The poems shared in By the Wayside were written a few years back, and although they captured events and feelings I was experiencing then, the do not necessarily reflect how I am feeling now. Of course, any poem fits that description. What I find interesting is that even with the passing of many years, when I read these words, I feel the moment vividly again.
Parallel Universe
“When I’m an angel,
I’ll look like that
and you’ll see right through me
won’t you, Momma?”
Wise enough to know
that I was still ignorant of her inspiration,
her ketchuped hands reached across the table
and like Helen Keller, I was forced to see
as she grabbed my chin
and twisted my face to the window.
“Look, Momma, look at me.
See how my fingers match her fingers – 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.
But I can’t touch her. Weird, huh?”
She put her nose to the window and I saw her clearly,
that girl in the window who taught my daughter
to eat peas in her chocolate pudding.
I saw a glimpse of heaven
caught up in the glass
with an angel’s mother
wearing bunny ears behind her head
making our laughter sound in parallel universes
while the angels in the window danced.
And He’s Gone
The phone rang,
but it wouldn’t connect.
It was then that I knew it.
He’s gone.
The soft voice
was kind but cutting
no number was left.
He’s gone.
Hanging up the receiver
gently setting it down
slamming down on my heart.
He’s gone.
Apart for a year
the decision was made,
but today was the day.
He’s gone.
Monster in My Closet
A crack of light
is all I see
from where
I sit.
My feeling of safety
ever shrinking
smaller
so
I come to hide
away from
you
or
sitting in the laundry basket
fingers in my ears
shut the closet
door.
It holds out the sight
but not the sound
I fear from
you
making noises, shouting
bangs against
the floor.
STOP!
I’m afraid and so I stay
and hug my jeans
wet against
my eyes
trembling fingers
clenching air
alone and
scared.
My mind is shouting
back at you
leave her
be.
Please, how can I stop you
hurting her with sounds
only echoing deep
in here.
I don’t know what to do
so I sit quietly
listening fingers
in my ears.
You know I’m small, don’t you
see I haven’t the strength
to keep out
the fear
that keeps growing in the closet
from frightening noises
unable to shut out
or see.
Lurching at me through the door
overtaking rationed reason
wiping at my
tears
that dripping down splash
on my stomach
tightly
ill.
Scraping scuffle of feet
and turning knob
door flies open –
FEAR!
Bright light shocking
eyes closed tight
do I dare look
up
at wild eyes searching
for a secret quiet
place to
hide.
Gasp of quickness
pulling
in now
SHH!
Four ears listening
but not hearing
any little
sound
that comes in sneaking
in between the
hands upon
our ears.
Holding tight now
somehow stronger
two against
the fear
that thumps and crashes
down below us
shouting at
the night.
Even if six more
come in to hide
it would not
be enough
to keep the monster
I’m fearing mostly
in the closet
OUT!
Second Kisses
Twenty years are sold to my memory books
spent faster than the twenty-five cent ticket
to the championship basketball game
that was played with such passion
that the fans continual screams
of ecstasy and agony
still echo within the paint layered walls
of our high school gym.
Scraps of prom dress fabric
are lovingly refelt until the edges
frazzled and limp
swirl too easily in today’s lusty breezes
a mockery to the memory
of the danceless night
when rival school’s tauntings
held our skirts at bay
not allowing the imagined waltzes
that our wispy day dreams foretold.
But hidden kisses caught leather
in a double date’s back seat
when the sun was rising
and the morning began
to be filled with the passion
that I only heard bits of
as my mother so cleverly
changed the subject to biscuits
or creamy no-flour-lump gravy
or other important bits of wisdom
that all good girls should know
instead of contraception.
Her warnings coming out
as half-baked advice
leaving my hungry
for sweet kisses that filled me
with a heat that burned us
in places
my mother
wouldn’t admit
that she knew.
