Rabbits birthday Skunk saw the cutest looking Fox he had seen in a long time. He and Frog discussed the situation in a corner where they could watch the Fox and not be noticed.
“What should I do Frog,” Skunk asked. “She wouldn’t want to go out with me. I’m just a smelly old skunk and she’s a cool fox.”
“Why wouldn’t she want to go out with you?” asked Frog, “ You are smart and funny and you know how to have a good time. I think you should ask her out.”
Frog gave Skunk a push towards Fox. Being a little nervous Skunk took his time crossing the distance. He stopped and talked to Bear, who growled about the food. Then he chatted with Boar, who really was a bore. Finally, he reached the spot where Fox was talking to Porcupine about the weather.
“Um…” Skunk cleared his throat, “Excuse me Fox. I wanted to introduce myself. I’m Skunk.”
Fox looked up from her conversation with Porcupine. “Oh, no,” she thought, “not another skunk.”
“Hello,” she said to Skunk.
“Hi. I. . . .Well, I saw you from other there,” he pointed towards Frog who waved back, “And, well. . . .I just think you’re pretty neat. Would it be, well, totally crazy of me to ask you out?”
Fox thought for a minute. What could it hurt? He seemed like a rather nice skunk, and Porcupine was giving her the “go for it” signal. They talked for a little while longer. Skunk told her the things he liked to do, like fishing and hiking. Fox told him she liked to write, and about her friends.
“I’ll be here tomorrow night if you want to stop by,” that would be safe. Fox could bring Porcupine along and if Skunk turned out to be a jerk they could just leave.
“Oh,” Skunk stood a little taller, “That would be great. How about ten?”
“O.K. I’ll see you then,” she waved goodbye and went to meet Porcupine by the door.
Skunk went back to where Frog was standing. “Whew, I’m glad that’s over. I’m going to meet her tomorrow.”
On their way home Skunk told Frog about their conversation.
“I’m worried Frog. I don’t know anything about writing. What if she doesn’t like me because I don’t understand what she does?”
“Why don’t we call Cat? She likes to write. I bet she can give you some good ideas about what to say.”
When Frog and Skunk got home they called Cat. She told Skunk all about writing and the creative process. She also told him that it was important to just be himself.
“Don’t pretend to know things you don’t really know. Just ask her lots of questions. She’ll like the fact that you want to know about what she does.”
The next evening Skunk showed up right on time, but he couldn’t find Fox anywhere. He thought maybe she was just late, so he waited. . . . and waited. . . .and waited. Skunk finally gave up and went home. He was really disappointed. He just wanted to get to know Fox. You don’t find many animals you want to be friends with and Skunk thought Fox would be someone he could talk to.
Frog and Skunk discussed the situation. Frog thought Skunk should try again. Maybe something had come up and Fox had no way of getting in touch with Skunk. Or, more likely, she was nervous about meeting someone she didn’t really know. Frog thought that Skunk should try writing a story about meeting Fox. Maybe if she saw how important Skunk thought Fox was and how much he wanted to understand why she liked to write she might give him another chance. Skunk thought this was a pretty good idea, so they called Cat again and asked her to help them. Together they wrote a story about two human boys, Nuran and Dave, and how Nuran met this girl he really liked and what he did to get her to like him.
They worked hard on their story, they had a lot of fun, and they learned that they were pretty creative when they wanted to be. When they were done, they took the story with them to the Watering Hole. This time Fox was there. Skunk gave his story to Fox and hoped she would like it and want to hang out with him. . . After all, most stories end with “Happily ever after.”
The moral of this story is that if you give a person a chance they may end up being pretty cool, even if they are a skunk.
It’s twelve thirty a.m.
all’s quiet in this house
while I sit listening to the
click of computer keys as I
wander through the past week.
I like the hum
of a house as it breathes
the creak of its foundation
as it stretches to the rhythm of
our snores.
From time to time
I hear movement that
can’t possibly be,
I’m the only one awake
and the footsteps I hear
are imagined.
Yet, I like the fantasy
of ghosts watching over
my shoulder, breathing
a cool warm breath that
tastes of yesterday.
Perhaps they hold some
wisdom I could use, some
truth, some dream and if
they gather close enough
I’ll hear their whisper and see.
More likely,
the touch I feel
is my own exhaustion
as I weave words onto a
blank screen, hoping
that if I gather close enough
someone will hear my whisper
and see.
May 24, 1997
Stephanie M. Hayes
Stephanie M. Hayes
Once upon a time there lived a little girl named Chloe. She was about 5 years old with curly blond hair, green eyes and chubby cheeks. All of her life she had been waiting for the most perfect package you could ever imagine to be delivered to her. Whenever she closed her eyes she could see all of the ways her package could come wrapped. It could come wrapped in purple with a yellow ribbon, or green like her eyes, with a rainbow bow. More likely it would come wrapped in pink or blue and have a shiny ribbon to match along the sides. Her package could be really small, like the fairies that flew around at night lighting the sky. It could be kind of big, not as big as her though, maybe half her size. It could be too big to fit in her pocket, but not too big to hold in her arms. Her package could be any color of the rainbow. Her friend Peter got a package the other day and it was the color of a peach just right to eat. Whatever her package looked like, Chloe knew she would love it and take care of it all of her life. So she waited.
