Meeting Debbie Shelton

Meeting Debbie Shelton

She was like a lovely monarch, floating from flower to flower. That's how she remains in my memory to this day. My first and only meeting with her was when I was seven years old. My neighbor, Whitney Webb's family was having a barbecue in her honor -- Debbie Shelton. Her banner read Miss Virginia USA, while she sweetly talked about patriotism, the Vietnam war, and women's rights, as she nibbled on some peach cobbler, while wearing a bubblegum pink halter and bell bottomed jeans. This memory, this faded memory, is somewhat foggy, but her face is stuck indelibly in my memory bank.

I was quite shy as I watched her dazzle her guests. Of course, it wasn't technically her party, but she was the hostess for sure, and besides, no one minded while being in the presence of royalty. She had raven black hair down to her waist, and sky blue eyes, almost like marble, and a long, regal neck, and on a table set up in her honor was the tiara she was presented with when she won her title. I know I was young, but I still wondered what a rhinestone crown had to do with the war. But she was graceful and gracious, impeccably mannered, and her smile was warm and inviting., not like Cynthia Shoemaker at school who pinched my arm at every opportunity.

Whitney finally introduced me to Debbie, and I was literally starstruck. I felt faint. If I had known what smelling salts were, I would have asked for them. I seriously needed to splash my face with icy, cold water. After Whitney officially introduced us -- "and this is my cousin, Debbie Shelton, Miss Virginia" -- Debbie turned to me and said:

"Why aren;t you the cutest and sweetest little boy". My face flushed scarlet.

And then she picked me up and sat me on her lap. I remember feeling embarrassed, I mean, I was seven years old, but I was also the shortest boy in my class next to Arnold Plymale, who somehow looked and sounded like he was destined to be a dentist -- thick black glasses, shiny big teeth, and shocking red hair. I was small enough to be confused with a kindergartener.

"How old are you?" Debbie cooed.

"Seven...um...er...your majesty."

Debbie laughed really hard at that remark, and my face went from scarlet to plum.

"What's your favorite subject in school?"

"Geography,"I replied, "and I can name all the states and state capitals in alphabetical order," I said suddenly feeling humiliated at my awkward remark, and lack of social skills, even for a seven year old.

"How adorable," Debbie said. "Can you name them for me right now?" Oh crap, I thought after being placed on the spot. I looked over at Whitney who smirked at me. "Show off," she mouthed at me. My face took on an odd blue hue as I felt like a trapped rat backed into a corner by dozens of cats.

"Montgomery, Alabama. Juneau, Alaska..." I began, and as I continued, Debbie would clap, and pretty soon, the rest of the guests were clapping too. Whitney looked like a pent up prisoner with a shiv in her hand. My face turned an atrocious green.

Afterward, Debbie kissed me on the cheek, and after being coaxed by her relatives and guests, she put on that tiara and looked every bit like a beauty queen at a car show. She waved for her guests. It's a day I will never forget, and no one has ever remained so beautiful in my mind's eyes

Debbie went on to win Miss USA that year, the second time in succession for the state of Virginia, and she seemed destined to win Miss Universe, until she was robbed of the title by Miss Puerto Rico, who looked like a sheep herder's daughter with a poodle's haircut. The winner would go on to oblivion as far as the public knew, while Debbie ended up securing a role as Mandy in the television series "Dallas".

I will always wonder if she remembers that shy awkward boy who was so memorized by her warmth and beauty. Certainly many men over the course of her years were as mesmerized as I had been. But, the barbecue caused me to watch her on television at Miss Universe that year, where tears streamed down my cheeks as she was announced first runner-up. I rubbed mt eyes and looked at my mother. "It isn't fair," I said. "It just isn't fair."

"Oh hush honeybun," my mother replied. "Yes, she was the fairest of them all, by FAR, but she is going to do just fine, She be just fine. Wait. You'll see I'm right."

And while people ,ay not know she played the body double in the film "Body Double", or that she was working on the highest rated television show of its era, one thing my mother was right about. Debbie had done just fine. Just fine. And she had only herself to credit.

