Carpool Red

FullSizeRender (1)In middle school I was part of a carpool.  Different moms would pile us into their cars and drop us off, which was way more cool than actually riding a bus.  Being a sensitive being, both then and now, I’ve never forgotten a look that one of these carpool moms gave me.

This mom, whom I’ll name Ms W, was probably in her mid-thirties (ancient to an 8th grader) and she had a passel of children, all with dark hair and lovely milky skin.  When Ms W picked us up there was always a rush of energy in the air.  It’s probably because we were running (more) than a tad bit late.  She also appeared to be wearing what she’d likely been able to grab the quickest. Sometimes  it was a flowered housecoat, other times a sweatsuit.  Her hair was rarely combed, and she wore thick glasses and no makeup.  As a middle schooler, my thoughts were mostly on how to survive the day.  Did I smell funny?  Would someone pass me a note that day?  Would I ever actually wear that skirt I was sewing in home ec? What if my period started?

But one day Ms W showed up looking quite different.  I mean significantly different, at least, to me.  Since I didn’t live with her or play regularly with her kids, I recall the shock on my face and the too dramatic praise of her appearance.  Wow, Ms W, you look beautiful today!  

Of course, I meant it as a compliment.  It was genuine admiration.  Yet the look she threw over the seat was one of pure irritation.  Her hair was in a fashionable slick bun, the glasses were gone, and she had on the most perfect color of red lipstick — not a true red, but more of a burnt red that highlighted her smooth, silky skin and made her dark eyes flash.  She was not grateful for my words.  No, she was pissed.  In that moment I knew I’d hurt her somehow, and I felt badly.

Now that I am Ms W I understand that look.  It’s the look that slips off one’s face when she’s rushed and frustrated.  It’s the look that says, yes, I could look like this all of the time, but I’m busy taking care of someone else’s needs. It’s the look that says, hey, I’m not a morning person and your praise only reminds me that I look like hell every other morning that I do not brush my hair or put on some lipstick.

About two years ago, when I regularly took the kids to school (I was the mom zooming in at the last minute, before the school officials locked the gate), I got locked out of the house.  I had to return to my son’s middle school wearing the very outfit I’d driven to school in:  a nightgown, mismatched sweat pants, slippers, a winter coat, and unbrushed hair and teeth.  Here I was, a working professional mom, showing up at the school office looking like a hobo.  I had to ask the showered and well-dressed woman in charge to please call my son to the front office so that I could borrow his house key.  It was at that moment that I realized Ms W’s situation.  If I had showed up everyday dressed the same way, and then showed up combed and lipsticked, I know someone would have said, Wow!  You look great, with all sincerity.  My likely response would have been hers — one of irritation, not gratitude, due to the morning rush and stress.

So I’ve let go of my confusion over Ms W’s look to me that morning way back in the 80s.  I also get what those fashion mags (that I rarely read anymore) mean when they write that with red lipstick, we don’t need a lot of other makeup.  There’s something about a red lipstick that brings out natural beauty — a blast of color that makes all the other stuff we often put on our faces unnecessary (which it really is, if I’m honest).  On weekends, lipstick and clean clothes are the only things I wear out.  And while there are thousands of shades of red lipstick, I’ve yet to find one called “carpool red.”

Why I Broke Up with Victoria

She misled me.

For years she’d supported me — childbirth, shifting hips, those late college days where I still looked stunning in bikini. But something changed. I think it began after she started getting all that attention. Not just from other women, but also men. It did something to her. What she’d promised: the support, to never be shallow or let me down, all fell apart.

This is how I found out: she lied about size, of all things. It was a fitting for our nuptials. She came into the  room with her measuring tape and had me lift my arms. We’d done this before; I had an idea of what to expect. Victoria was looking especially chic that day, wearing all black, her fake granny glasses setting off her pool-blue eyes, her silky hair in a chignon. She smelled vaguely of rosewater.  But as she pulled away, the tape a whispering snake, she said this: D. You’re a D cup.

I blushed. Not because this was true: It is not. I blushed because my Victoria, the one who knows my intimate parts so well, lied to me. The shock, the anger made me also sweat a bit, and I felt claustrophobic in the dressing room with its faux wood door. She gently shut the door on her exit. I was not as kind.

