Afterimage
His smile burns in my mind like
the still frame of a bedroom
the moment after my finger
compels the lightswitch to
administer electricity and
exceeds the filaments expectations.
His smile remains behind
the darkness of my
closed eyes.
The Dish Best Served
I carefully place on the hook next to the oven
The warm, dry skillet with the silver handle
Once used for dinner's chewy pork chops and
Greasy hamburgers, but now makes more
Delectible dishes since the back of his head
Left the dent, near right in the center and
I no longer burn his Sunday bacon, but
Instead enjoy my own omelette mornings and
Risotto nights.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
The Proposal
(loosely based on the Mark and Kate story) can you tell I'm in a romantic mood lately?
Marry me. No. Marry me. No. What do you want? You. Then marry me. I won’t. Tell me why. Because I want to make love to you when we’re sixty. But we will. I want to surprise each other with little things. We always will. A piece of paper doesn’t guarantee that. Then what does it matter? Exactly my point. I want you forever. And if we’re still happy in fifty years. Why wouldn’t we be happy? Two people should be together because they want to be. Don’t you want to be with me? Because they want to be. Marry me. Not because they have to be. We’re not your parents. I won’t marry you. I’m not your father. I want to want you forever. I love you. I want romance. What’s a wedding? Not a day, I want a life. Do you want to marry me? The day that you don’t want to marry me- Never. The day that we don’t want to marry each other- Stop. Is the day we should both walk away.
Promise candlelit baths.
Promise notes on the pillow.
Promise strawberries.
Promise his hands.
Promise the small of her back.
Promise whispers.
Promise forever.
Marry me. No. Marry me. No. What do you want? You. Then marry me. I won’t. Tell me why. Because I want to make love to you when we’re sixty. But we will. I want to surprise each other with little things. We always will. A piece of paper doesn’t guarantee that. Then what does it matter? Exactly my point. I want you forever. And if we’re still happy in fifty years. Why wouldn’t we be happy? Two people should be together because they want to be. Don’t you want to be with me? Because they want to be. Marry me. Not because they have to be. We’re not your parents. I won’t marry you. I’m not your father. I want to want you forever. I love you. I want romance. What’s a wedding? Not a day, I want a life. Do you want to marry me? The day that you don’t want to marry me- Never. The day that we don’t want to marry each other- Stop. Is the day we should both walk away.
Promise candlelit baths.
Promise notes on the pillow.
Promise strawberries.
Promise his hands.
Promise the small of her back.
Promise whispers.
Promise forever.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
new poetry (first draft)
Inhale
By Sara Theurer
Summer is thick like
breath under the sheets
as you fall asleep.
Stale air, bitter
and humid.
Today the wind blew
cool as new breath
taken from the bedroom air.
Breath drawn desperately from
the cold, fresh space.
The sharp, citrus breeze
cleans the palette
and feel strange at first. But,
wonderful as it permeates
your clothes and tiptoes
up your back.
I’d almost forgotten the Fall.
The peppermint tea end
to an arduous summer
is a happy surprise.
I stepped outside
and could breathe again.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Story: "Promises"
Promises (3rd/4th version)
My arm is beginning to hurt from holding this phone up to my ear for—going on 45 minutes now. There should be a company that employs people to listen to other people’s problems and give the obligatory mmhmms and I’m sorrys that are usually delivered from the bored friend on the other end of the line. I’m playing the game of matching his tone in my one-word remarks so he’ll still believe I’m listening, even though I’m really putting together an online jigsaw puzzle of a dog lying in a hammock. He’s starting to catch on to me. The only hope for pulling me back into the conversation is to ask if I want some gossip on an old high school friend. Of course I do. He took a line of coke off of a stripper’s boob when he went to Vegas for his birthday? Eh, I’ve heard better.