Rainbow

This is my response to I'd Pick More Daisies


Rainbows



If I had to live my life over, I would live with fewer regrets,
respond to others with more grace and forgiveness,
and manage to forgive myself for just being human.

If I had to live my life over, I would travel more to misty lands,
absorb creamy cultures, and observe the commonality
in us all. I would eat new things, try on and wear new
adventures, and listen and learn from newly made friends.

I'd allow others in more than I do now, live authentically
more frequently, and whisper sweet secrets in return.
I'd stop and smell the roses, watch a spider spin her web,
walk barefoot on the beach as often as possible,
not like I do now. I'd kiss more babies, read more of the classics,
even modern, and understand the backlight of human experiences.

If I had to live my life over, I'd know sooner what I learned
later, and express my gratitude for skinning my knees
and bruising my ego, even when it really hurt. I'd enjoy
the present, what is, not what was, or even what will be,
as we are constantly changing, evolving.

If I had to live my life over, I would allow myself to become
a sponge, absorb the lessons life has taught. I would handle
the big misfortunes, and I would worry less about the things
I cannot change.

I'd treat my body with more respect, walk taller,
become more confident in my very own essence
in this moment, this very moment. I'd pet more dogs,
hug more trees, listen to the crashing waves,
comprehending its canter and language, as I watched
the tide rob sand from the shore.

If I had to live my life over, I'd be a better friend, a better
listener, and a better partner. I'd love unconditionally.
I'd count more stars in the sky, know more constellations
and ride the tail of a comet and let it take me wherever
it intended to go.

I'd soar over fields of tulips, rest in beds of heather.
I'd hug others more. I'd plant more seeds and sit back
and watch things grow, and smile at a world full of miracles.
I'd chase more rainbows.

Speak To Me

Speak To Me

I hear what you say peripherally as you smile, touch
my arm, blush, and it's not so much what you say
as it is the nature of the flirt. I find myself nodding
at you, you with the mocha eyes, and jet black hair,
you with the effervescent charm, the kind smile,
whispering raspberry kisses.

I think of our first date, how knee knocking nervous
I was, how the conversation felt forced, my inner critic
seeking to nullify this connection. I remember
you asking if I was as nervous as you were, and I relaxed,
and melted a little as our minds melded, stopping
time for just a fraction. I can smell your toffee whispers
from that night, and I accidentally leaned against
the inside gate, ringing apartments 10 and 12 by mistake,
how my neighbor called out “who's ringing the bell”,
as we both hid in shadow and giggled, full of warmth,
full of connection.

So here we are again, and you are talking, and the words
don't matter, but they do, but they don't. You are
the ultimate poem. Your words have a rhythm in time
and space that speak to all parts of me, from within
and out.

Speak to me. Keep talking and cooing, Speak to me.
I will smile and hopefully you will melt, as our arms
brush against each other, and I will shiver
ever so slightly. Speak to me. Speak to me.
Speak only to me.

Disintegration

Disintegration


Liquid whispers turn into shimmering shouts on a dime,
leaving me thoroughly bewildered and afraid.
My heart pounds thunderously threatening to bolt
from my body on to a sticky train track as it assumes
its fate: defeated, flattened, damaged.
I ought to offer you thanks for uncovering things
now rather than later, but the pain is
palpable, viable, present,and it threatens my growth.
The throat has a liquid lump, and my belly expands
like pulled taffy, engorging, leaving me to fight for a breath
that will maintain sustenance. And the sweet tears
find me at my loneliest, at night in charcoal darkness,
underneath stifling sheets that tentatively
offer solace, comfort. I apologize for mistakes
not made,and you apologize in a moment
of pulverized clarity.

“Apology accepted”, I find myself saying.