Dressed, I let the heels of my boots on the tile floor echo my rage. I told her it was off — everything — she was to come by the house and clean out the two drawers I’d given her — I wanted no remnants of her or our relationship. I threw the lacy black bra (who wears itchy lace anyway?) at her, but because the $150 bra was so lightweight the effect fell flat. Just like our relationship.

So instead of keeping all this a secret, I’m sharing. Victoria cannot be trusted. Steer clear. She’ll lie and take your money, her pale pink measuring tape hanging dangerously from her side.

Birthday Ho

imageI received many wonderful cards for my recent birthday. I, who rarely sends cards out on birthdays (I prefer an out of nowhere/surprise type card), was blessed to get so many moving notes. (My daughter’s made me cry. In a good way). But I keep coming back to the one that has made me laugh the loudest while also making me think about language — specifically the connotations of words and how some that are derogatory in one context are inclusive and loving in another.

On the front of the card is a woman in cowgirl garb, the expression on her face one of resignation but with mixed with a large dose of mischief. If I had to translate the look on her face, it’d be something like this: C’mon, now, you know we’re here for the same reason… The inside of the card reads, in plain Courier font: “honey, you ain’t the only ho at this hoedown! happy birthday!”

Context is needed here, as this is what this post is about, right?  My girlfriend who sent this card is one I’ve known over 20 years.  We’ve recently reconnected, and our visit was one that defied time — it was as if the silence beget by years of lives in other states, relationships, and respective professional positions evaporated.  We laughed. We drank, we ate, we (or she) got lost finding my house, as I’m sure I will when I go to hers.  We traded memories (something I find irritating when others do it, but gracious did we laugh and recall).  I wrote her a poem, recalling how she taught me the beauty of dancing alone, totally in the moment with no cares for those around.

Yet even though I find the card hilarious, especially when paired with the expression on the woman’s face, I could not stop the preacher’s kid (PK and teacher, if I’m honest) voice in me asking how I could be okay with that WORD? Ho!?!?!? But for the me NOW, the mature woman who knows when to disregard this voice, “ho” transforms into the most loving word of all. It conveys that a sister is speaking to another sister. It conveys the love and acceptance of a girlfriend of over 20 years calling me out for every thing I am (flaws and all), along with herself. And that’s the thing right there — that’s what the word does: it offers inclusion –– something we all yearn for, whether we admit it or not. She and I are both ho’s and we will both be at that figurative last hoedown together, cowgirl hats on with lots of glitter eye concealer. There may even be a bit of competition, but the most powerful message is this: you are not alone. What a gift to give, especially from one woman to another!  I / We are not alone.

Now crank up that music, ho, and let’s get to dancing!

A Shelter of Others

The clouds were high and scudding but dark.—Charles White

I read A Shelter of Others in late spring.  As a bibliophile, I appreciate the feel of a book.  I read plenty of them electronically, but there are books I must own, and I knew Shelter would be one.  Why? Read Lambs of Men, and you’ll see how White writes in lyrical prose that makes me wish he’d publish (more) poetry.  Fiddleback did a beauty of a book — its size is perfect for holding in your hand, and the cover is smooth, not glossy.  It simply feels good to touch.

I’ve had to let Shelter sit with me before writing about it, because it is the type of story that needs time to simmer.  After reading it, I immediately thought of a question I’d ask Charles, if I were to see him (note: friend disclaimer).  However, after mulling awhile, I’ve realized that my question is no longer a burning one, and may very well be moot.

As a poet, I read quite a fair amount of fiction and creative non-fiction, so I can speak to the fact that the voice Charles commandeers is one that is unique and eloquent.  I’ve seen comparisons of his work to Ron Rash and Harry Crews, and while writers such as those have most likely influenced Charles, he has developed a voice that stands firmly beside such talents.  Each sentence he writes paints a landscape — both psychological (one of the more prominent landscapes in Shelter), and physical.  It’s as if the storm in the narrative becomes a metaphor for the internal tornadoes we all suffer through.  How do we, flawed humans that we are, survive such?  Through shelter. The shelter of others.  The shelter of others whom we love(d), we’ve hurt, we’ve left, we’ve cared for.  The story in this book is one of connectedness and disconnectedness.  Characters come and go in one another’s lives, yet some connections remain even when the physicality is gone.  Shelter is a study of the complexity of human nature and relationship, written in elegant prose.