It’s not that I don’t care about Joe’s friend Natalie getting fired from her job today because her asshole boss was doing his job wrong; I’m outraged for Natalie. I just wish there was a way to cue the orchestra on Joe’s end of the line and usher the rambling guy offstage. Does that make me a bad person? We still call each other because we’ve been friends for years, and that is what you do with someone you’ve known since the tenth grade. I suppose we do rely on each other for the hard stuff. I call him every so often when I need help with Mark. Girl friends are no good for that sort of thing, they’ll always tell you what they think you want to hear. Women are rarely honest about the complications of relationships. I think half of my friends are living in a dream world, complete with their own Prince Charming who in a few years will probably reveal himself to be the old frog, and she won’t be able to kiss her way out of that one. No, Joe really is the only one who gives it to me straight, even if it means winding through endless tangents to get there.
I had gone into the kitchen when he called. A call from Joe sentenced me to at least one hour of conversation, and Mark hated it when someone talked during a movie. I hung up the phone and on my way out of the kitchen brushed the edge of the refrigerator with my shoulder, knocking a picture to the floor. I picked up the four by six-inch photo of Mark and me from last Christmas. My sister had taken it from across the room when we weren’t looking at the camera. My eyes were closed and Mark had his hand in my curled blonde hair, kissing my forehead. It was our favorite picture. When I got back into the living room Mark patted his hand on the couch, where I promptly sat down and swung my legs over his. This was our spot. I’d prop a pillow between my back and the armrest, and Mark would lay his arms around my legs. If I got lucky sometimes he’d give me a foot rub. If I got really lucky his hands would slide north of my knees and he’d give me the “I’m in the mood” eyes. Since we’d both seen the movie countless times, and Ferris Bueller was already sprinting home to the final scene, I was disappointed to feel his palm on the arch of my foot.
“How’s Joe doing in D.C.?” Mark asked as he started to knead my right heel.
“Oh same as always. Loves his job, hates the bureaucratic assholes, some girl is jerking him around again,” I said. He nodded and rolled his eyes but didn’t ask any more questions. I had started to scratch my head behind the temples, which he knew meant that I was drained. I was amazed when Mark had been able to pick up on my mood cues after our first few dates. He quickly knew that picking at the fingernails meant bored, playing with the earrings meant nervous, and the very rare squint of the left eye meant he needed to apologize, now.
The movie ended but neither one of us left the couch. We had turned this room into our nesting spot since we’d moved in together a year ago. Everything in it reminded me of us. The dark red walls had taken us two days and five coats of paint to complete, at which point our backs and arms hurt so badly we spent an hour side by side on the floor staring at them, laughing. The debate over keeping the hard wood floors or getting carpet had resulted in a large, cream-colored area rug picked to suit both our tastes. The matching chocolate brown sofa and oversized ottoman had been a remarkable sale find, but cost double after discovering that its only way into the 2nd floor apartment was through the balcony doors. There was a framed picture of our favorite park in Savannah, Georgia, which I later found out conveniently covered the hole left by Mark’s wayward hammer. But the candles in the fireplace had been my surprise for him after work one night. By morning, wax had pooled around the bases of the tall, crimson candles and was still there as a reminder of the night exactly four years after our first date. This room, dimly lit by a small floor lamp in the corner, was most comfortable on nights like these when we had nothing to do but spend time with each other. As we sat listening to the credit music Mark began rubbing his thumb in circles on my knee. I saw his lips move a little, and then nod as if he’d made up his mind about something. I knew what was coming.
“You know it’s Sunday, right?” he asked me too matter-of-factly.
“You’re right, it is Sunday,” I said. “It’s the day that comes immediately after Saturday. And it’s also the one that comes right before Monday. What’s your point, Mark?”
“You know exactly my point, Kate. I’m going to ask it. Just like I’m going to ask it next Sunday. And the Sunday after that.”