My throat like hers tightening
with words I can’t say
to tell you what you’ve meant to me
and how often I’ve thought of you
and the memories we shared
moments as small as a rock
kicked along a street light lit road
as we stopped every other step
to kiss
or hug
or giggle
or merely stand staring
into each other’s eyes.
I kept that rock
in a box with tickets
and fabric
covered with kisses
for twenty years
through college
through weddings
through jobs and kids
and lump-less gravy.
The rock in my shoe
now heavy with apprehension
that you might not remember
but your eyes say you do
and the touch of your hand
on the small of my back
fits perfectly
into the cut of my dress
and we swirl like crepe paper
turning
turning
from the basketball hoop
and I can barely feel the pain
when we kiss again
but the music ends
and God,
how I love you
as you go home
to your wife.
Bound Beyond Tomorrow
You lie beside me slumbering
caught up in your dream
while I toss and turn
and reach for the nightstand box
containing a ribbon tied bundle
of the letters we wrote
with kisses hidden
beneath the flaps
and stamps on upside down.
My fingertips retrace
our flirtatious rhymes
and our scripted voices
awakens in me
our blended yearnings
so pronounced in the days
when our writing was young.
I read to know what time forgot
my heart listening
to our whispered words
forgotten days
now retelling of love
that bound us together
in written desire.
The mingled words
saturating my soul
drench me in comfort
like a sensuous liquid
bottled up emotions
spilling through time
dropping fragrant teardrops
that caress the page.
Kisses gently flowing
upon your cheek
I lie beside you
passions arousing
caught up in our dream
of ribbons, letters and collected days
lingering long beyond tomorrow.
The Dark Hills Walking
Whispering winds linger
in the dust blown air
fragmented bits of truth
swirling through my mind.
Settling downward… downward
weighted down in pain
accumulated sorrows
mound up in frightening heaps.
The mountain groans and heaves
lamenting to the night
calling out to anyone
who can lift up its soul.
No one is coming.
No one ever came.
No one to stop the anger
slowly standing on its own.
The dark hills walking silently
pressing blackened footfalls
creeping… creeping… creeping
into my restless dream.
My leaden feet stand at the base
labor to climb up
the charred out sooty sides
slipping me downward… downward.
The summit soaring
higher… higher… higher
struggling as I reach out
to who would hold me up.
But no one is coming.
No one ever came.
No one to stop the crying
echoing off the peak.
My agony continues
as black hills come walking
creeping… creeping… creeping
into the light of day.
My fate now looms before me
I stand in morning’s mire
dragging me downward… downward
unable to step forth.
My sadness for eternity
as I grow to realize
no one is coming.
No on ever came.
Cats Whisper
Cats whisper
soft and deep
a scratched album
on a slow speed.
But listen
they’re telling you
let the world revolve
lay in the sun
dream of a place
where cats whisper.
Cats whisper
gentle and nudging
a finger on your shoulder
trying to cut in.
But listen
they’re telling you
let the world dance madly
curl into the arms
of someone you love
and whisper.
Leaving
In the stillness of morning I come out to play
in a sweater and ear muffs and corduroy pants
Whip
Whip
Wind-swept leaves hiding between blades of grass
strip trees almost barren armed left to the cold.
Metal fingers scraping leaves off the ground
scratching dirt rubbing up in ribbed even lines
Scrape
Scrape
A mountain of trembling dust chokes my breath
coming out in a mist with hands barely warm.
Unable to be gathered into the hoarded pile
the fragments unwanted slip through the tines
Whip
Whip
Leaving speckled bits trailing across the yard
tossed away like unwanted fatherly advice.
The rake put down as I kneel on the ground
pushing leaves with raw hands bared to the pain
Scrape
Scrape
I force room into a maze that I only know
that sheltered within could keep out the harm.
Wind-whipping decisions that blow through their lives
send sisters and brothers screaming afar
Whip
Whip
In the stillness of evening they’ve gone out to play
without sweaters or ear muffs or leaf-scraping pants.