Now all important packages of the land came by special delivery. That meant Chloe’s package should be delivered by the postman. Everyday Chloe would wait outside for the postman. . Sometimes she would play with her friends. She would tell them all about the package she was going to get and how she was going to take care of it and play with it. She also told them that if they were nice to her they could play with it too. Jimmy Jacobs down the road told her that before his package arrived his mother got really fat and took a lot of naps. Then, he said in a whisper, she went a way for a few days and when she came back she had the package. Jimmy said the package was okay, and sometimes it was even fun to play with, but sometimes he just wanted to pretend it wasn’t there. Anyway, the postman doesn’t bring it.
Now Jimmy Jacobs did not always tell the truth, and he was sometimes really mean to all of the little kids, so Chloe decided not to believe him. Besides when she asked her mom why she wasn’t fat, or didn’t take a lot of naps, her mom told her, "Packages can be delivered many different ways and that her package wouldn’t be arriving the same way Jimmy Jacobs package did." So Chloe waited.
She sat on the front doorstep, hand on chin, like the great thinker, dreaming about her package. She waited for the man in the blue uniform. He always smiled at her, always patted her on the head. She hated being patted on the head, but she let him. She didn’t want to make him mad, he might not give her the package. Everyday Chloe would ask him, “Do you have my package today?” Everyday he would reply, “No, sweetie. But here are some letters for your mom and dad. Be a good girl and take them inside.”
Finally, Chloe got fed up. She stomped inside one day and demanded to know, hands on her hips, eyes throwing flames, why the postman had failed to deliver her package. “WHY?!”
Her mom and dad smiled knowingly. They gathered her into her arms, hugged her close and told her how much they loved her. “Chloe, packages are delivered in many different ways. Your package won’t be delivered like Jimmy Jacobs package, and the postman won’t bring it like the mail. Your package comes from a very special place.” So Chloe waited.
One day a lady came to Chloe’s house. She was dressed real nice and carried a big purse, bigger than her mothers. Chloe’s mom and dad showed the lady around the whole house. They even showed the lady where the package would stay when they got it. When the lady met Chloe she smiled at her and patted her on the head and called her sweet. Chloe hated that, but mom and dad were being really nice to the lady, so Chloe decided not to throw a fit. Instead she sat on the steps looking through the railing as her mom and dad talked to the lady in the living room. Chloe thought that maybe the lady had her package in her big purse. Maybe, at the right moment the lady would pull the package out, like the magician who pulled the rabbit out of his hat. She began to imagine what her mom and dad would do when the lady pulled the package out and gave it to them. They would all jump up and down, and dance all around. They would unwrap the package together, and look at it in wonder. Chloe giggled with delight, but she didn’t leave her post until the lady got up to leave. As her dad opened the door to let the lady out Chloe ran down the steps, “Wait! Where is my package? Aren’t you going to give it to me now!?” But the lady just laughed at Chloe, patted her on the head again and said, “Goodbye, sweetie. I think your package will have a very nice home.” When the lady left Chloe threw the biggest tantrum ever. She kicked and screamed, and demanded to know why the lady hadn’t pulled her package out of her purse. Her mom and dad smiled knowingly. They gathered her into her arms, hugged her close and told her how much they loved her. “Chloe, packages are delivered in many different ways. Your package won’t be delivered like Jimmy Jacobs package, the postman won’t bring it like the mail, and no one can pull your package out of their purse. Your package comes from a very special place.” So Chloe waited.
One day Chloe’s dad told her it was time to go get her package. Chloe couldn’t believe it. She had waited so long, and now she was finally going to get her package. They all piled into the car, mom, dad, and Chloe. Chloe sat in the backseat with her seat belt on. They drove for a long time until they got to a big city called Indianapolis. Chloe looked out the window at all of these giant buildings. She imagined that they had huge eyes that were watching her, big mouths that were waiting to eat her up. Everywhere she looked there were buildings trying to get between her and her package. Chloe couldn’t believe that her package could be in this scary place. Finally, the car stopped, her dad picked her up and carried her right into the mouth of one of the giant buildings. A man showed them the way to a room with a big window. He told them their package was right inside. Chloe was so excited she wiggled out of her dads' arms and ran to the window. The room was empty! There was no special package. Chloe began to cry, and when her mother tried to hug her she told her, “NO!” With her arms crossed in a very determined way Chloe sat in a corner and refused to be consoled.