“Why don’t you just ask me four times now, and we’ll knock out the whole month of September?” I knew that he wouldn’t like that idea. How could he possibly enjoy this? I started to pull my legs back but he held on to my left ankle. I was afraid to look at him, I knew his dark brown eyes would look straight at my blue ones and the twinge of guilt in my stomach would become shards of glass.
“Kate, will you marry me?” he asked. . . .
.
.
.
To see what happens to Mark and Kate please email me at sara.theurer@gmail.com. I will send you the full story that way so as to save space on this page!
My arm is beginning to hurt from holding this phone up to my ear for—going on 45 minutes now. There should be a company that employs people to listen to other people’s problems and give the obligatory mmhmms and I’m sorrys that are usually delivered from the bored friend on the other end of the line. I’m playing the game of matching his tone in my one-word remarks so he’ll still believe I’m listening, even though I’m really putting together an online jigsaw puzzle of a dog lying in a hammock. He’s starting to catch on to me. The only hope for pulling me back into the conversation is to ask if I want some gossip on an old high school friend. Of course I do. He took a line of coke off of a stripper’s boob when he went to Vegas for his birthday? Eh, I’ve heard better.
It’s not that I don’t care about Joe’s friend Natalie getting fired from her job today because her asshole boss was doing his job wrong; I’m outraged for Natalie. I just wish there was a way to cue the orchestra on Joe’s end of the line and usher the rambling guy offstage. Does that make me a bad person? We still call each other because we’ve been friends for years, and that is what you do with someone you’ve known since the tenth grade. I suppose we do rely on each other for the hard stuff. I call him every so often when I need help with Mark. Girl friends are no good for that sort of thing, they’ll always tell you what they think you want to hear. Women are rarely honest about the complications of relationships. I think half of my friends are living in a dream world, complete with their own Prince Charming who in a few years will probably reveal himself to be the old frog, and she won’t be able to kiss her way out of that one. No, Joe really is the only one who gives it to me straight, even if it means winding through endless tangents to get there.
I had gone into the kitchen when he called. A call from Joe sentenced me to at least one hour of conversation, and Mark hated it when someone talked during a movie. I hung up the phone and on my way out of the kitchen brushed the edge of the refrigerator with my shoulder, knocking a picture to the floor. I picked up the four by six-inch photo of Mark and me from last Christmas. My sister had taken it from across the room when we weren’t looking at the camera. My eyes were closed and Mark had his hand in my curled blonde hair, kissing my forehead. It was our favorite picture. When I got back into the living room Mark patted his hand on the couch, where I promptly sat down and swung my legs over his. This was our spot. I’d prop a pillow between my back and the armrest, and Mark would lay his arms around my legs. If I got lucky sometimes he’d give me a foot rub. If I got really lucky his hands would slide north of my knees and he’d give me the “I’m in the mood” eyes. Since we’d both seen the movie countless times, and Ferris Bueller was already sprinting home to the final scene, I was disappointed to feel his palm on the arch of my foot.
“How’s Joe doing in D.C.?” Mark asked as he started to knead my right heel.
“Oh same as always. Loves his job, hates the bureaucratic assholes, some girl is jerking him around again,” I said. He nodded and rolled his eyes but didn’t ask any more questions. I had started to scratch my head behind the temples, which he knew meant that I was drained. I was amazed when Mark had been able to pick up on my mood cues after our first few dates. He quickly knew that picking at the fingernails meant bored, playing with the earrings meant nervous, and the very rare squint of the left eye meant he needed to apologize, now.