Huddled alone in my temporary home
I gather pillow leaves now leaving twigs in my hair
Scrape
Scrape
But finding no comfort and with no one to hold
I’m worn and I’m deaf and I’m corduroy raw.
Whip
Whip
Whip
Whip
Whip
Whip.
Midnight Snacking
when darkness comes
and bedtime nears
a starving monster
now appears
and sends me screaming
this fateful night
check the cupboards
a frightful sight
so night club feasting
at the Fridge-a-dare
pick up a fork
and say this prayer:
fridge light
fridge bright
first snack
I see tonight
I wish I may
I wish I might
have just a bite
to eat tonight
a salad dressing
in nightgown dancing
I toss and turn
in the chocolate pudding
sugar sparkling
like evening stars
I sing of pies
and chocolate bars:
fridge light
fridge bright
first fat
I see tonight
I wish I may
I wish I might
not see the pounds
I’ve gained tonight.
Fireworks
it’s sparkling
but no one can touch
the glittering display
in the heavens
but god
it’s dark
and no one can see
that we’re sitting on blanket
in t-shirts and socks
but no shorts
it’s quiet
but no one can hear
that we’re sighing louder
than the sleeping birds
can snore
it’s warm
and no on can taste
the heat from your kisses
on my bare knees
but me
it’s enveloping
but no one can smell
the scent of our bodies
mingled with roses
but us
it’s heavenly
stars exploding on earth
and no one can tell
us differently
Down in the Ditch
hey, stupid, play
we called to him
and down in the ditch we went
he followed us down
but couldn’t get up
and down in the ditch betrayed
he cried and screamed
we laughed at his plight
but down in the ditch he stayed
he called to his mom
who came to his aid
and down in the ditch she ran
shocked by the sight
she carried him up
and out of the ditch they went
gutter mouths
she called to us
but down in the ditch we played
and later at home
my mother said
out of the ditch you stay
he’s a child with downs
I’ll have you know
down in the ditch for life
we were stupid kids
I’m sorry to say
down in the ditch that day
Down in the Drain
the hour glass from big to small goes big again when time is through
and Santa does it some magical way
down through chimneys
on Christmas Eve
so I’m afraid
it might be so
when the bath
is over
I slip below
the drain
pulling down
to the
dark below
and Santa
down there
wet
with snow
we play
together
with little
ducks
floating
no
mother
calling
the time
is gone
your bath
is over
get out
of the water
the drain
is draining
my
fear
from
the tub
Synchronized
Twelve tanned bathing beauties with skull caps tight
slide into the pool without waving
the aqua calm
waters
their
arms waving
upward they point
to the crowd on the sidelines watching
acclaims of the crowd startle the geese with feathers white
who were grazing on the ground
and they lift skyward
above
and fly as arrows
with wings parade waving
that pierce through the softness of heavenly chants
from the angles above
in heaven’s
realm
cherubs
without halos
are startled to see
more white wings fluttering
against their God’s royal celestial skies
that they cry jealously
with radiant
tears
dripping
down to the ground
splashing ripples in the pool
sending the crowd on the sidelines running
away from the show
of the beauties
below
the sparkling blue
water moving in patterns
synchronized bodies swimming
Miniature Golf
I open the curtain
of my bedroom window
and watch Mr. Snithe
tie red and white fluffs
over his golf clubs
in a futile effort
to hide their worth
from me.
But I know he is packing
more than his clubs
into his sedan.
He is stuffing in
his arrogant attitude
ready to smash
little pee-ons
as far away from him
as his athletic club
pumped up arms
will send them.
He rides like the pope
shepherding his flock of balls
from one trap to the next
on his relentless pursuit
to see a miniature world
sink beneath his feet
into a hole so deep
that I can’t get out
without his generous
money grubbing hands
lifting me out
holding me up
to his critical eye
examining the dents
bruising below my skin.
He smiles at his efforts
and I fall into his pocket
to mingle with the coins
I can never possess.
The curtain is closed.