Why is that I feel farther from you than Neptune’s breath
or Mercury’s fickle ways? Accepting what is in brilliant sunlight
or fragile shadows leaves invisible scars and a frayed ego,
things that can be repaired in time, but never forgotten.
It is in my nature to ask why. Why? I desire closure
that will not come, the closure required to move on, but rigid reality
plays her trump card, and I resign that I’ve been played yet again.

The truth stares at me, smiling her wicked smile, '
and still I wonder: what now? What now?
Only I can answer, and still I ask: what now?

Drowning

Drowning

He wept, sliding, down, down, down
where only an angel could touch
his bleeding heart, grabbing
the percocet and valium,
pouring gin into his glass.

He popped all the pills, all of them,
ingesting all of the medicine,
sobering him somewhat,
just enough to know he had pushed
the envelope too far stamping
the letter himself: unmailed.

He prayed to God one last time:
"Don't abandon me Jesus."
Laying down his weary head,
waiting for his final sleep,
warm dreams of a better place,
swallowing him whole.

(C) Michael W. Holland, 2011

Let's Go!

Let's Go

Whisk me away; let's escape
to a tangerine paradise disguised,
as two hearts pound, pound, pound,
no reticence, no hesitation,
just returning to transparent whispers
from liquid lovers who will go the mile.

Head towards me not sail
away into personal mystery
and forlorn fog, but join me
at this island of two.
Take the journey. Wash away fear.
There is no right or wrong,

just salty expressions,
and chocolate kisses that emerge,
become one, allowing the symbiosis
to collide, making me whole,
making you whole, making us,
us as we were meant to be.

Speak To Me

I hear what you say peripherally
as you smile, touch my arm, blush,
and it is not so much what you say,
as it is the nature of the flirt,
the yin and yang. I find myself nodding
at you with the mocha eyes,and jet black hair,
you with the effervescent charm,
the kind smile, and cherry lips.

I think of our first date,
how knee knocking nervous I was,
how I forced the conversation,
the tight smile, my inner critic seeking
to nullify this connection. I remember
you asking: "Are you as nervous as I am?"
and I relaxed, and melted a little
as our minds melded, stopping time
for just a fraction. I can still taste
your raspberry kisses from that night
as I accidentally leaned against the inside
door, ringing apartments 102 and 103 by mistake,
how my neighbor shouted out - "Who's ringing
the bell at this hour?" - as we both hid
on the shadows and giggled, full of warmth
and connection.

So here we are once again, and you are talking,
and the words don't matter, but they do,
but they don't. You are the ultimate poem.
Your banter has a rhythm in time and space
that speak to all parts of me, from within,
and out.

Speak to me. Keep talking. Speak to me please.
I will smile and you will nod, my arm
will brush against yours, and I will shiver
ever so slightly.

Speak to me. Speak to me. Speak only to me.

(C) 2011

M is for Mother

M is for Mother

She sits quietly, staring diligently at the television,
as she watches Shelley slap Paul for sleeping with Deidre,
or smiling when Ken blackmails Joyce after he discovers
the DNA test results that prove that Samuel is Raven's real father.
She watches this serial every day, every day, whether the leaves
outside are turning plum or tangerine, or if the snow cascades
off bristling tree branches.

Every morning she has half a cantaloupe with a small yogurt,
coffee black, as she sits on the bar stool by the kitchen counter,
talking small deliberate bites, always leaving about one third
of the fruit uneaten. She sits in darkness, whether it is sunny
outside, or whether the moon hangs gingerly in the midnight sky.
Such is her world.

At nine-thirty every night, she settles into bed, listening
to Mike Huckabee, or and old rerun of The Virginian
on the television, or she calls her friend Helen
to check in, say goodnight, before repeating the same routing
again tomorrow, finding comfort in these rituals.

Occasionally, she will go with Duane to the grocery store
as he hustles to grab two percent milk and tv dinners
to place into the cart. He will then drive her home laughing
at her witty observations, how people talk to their pets
as if they were children or how children outfool
slick, strict parents. She is always spot on, even if she cannot
actually see.