The movie ended but neither one of us left the couch. We had turned this room into our nesting spot since we’d moved in together a year ago. Everything in it reminded me of us. The dark red walls had taken us two days and five coats of paint to complete, at which point our backs and arms hurt so badly we spent an hour side by side on the floor staring at them, laughing. The debate over keeping the hard wood floors or getting carpet had resulted in a large, cream-colored area rug picked to suit both our tastes. The matching chocolate brown sofa and oversized ottoman had been a remarkable sale find, but cost double after discovering that its only way into the 2nd floor apartment was through the balcony doors. There was a framed picture of our favorite park in Savannah, Georgia, which I later found out conveniently covered the hole left by Mark’s wayward hammer. But the candles in the fireplace had been my surprise for him after work one night. By morning, wax had pooled around the bases of the tall, crimson candles and was still there as a reminder of the night exactly four years after our first date. This room, dimly lit by a small floor lamp in the corner, was most comfortable on nights like these when we had nothing to do but spend time with each other. As we sat listening to the credit music Mark began rubbing his thumb in circles on my knee. I saw his lips move a little, and then nod as if he’d made up his mind about something. I knew what was coming.
“You know it’s Sunday, right?” he asked me too matter-of-factly.
“You’re right, it is Sunday,” I said. “It’s the day that comes immediately after Saturday. And it’s also the one that comes right before Monday. What’s your point, Mark?”
“You know exactly my point, Kate. I’m going to ask it. Just like I’m going to ask it next Sunday. And the Sunday after that.”
“Why don’t you just ask me four times now, and we’ll knock out the whole month of September?” I knew that he wouldn’t like that idea. How could he possibly enjoy this? I started to pull my legs back but he held on to my left ankle. I was afraid to look at him, I knew his dark brown eyes would look straight at my blue ones and the twinge of guilt in my stomach would become shards of glass.
“Kate, will you marry me?” he asked. . . .
.
.
.
To see what happens to Mark and Kate please email me at sara.theurer@gmail.com. I will send you the full story that way so as to save space on this page!
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
First Poetry Cont.
Fall Colors
When the leaves begin to change
And put on a new hue
They go out with some style.
In a blaze of glory
They redden the landscape.
The world inside looks out
And sees the Fall palette
Punctuated by bright oranges and yellows.
Some are unwilling to give in to change
Rebel against the new fashion.
Slowly try the mix and match approach
Hesitate at the halfway point
Till eventually they succumb
And embrace the trend before it’s over.
Before they know it,
The monochromed world of winter
Will arrive from the north
Bringing with it clean blankets and shawls
To cover the remnants
Of last season’s fad.
Tanguero
Seduction
A confident tango
Slow and deliberate
Toes dragging
Eyes locked
Close slowly to savor
Skin touches, the softest brush
Hands glide lightly over
Infused skin
Fingertips caress
A bare, extended neck
Sends trembles
Cheeks flushed
Lips red and parted
Hot breath on
Yearning limbs
A taste of skin
The crescendo swells
As violins moan
Notes are strained
Climax then
The dance is done
Samples of My First Poetry
voracious
parasitic ooze envelops
something dead and defenseless,
slowly filling lungs,
calcifying in the ears, nose.
the tomb locks limbs,
arrests movement and expression.
solid.
the insatiable ore devours then desires
more. more but is patient.
satisfied for now.
over time calculates.
after the last digit is consumed
it reaches out
into darkness it searches,
grows hungry teeth
every direction
desiring more
to taste.
Epic on a Waterspout
It was a cold, dreary day.
The clouds hung low in the sky
Heavy and dark with precipitation.
A tiny, lone arachnid made her way home.
As she began her climb up the cold metal pipe
A single bead of water flew past her.
Multiple lenses flashed toward the ground,
Watched as more and more drops pounded the cement.
With a strobe of lightening the sky let loose.
A torrent of rain showered down on the petite heroin
As she was pulled down with the mini monsoon.
She saw the whole 12 days of her life flash before her 8 eyes.
With a splash she found herself in an inch deep lake,
Barely able to stay afloat.
She made her way to the safety of an old tin can.
In time the rain subsided,
And the intrepid little bug made her way back
To the lofty column.
As the sun reemerged and evaporated the residual liquid
The diminutive creepy-crawly begrudgingly resumed her trip
Harvest
They are collected once a year,
The victims of ritual sacrifice.
They are poked, stabbed and gutted.