Making Pancakes
mixing mouse heads
in the bowl
pour in the pan
splatter of oil
burnt on my arm
blister burning
sucking my skin
pancake turning
mice rising
in the morn
flipping over their flesh
upon my plate
where butter soothes
a sizzling sound
syrup drizzling
see how it runs
it all runs after
the butter knife
and off our plates
no carving knife
with fork filled tines
we cut off their heads
and syrup licking
no tails today
we bite through eyes
without any sight
three blind mice
were eaten today
did you ever see
such a sight
in you life
as pancake mice
His Boutonniere
A flower waned in the evening sun
bent down by time and season
I picked and chose this gentle one
only God may know my reason.
I pressed it close to my heart
glistened with a tear
never to lose or drift apart
memento to hold dear.
I tucked into his lapel
he spoke no words to tell
just how his heart would answer mine
a smile his only sign.
He slipped away into the night
taken from my sight
but the haunting fragrance always near
is the scent of his boutonniere.
Winter Lunch
warm thermos of soup
with stop sign crackers
like snowballs thrown in the fight
the steam rising up
and coating my glasses
like frost on the window pane
eaves with icicles
roof sticking soft
like peanut butter marshmallow cream
boiled eggs cracking
held white inside
like salt twists of waxed paper
sprinkling clear ice
on checked napkin laid
like snow covering on the ground
conversations ramble
its twisted way
like boot trails in the snow
and the meal is over
satisfying and good
like springtime after the cold
and there’s nothing so filling
that warms me inside
like lunch with a friend like you
When I’ve Had Too Much
There is a pain that I feel tonight
somewhere in my chest,
a lump,
an undulating lump,
with a pain that bulges in my throat.
I cough.
It is no better.
Loneliness can not be coughed up
like vomit,
discolored, chunked and spewed,
to float in globs
in a porcelain bowl.
I tried.
It does not come up
to give me a sink to my knees relief.
In the bathroom,
the cold tub to my back,
I feel sick.
I cough.
My mother was wrong.
I am not better alone.
Playing Solitaire
I am walking around
playing the puzzle of life
alone.
It is possible
that there is no planet
no world
no population explosion.
It might be only in my mind.
God might be using you,
or an image of you,
to test me
and I am not sure
if I’m playing the game right.
He left no guide book
no paper folded and inserted
found within the game box.
I am only guessing.
I guess that I love you
and that in treating you
as God would treat me,
IS treating me,
that I win.
But when I get to heaven
and discover the truth
that you never really touched me
never really held me
never really loved me back
never were
I won’t care if I won or not.
I’m going to be pissed.
90 – 60 = 30 Similarities
she takes the tabs we threw away
90’s pogs pouncing on sidewalks gray
slamming cardboard circles split and tossed
no crying allowed when collection is lost
angry kids all around, argue and shot
old wrappers from Milky Ways thrown about
cheeky children like green witches cheat
making milkman memories melt in the heat
for they have no box to set out each day
that was my doll’s oven – a 60’s fantasy play
filled with bottles when the milkman came
on the front porch stoop we played our game
balls thrown and jacks snatched for fun
silver stars sparkled at the crack of the sun
30 years of mornings have come and gone
new games are learned now out on the lawn
and I miss those days that I wish she could see
but my daughter’s not wishing she could have been me
her recycled tokens I see from the sideline
my child’s childhood so different from mine
I gave a glass to refresh her while she knelt
but drinking milk up her nose – she learned how I felt
and thirty years more will come to her soon
her children finding uses for wrappers now strewn
Past Ten
from eleven to twelve
from twelve to thirteen
a lifetime is passing
too slow
eleventeen yearning
and twelveteen pretending
a lifetime of wishes
for me
when dreams of adulthood
are fantasy free
a lifetime is knowledge
to know
eleventeen yearning
and twelveteen pretending
a lifetime of proving
to be
adolescent changing
from day to day
a lifetime is friendships
to grow
eleventeen yearning
and twelveteen pretending
a lifetime of loving
just me
past ten I’ve gone
and won’t go back
a lifetime is calling
hello
No Turning Back
The day came with shocking force
and knocked me floorward down
with startled wonderings.