Meanwhile another lady had come into the room. She had a bundle all wrapped in blue in her arms. Chloe’s mother sat on the couch in the room and the lady put the bundle in her arms. “Chloe, don’t you want to see what we have for you?” Her mother asked. Chloe was very mad, she didn’t want to see what her mother had in her arms. Then the bundle made a tiny sound. Chloe was a little curious, so she inched a little closer, then a little closer. When Chloe was close enough to see her mother unwrapped the package and Chloe could see what she had been waiting for a long time to see. Her package had chocolate skin, curly black hair, and brown eyes so big Chloe thought she could swim in them. When her special package smiled and tried to pat her head, Chloe didn’t mind so much. She smiled right back at him and asked if she could hold him. When her mom placed him on her lap Chloe was happy and began to tell him about a little girl who waited a long time for a very important package she would love forever.
Shooting stars plummet
from sky to earth
as butterflies emerge
from cocoons
hidden from view
under leaves of
bright color
angel wings
of spotted delight
whisper in the winds
silient. . . .hush
Dancing on air
graceful figures
reach high to join
the might flight
tails twirling
in take offs anticipation
and the burgeoning
night is a canvass
of color drawn with chalk
across the horizon
waiting. . . .
for the rain to wash
it all away.
Un-
believing,
I remember.
Tears falling,
confused,
un-
certain. . . .
All my plans
for reconstruction
halted,
by a body
un-willing to pump
life's juice
through arteries convoluted.
Fear breeds revolution,
I, its leader, stand
un-
able to compromise,
a mule stuck in the mud
up to his knees.
And I forgot in my battle,
soldiers in the frontline
get wounded too.
Maybe it WAS God
in hallelujah robes
along the road,
'cause I think
I picked him up on the second trip
down corridors sterile white,
where anger flew out of your
mouth like a flame,
and I wasn't so afraid. . . .
I'll make it to the mountain top,
yell at the sky,
I believe.
I see where the road stops and the dream begins,
a place where heroes convene.
"You are my vengeance," he whispered as he drew near.
Shadow against the window pane.
Fear, a whisper across my face.
I think I see you smile.
Still I invite you in. . . .
I see myself Eve in the Garden,
teeth biting into the flesh
of rich, ripe fruit.
Eyes closed.
Lips gently sucking.
Tongue searching, gathering
sweet juices into my mouth,
my veins.
Throat constricting in a moan. . . .
You think I mean to deny you.
Your hands grasping tighter,
holding me closer.
Perhaps I should
Instead, my body arches toward you,
yearning, aching.
Fingers weaving themselves in you
lush, silk mane,
willing you to drink m
my soul.
I, you curse.
You, my freedom.
In freshman English class, we were asked to describe our first few days on campus. Looking out the window of the classroom on third floor of Anderson Hall there was a network of gray concrete intersecting the courtyard between classroom buildings and leading off in different directions. To me, this network was symbolic of the patterns our lives would be taking not only as we left the classroom but also as we left college to follow life’s pathways:
Cool gray pathways stretch out and cross and meet in the intersection of our lives leaving a crisp, sharp boundary between concrete and green velvet grass of the campus courtyards.
It is along these paths that we pause, exchange greetings, hopes and fears and then move hurriedly along and disappear into ancient dark hallways that are invariably found at the end of each of the concrete paths.
And, at the end of each hour the hallways spew forth babbling crowds of excited learners onto the pathways to resume the search for answers to their futures.
For the most part, we follow the pathways from one dark hallway to the next in the search of new knowledge and confirmation of our understandings and into our futures.
Like life, most of us do not question where the pathway is going or what we are learning; we follow along the patterns traced for us toward ends that have been prescribed. However, as the numbers using the pathways increase and the flow of traffic becomes slower and slower, there are always a few who seek to bypass the crowds, to hurry past dallying conversations and exploratory interactions toward their goals. They seek shortcuts to the rewards they seek. And as they succeed a new pathway emerges as others follow the lead.
Like life, some of these pathways do not always lead either to the ends we seek or result in illegitimate advantages. In college, some of the pathways would lead to the pubs, others to secluded private areas, and others simply away from life goals. The further they lead away from the campus of learning the more difficult it was to make our way back to the life path we had planned. They become examples for the pathmakers of why we should stay on the prescribed paths of our lives.
But there will always be a few who seem to succeed at getting wherever they are going ahead of others and others discouraged by the pace of the traditional pathway will follow their lead and soon a new path in the grass begins to appear.
Once the new path becomes pronounced enough, a new concrete pathway will emerge as a monument to their accomplishment and a new ritualistic march begins.
This emergence of these life pathways is curious in itself. Like life, we discourage individualism and encourage conformity – stay on the path, don’t walk on the grass. But like life, there are a few explorers who seek out new paths and new ways to achieve both personal and common goals. While we at first scold and chide and attempt to arrest them from their deviant ways, we soon come to admire their boldness and courage and seek to emulate their “winning” ways.
Each year, new cold gray pathways appear linking old paths and people to structures and experiences all with the notion that somehow there is some pot of gold at the end of the pathway. For me, I was just looking for the cold one waiting me at Kite’s.