Ripped apart from the inside,
Their innards splattered thoughtlessly-
Mutilated, violated.
Pieces cut away,
Often devoured.
Transformed into empty lifeless faces,
Menacing, sneering.
Eyes burning in fixed stares.
Fiery, but without passion.
They can never be changed back.
Altered forever, until death,
A slow, rotting, decomposing end.
Shriveling flesh caves in
As a molding, putrid stench
Offends the noses of their captors.
No sympathy, no memory,
They are discarded, forgotten.
The fate of their every generation.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
My Newfound Respect for Squirrels
(originally written July 2007)
my dad has been battling with the squirrels in our backyard this summer. the spoils: my dad's tomatoes. after fruitless attempts to deter the squirrels with netting, traps, even poison, dad has reverted to more extreme measures. yes, he can now be seen patrolling the patio and deck, pellet gun in hand, ready to exterminate any squirrel that dares cross into Theurer territory. The battle has been raging for several weeks now. the score: tim: 2, squirrels: about 100. These clever little rodents can be seen carrying their green prizes away from the heavily netted plants at all times, much to Tim's dismay. Even the presence of Tim's two appointed guards, Pete and Mona, aren't enough to scare them. Tonight, the battle reached new heights. Thirty feet away from the swingset, where a 4"X6" sheet of paper used as target practice hangs, is the patio table. To protect his unripened tomatoes that have fallen off the vines, Tim placed a metal, perforated bowl (normally used to drop turkeys in the fryer) over the fruit. As I opened the door to let the guards back out on duty, I saw one of the enemy combatants hop from tree limb to roof, tomato in tow, and disappear. Yes, the squirrels have now learned to lift up the heavy metal bowl in order to take their spoils. It's as if Tim laid them out as a peace-offering. But no, Tim was out the door, gun in hand within seconds. It was the fastest I'd see the old man move since The Great China Buffet opened in '98. To add insult to injury, the clever squirrel left the bowl propped up on another tomato, in case his friends wanted to drop by later for a late-night snack.
Who will win the war? Stand by for further updates.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Do You Ever Wish You Were Born in a Different Decade?
(originally written April, 2008)
The 20s were roaring, Prohibition must have been a crazy time. I would have loved being a daredevil jezebel, cutting my hair and hemming that skirt ~GASP~ above the knee! People were having fun and being rebellious. There wasn't any Nintendo or Facebook to distract people, it was just good, semi-clean fun.
The 40s were fabulous. I may love the 40s most of all. The days of pinning and going steady were all so romantic. Though I would have needed a pretty liberal and non-sexist husband, I would have made a pretty good 40s housewife. Kind of like an old-fashioned trophy wife! The men in the 40s knew how to woo, and the girls knew how to play coy. It was all so uncomplicated and very Pleasantville.
The 70s (minus the drugs and disco fever) would have been crazy. Even if you weren't a full-fledged hippie, you still wanted to be independent and free. Simon and Garfunkle, the Stones, Jonie Mitchell. The 70s were about music and expression. People weren't afraid to be crazy, they just did what they wanted to do. Also, no one cared if you drank 3/2 beer, so people went out but didn't get sloppy drunk. According to my parents it was a hell of a time.
I think maybe it's not that I should have been born in another decade, but that my life should be more like the movies from those times. It kills me to watch Breakfast at Tiffanys, Sabrina, Casablanca, The Great Gatsby... I think every girl wants to be an Audrey or a Marilyn. We all want that romantic life full of extraordinarily handsome men, exciting parties, and class. There was just an order to things, and it took something special to stand out.
Nowadays, girls will act crazy and do almost anything to stand out from the crowd. We've made it too easy for guys. We've taken away any motivation to genuinely impress someone. And I'm not trying to bash my own sex here, it goes both ways. An interesting girl will be passed up for that girl wearing the low-cut top. And vice-versa, and interesting guy will be overlooked because of the smooth-talking player. There was just a way of acting in the old days that people really made an effort. I can't quite find the words to explain it, it was just different...