So what was that question I thought of initially posing to Charles?  Would there be another book, another one that gives more backstory to the characters in Shelter?  Yet as I sat with the story, it is no longer important to me that I know more about Mason and Lavada or Dennis, or Sam, or any other character in the novel, because the narrative of this lyrical novel holds enough for me to know that I already do know their backstories, as they reside in me, too.  All I want now from White are additional stories, and please, some poetry!

Anything Goes!

IMG_7101When I first started writing poetry seriously, I often discarded subject matter too quickly because I felt (incorrectly) that everything I wrote about had to be philosophically meaty or an elevated thought.  And while we often do find, after peeling a poem’s layers away, that there are elevated thoughts or philosophical points, we should never discard subject matter simply because it seems base or profane.  In fact, many strong poems have been written about or inspired by subject matter that would surprise you.  Take, for example, Stephen Dunn’s poem “The Kiss,” which was inspired by the following typo: “She pressed her lips to mind.”  What a wonderful epigraph with which to begin a poem!  On the other hand, Maxine Kumin found something as smelly and as mundane as horse manure to inspire “The Excrement Poem,” which, after a close reading, shows the beauty and uniqueness of the human experience, right down to our waste.

From July 19 – July 25th, 2015, I will be teaching a course “Anything Goes!” at the John C. Campbell Folk School.  Not only will we read Stephen Dunn, Maxine Kumin, Rodney Jones, and Sharon Olds (just to name a few), we will create our own poems, silencing our internal editors as to what can lead us to generating strong poems.  In between classes, we will interact with students who are painting, singing, weaving, and blacksmithing, just to name a few of the many crafts that are practiced at the Folk School.  If you are new to writing or at the intermediate level, please consider joining me and other folk school students to write in the lovely Appalachians of western North Carolina.  I promise that you will generate new work, and that you will also laugh at some point (not to mention eat well!)

Find more information on the Folk School, or sign up here.

Splitting the Soil


Emily wrote, “Publication — is the auction / of the Mind of Man …” and called it a “foul” thing. And I must admit it is hard for me to “promote” my own book. But I don’t really think about it that way, in a “marketing” way. Instead, I like to think of it as a way of sharing how I see the world, how I interact with it. That’s not foul, and no one makes much money publishing poetry, so if that’s the motivation for a poet, s/he may need to find a different genre or profession.

Today I spent time in my garden, not planting, but moving. It’s too early to plant where I live. I have planted this early in the past and gotten bitten (think frost) for doing such. So to tame my great urge to sow, I simply moved things around. I recall what was choking on one another last year, how the day lilies were too close to my butterfly bushes, so I moved them. And all of those of volunteer pansies that have sprouted in the gravel drive —  they have been moved to clay pots by the front steps. I even found an earthworm today and held him in my hand. This communion with nature made me terribly happy.

My chap is titled Splitting the Soil, as the soil, nature, and land all are part of the themes that run through it. Also, the sensuality of the relationship between myself and the land is present. I was blessed to have three poet/mentors give me a blurb, and I want to share Kay Byer’s words. Kay is known all over, but she is certainly a prominent figure in my writing life and in the region in which I live. She was the poet laureate of NC when I went to my first NCWN annual meeting, and she pushed me and grilled me in that workshop over a decade ago, long before I enrolled in grad school. She, too, loves the land with a fervor I share.

“Royston has claimed her place as a poet, a place rich with memory, family, and voices rising up from the woods and trails of the natural world. Royston can craft poems using traditional form, or she can unwind skeins of free verse as skillfully as any young poet writing today. She listens, she observes, she remembers, and out of that poetic attentiveness she creates poems that ring true to the ear and remain in the imagination, shining like creek water in the afternoon sun.” –Kathryn Stripling Byer, author of Wildwood Flower and Descent

If you’d like a copy of Splitting the Soil, email me or check visit Finishing Line Press.  In the meantime, be outside.




Are you a phone-a-phobe?  If not, maybe you know one or love one. I am a phone-a-phobe. I despise speaking on the phone and rarely do something as absurd as answer it.  I’ve put years into trying to understand my phone-a-phobia, and what follows is a mix of the why, along with how to cope.  Also, if you  care about a phone-a-phobe (a friend or love who never, ever seems to answer your calls), you, too, will learn something.