Sometimes she will sit in silence listening to the whir
of the washing machine, or to the clink, clink, clink
of the ice maker, waiting until 5 p.m., when her neighbor
Susie will come to rap on her door bellowing,
“Where's my drink”, to which she will reply
“I thought you'd never come.” They will laugh and talk
about emerging taxes, the state of the nation's economy,
how her husband left her far too soon, or how her friends,
one by one, are passing on, leaving her to face the new day
alone, or how grateful she is for having watched
the world change in the past century, or how lucky
she is to have the love of her granddaughters who call twice
a week, making her laugh and smile.

She sees, but she doesn't see, and somehow, in some way,
she accepts what is, and does not question why not, or allows
to feel sorry for herself. She can accept this because the world
is going to change anyway, and all she can do is hang on for the ride.
Just hold on. Just hold on tight. All she can do is hold on.

Demon Dreams

Demon Dreams

The midnight sun hangs, teasingly,
whispering: “you're not asleep, but you can't wake up.”
My eyes are shut, but I can see endless nights
and blistering days. Outside, all is bright, so bright:
raspberry sun against a chocolate sky, the grass chartreuse
while giant butterflies, electric, pink and blue fly
in circles.

It all seems like nonsense, only I know where I am, and I plead
to wake up, but seemingly can't, and silent screams
only make the jade devil dance. He is lying
beside me, eyes closed, seeing, mouth closed, snickering,
threatening to move at a magnetic moment, seize the victory.
For now he just waits, waits.

I cry, but no tears flow, and I scream “No” in my heave head
as I feel him on top of me once again. Of God no.
Not again. I push back, but there are too many rocks
in my path. I shudder, quietly, accept defeat,
I feel my heart burn tears into my sizzling skin.
Resist. Resist, But my thoughts are no longer my own
and I reply. No. Just relinquish, and all I will have to bear
is your scar. Resist. Resist. Relinquish.

The dark devil smiles. He remains asleep, but he is always present,
always amongst us all. Were we so foolish as to think
he could be destroyed? He is the chip on our shoulders,
the sarcastic response to a liquid lover, the silence
we carry when we watch as the world around us hurts,
or when we are passively respond, indifferent.
Yes you. You too. You too. No one leaves unscathed.

Somewhere between this sleep, between this awakening,
I hear you breathing, that custard breath that used to rest
beside me, feeling warmth on my neck,
but no one;s there. No one's there.

I resist once more, pull towards the light, out of this nightmare,
towards wakening, awakening, but there I am alone
trapped, trapped in this dream of icicle merry-go-rounds
spinning. Spinning. Spinning.

Listless

Groan
Morning again
Alarm clamors, then screams
Time to hit the snooze
Snore for another nine minutes
Until the next clang of the clock
No, not today
He would remain in a state of semi-consciousness
Truth is
He had no where to be, nothing to do
To sleep or not
It consumed his life like a half-eaten roast
He rolled over once, pulled off the outer blanket
The right temperature to --
CLANG, CLANG, CLANG
Damn it to Hell
This time he turned the menace off
Lying there, he wished for a way out of this snare
A place to go
Someone to see, to be
A purpose
We all need that
But he was dumbfounded
Not a slow thinker, just overwhelmed
When you have vertigo, there is literally only one place to land
Down to the ground, the hard surface
His dreams reflected his mood
Edgy, silent, depressed
A conch shell without the sound of the sea
Drifting on a raft over boundless waves
Taking him to no shores
Just the ocean below with all the dangers
Sharks, sting rays, jelly fish
Friends had slowly backed off
Strange how that happens
Where are you when I need you?
It was a question to be repeated
A murmur, a constant buzz
Sliding into his brittle heart
Once so generous and full
The king of his throne
Now the bed was his owner
Sanctuary and prison
A trap not to be trusted
No he thought
Better to sleep
No need to dwell in dark corners
Empty playgrounds
Slumber offers at least some solace
Tears salty
Face flushed
Dreams shattered
It was his domain
And his only
Sleep
Sleep

Written by Michael W. Holland (c) 2008