I guess the one thing I really love about the 90s is that I can do whatever I want with my life. I don't have to be a stay-at-home wife, unemployed and focused only on the kiddies. But then again, I wouldn't pass up marrying Linus Larrabee and living the life of luxury either! It's just daydreams I guess.
While I'm talking about it, I wish my life had a soundtrack.
Where have all the Gentlemen Gone?
As I walked home from campus one soggy, frigid morning last week, my trip was suddenly interrupted by a group of gossiping fraternity boys coming towards me. Normally, this situation wouldn't phase me in the least, however this particular morning my good graces were pushed over the edge.
When a girl is walking and a boy, or especially a group of boys, is approaching in the opposite direction, the appropriate action for the male to take is this: let the girl continue walking straight, as you temporarily alter your route to let her pass. DO NOT MAKE HER STEP INTO THE STREET OR MUD.
I don't feel that this idea is trite or old-fashioned, or would even be offensive to those hard-core women's libbers out there. I think it stands to reason that there is a certain amount of respect due to everyone in this world, and I can't help but feel that women deserve a certain level of graciousness in everyday situations. First and foremost, it is a sign of respect to a girl (not to mention her shoes, which undoubtedly cost more than the boy's on most occasions). And secondly, this is one of many situations where a man can show his respect for a woman, thereby exhibiting his gentlemanly appeal to her.
I've noticed this lack of propriety in several sitations lately. For example, do men realize that it is appropriate for the girl to offer her hand when being introduced and not vice versa? Though I do realize this is a particularly old-fashioned idea, I feel that it should be reinstated into today's interactions. The reason behind this is that if a woman doesn't wish to shake a particular man's hand, she isn't forced to. However, if she does wish to make contact with him, she willingly offers her hand to him as a sign of interest and respect. I won't lie, there are certain situations in which I do not offer my hand to a particular man whom I do not wish to meet (aka guys who have been enjoying a night of drinking and debauchery, and who probably haven't washed their hands since before their last beer pong game).
I could go on and on about opening doors, introducing oneself, offering a seat, and paying compliments, but I think I've expressed my opinion clearly enough. So in the end, the only question I am left with is this:
Where have all the gentlemen gone?
When a girl is walking and a boy, or especially a group of boys, is approaching in the opposite direction, the appropriate action for the male to take is this: let the girl continue walking straight, as you temporarily alter your route to let her pass. DO NOT MAKE HER STEP INTO THE STREET OR MUD.
I don't feel that this idea is trite or old-fashioned, or would even be offensive to those hard-core women's libbers out there. I think it stands to reason that there is a certain amount of respect due to everyone in this world, and I can't help but feel that women deserve a certain level of graciousness in everyday situations. First and foremost, it is a sign of respect to a girl (not to mention her shoes, which undoubtedly cost more than the boy's on most occasions). And secondly, this is one of many situations where a man can show his respect for a woman, thereby exhibiting his gentlemanly appeal to her.
I've noticed this lack of propriety in several sitations lately. For example, do men realize that it is appropriate for the girl to offer her hand when being introduced and not vice versa? Though I do realize this is a particularly old-fashioned idea, I feel that it should be reinstated into today's interactions. The reason behind this is that if a woman doesn't wish to shake a particular man's hand, she isn't forced to. However, if she does wish to make contact with him, she willingly offers her hand to him as a sign of interest and respect. I won't lie, there are certain situations in which I do not offer my hand to a particular man whom I do not wish to meet (aka guys who have been enjoying a night of drinking and debauchery, and who probably haven't washed their hands since before their last beer pong game).
I could go on and on about opening doors, introducing oneself, offering a seat, and paying compliments, but I think I've expressed my opinion clearly enough. So in the end, the only question I am left with is this:
Where have all the gentlemen gone?
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