Genesis: My phone-a-phobia began in my youth. You see, there was this man, let’s call him The Bishop (I imagined as a child that he wore a pointed hat of some kind….and he sat at a big desk Somewhere Important and Far Away), and he would take all the preachers and their families and put them on a chess board and move them around the northern part of the state. Then he would call my parents, the most powerful people I knew as a child (hell, they still are) and tell them whether we would move or stay in town in which we lived. This was The Phone Call we all dreaded and endured for many years. (It’s quite possible that this was also the beginning of my anti-authority outlook in life, but I digress).  I believe it is here that the aversion to a ringing phone began.

Surely there were good phone calls but I cannot seem to recall them – I do recall, though, the one I yearned for the most: the one from my middle school love.  What was the name of your heartbreaker crush? Mine was Tony B.  Poor Tony B was even more of an introvert than I was, yet how I longed for his call!  Alas, I was too young to know that neither of us would have a word to say to one another and that breathing over the phone would be, well, anticlimactic. I think these silent and painful phone calls were the cause of my first-ever panic attack. The sweaty receiver in my hand, the nausea bubbling, my head dizzy and wobbling. We managed to listen to The Scorpions “Tainted Love” on one call – probably the most conversant moment we had on the line. Bless you Tony B., wherever you are.

From the trauma of the middle school crush call, I came away with a very inaccurate belief: that I must be the one to carry the conversation – what pressure! Turn to the nearest introvert and tell her you’d like her to do an impromptu speech.  Watch her turn very pale, then run away.  This tainted belief hung with me for years, and I struggled through many conversations, always with a list of possible topics at my side to keep things going.  But it almost killed me, so much so that when I actually answered calls it was with a grimace, rolling eyes, and a deep breaths. Who was calling now?  And why? What would I say?  In short, I have come to this conclusion: if there’s not a specific reason for a call, such as your house is on fire, your dog just ripped open my trash in my front yard, or your child is waiting for you in subzero weather at the school, the phone should not be used.  I have also learned this about the phone: extroverts can smell out introverts.  They lurk.  They long for your ear like a vampire for a throat. Beware; you may fall into one of the following categories:

Target of the aggressive caller. The aggressive caller wants to hear your voice, at least this is what s/he says. But what the aggressive caller really wants is your ear and your mumbled affirmations or condolences. Your uh huh; umm; no way?; Really?; OMG!;  I’m so sorry; I’m so happy for you; He actually said that?; It cost how much?;  He had what enlarged?.  The aggressive caller is like your son, who cannot yet summarize the two hour movie he has just seen and instead tells you, in intricate detail, every possible moment he recalls from the 120 minutes he has just experienced. The aggressive caller likely either loves you, likes you, or wishes to go to bed with you.

The emotional sponge. Once on a trip to New Orleans this woman with lovely red hair blowing in the wind on Jackson Square read my fortune. Not for free, of course, but she told me something, actually more than one thing, that was very accurate. She said Scorpios, my sign mind you, are like emotional sponges. We absorb every emotion in a room. And, I would like to add, also in a voice.  Unless I put up my steel wall when I talk to you, all your emotions will leak out and onto me. The desires, the regrets, the joys, the sadness. These emotions are carried in your voice (til Tuesday, voices carry….) and I soak them up. If I’m not armed, if I’m tired, if I’m my usual empathic self, it’s just too much. It’s overstimulation.

So, phone-a-phobes and those who love them, here are coping strategies:

For the phone-a-phobe: Do phones still ring?  I don’t know. That’s because two decades ago I married an introvert and the first thing we did was to turn off the ringer.  So turn off your ringer! My children have never heard a phone ring.  However, the following side-affect will occur at the office, in the homes of others, and those who stand in line in the grocery with their cells on: ringing phones will be like electric shocks. Put your finger in the nearest electrical outlet and you will experience what a phone-a-phobe feels upon hearing a phone ring. It’s imperative to silence all phones. Vibrating phones are one of the greatest gifts of technology  to the introverted phone-a-phobe who must answer a call.

For the person who loves a phone-a-phobe: The first and greatest gift for a phone-a-phobe is texting. Yes!  These are what phones are supposed to do!  Alexander Bell and his contemporaries were just very confused. Phones are meant for texting. Scenario:  I’m in new town meeting my introverted phone-a-phobe friend. Not surprisingly, I’m lost.  Do I call my introverted friend?  Hell no.  I text.  So to all those of you who love someone or like someone who is a phone-a-phobe:  send a text. (It’s limited to 160 characters, but that’s okay.  Brevity rocks).