Like a stone wall slowly crumbling
it suddenly hit me
with a crushing blow.
I struggled to stand
the wounds felt gapping raw
exposed to the bone of my legs.
I felt like the walking dead
who know not how to rest
through decisions yet unmade.
Each step I made
forced another still
the turning of the days.
I stumbled through
the outcome of what I did before
for there was no turning back.
I wanted to go to yesterday
looking back to the moment in the past
and change the way it was.
And there to find the courage
to make today a different day
and tomorrow what I dreamed.
But no one let me
through time’s door.
Yesterday was blocked in stone.
Turtle Tough
Your voice is bouncing off my glass
hitting with no sound,
clear windows keeping me from you
protect me all around.
Alone and cold I sit to think
there’s nothing else to see.
It feels like you taken my life away
leaving just this facsimile.
So why are you staring in wonder?
Am I just a real oddity?
Can’t you see that I’m only trying
to cover the hurt part of me?
I stuck my neck out for you once
and you cut at my throat with your word.
I froze up with sharp indignation,
deep down in my blood it was heard.
You’ve discovered I can be quite snappy,
a sharp bite I’ve developed, it’s true.
I’ve little defense for such arrogance;
I needed a rebuttal or two.
But inside I am really a softy.
If you touch me gently you’d see.
That pain is still tender and healing
Please respect that I have to be me.
Someday I may come out in the open.
The shell will come off; I am sure.
I’ll be needing some time for transition.
My insides are so slow to cure.
So offer me a tidbit of kindness,
any leftover will do.
And if you reach out to touch me,
I hope to be lifted by you.
I know that your hand could hurt me.
You could flip me right over to die.
But I’ll have to trust that you love me,
and I’ll bask in that heat while I lie.
On the Calming Water
Minute foam orifice
dancing cautiously
on the glass cut
edge of sand.
Teal-wind fingers
pressing ripples
on the
dripping wet
touch of pain.
Near frozen splashes
chilling water
on the never escaping
drops of shame.
No solid feet
washing clean
on the
stand up
trees of strength.
Soft cheeked dunes
trickling down
on the
dripping down
streams of tears.
Black tint despair
lurking deeply
on the
crying wet
collection of me.
Slow lingering sadness
hiding barely
on the calming water
covering of time.
I Am No More Than You
It is true I have suffered
but so have you
and we cry together
our common tears.
My tears with no more pain
than yours
fall onto the page
as I spill them out.
They land in drops
like Braille to be felt
by you who can’t see
past your own agony.
So I force you to look
at the page where I shout
and in your kindness
you reach out to me.
And in that moment
when you reached for me,
you stopped your crying
and began healing yourself.
A Six Year Old Slow
The morning rings
to awaken me
from my lingering
dream.
Groggy-eyed dust
thrown about in hast
prove that the sandman
left.
Falling back down
shut-eyed surrender
apathetic lash
drops.
Until sunlight
begins slitting through
to an alarming
sight
of hands pointing
at a leisurely
pace directly at
six.
Panic jolts me
the motions quicken
amid cries from us
both.
Preparations
collide with a start
to a scream-screeching
halt.
Last night’s
procrastination
is now taking its
toll.
And there’s no way
to rush a six year old
filling out Valentines
slow.
My Daughter, Only Seven
My daughter is only seven
and yet she dreams of God
standing by the inlet lake
with his hand held out to call.
Her face then seen in the darkened depths
that lakes with algae own
where mothers fear their children drown
alone, alone, alone.
With my arms around her lifeline tight
I hold this world of mine
and desperation crying out
too soft for her to hear,
“What purpose then, my crying now?”
too haunted by my fears.
My daughter, only seven still
she knows, she knows, she knows.
Her hands have reached to heaven’s door
where I don’t dare to go
but dreams are passing with the night
and for now – she sleeps.
I’m Looking Up
The sun is out
and a glimmer of hope
is shining through the clouds.
I see it now
so clear to me
what I could not see before.
But hope has come
and strength is here
to push aside my fears.
I’m breathing deeply
the crisp fresh air
of pride.
I will not fail
to conquer that
which crushed me just before.
I’m looking up
instead of down
and out into the day.
Whatever is just beyond
will have to be a better view
than what I’ve seen before.
And so I’m not afraid
to venture out
into the change of life.
The light it seems so
comforting and beckoning
I look forward to its warmth.
And soon, so soon,
I will be there
and looking back on here.
Upon Mowing the Grass
I’m mowing the grass
because it’s Labor Day
and the government thinks
it is logical that I stay home
from work to work.
But when not laboring
I’m earning less money
while my daughter still needs
new dancing shoes.
Depressed, I turn on the t.v.
The networks are choreographing
a slow continual promenade
of happy legless children
begging in wheelchairs.
But I haven’t their courage
to watch.
Then my daughter shadow waltzes
past the window outside,
her legs footless in ankle high grass,
so turning off t.v.’s glare
and following her into the sun,
I mow.
Out in the Garage
I bought a house
for my daughter and I
to live in
after two years
in different apartments
and I desperately wanted
to give her a home
that will grow in her memories
as a place of comfort
where she will know
that she belongs
but it wasn’t until
I pulled up the garage door
to that smell of old air
that dusty
cut grass
lawn mower
engine oil
enamel based paint fumes
mingled with wet cardboard boxes
intoxicating memories
of grandpa,
dad,
and husband
who have all gone
with the years
but come back
with that waft
of yesterday’s odor
that welcomed us
and let us know
that we’re home.
Making Soup
Sophia was my grandmother
before she became an angel
that watches over my child
as she sleeps.
Sophia was a gardener
who watered beans and carrots
in the hand-hoed soil
of her husband’s land.
Sophia was a survivor
of the depression
of eleven children
who all hungered for soup.
Sophia was a soup maker
before she became a memory
that hangs in my kitchen
like her potholders.
I am a mother
of a little angel
who dreamed of soup
for her supper.
I am not a gardener
who can find beans or carrots
in any place
but my cupboard.
But I am a survivor
of the depression of motherhood
that expects me to be
a soup maker.
I open the can
adding paid-for water
and flavor my soup
with the tarnish of her ladle.
We make soup.
The Encounter
There was something about him
that allowed me to give
more of myself
than I had prepared to give.
And I gave it freely.
No regrets.
No.
It felt as though it were not me
entangled in his taking
more of myself
than I had prepared to give.
And he took it freely.
No regrets.
No.
For days the memory lingers
more in my mind
than his
more of myself
than I had prepared to give.
And regrets.
Yes.
Now regrets.
Yes.
I’d had given him more
if only I had more to give.
And he would take it freely.
No regrets.
No.
The Diary
the book lay open
to the page
where her tear had fallen
smearing the truth
of her indiscretions
and he came to her
holding her gently
not speaking
a single word
only soft kisses falling
paper smooth
upon her brow
and she opened up
herself to him
and he wrote
of his love
on her heart
Give Thanks
Thanksgiving is for indulging
that sinful gluttony
blatantly displayed
in the comforting laughter
of those we love.
The center of interest
has glistening skin
and is succulently dripping,
so lips licking
we wait
for the bird to be done.
And you are
across the table from me
with hand twirling your fork
dancing with the anticipation
of digging in
to stuffing and gravy
and buttery drips.
And I
across the table from you
with hands twisting my napkin
impatient with waiting
for devouring
you.
The blessing is said.
Amen.
Reality
This man is different
than my fantasies imagined.
He did not bring me roses
nor breathless words
entwined within my hair.
He brought me fish.
Battered and fried
they were the best fish
I had ever tasted.
Still, my store bought flowers
mocked me as I ate.
This man doesn’t call
to say good morning
or good night
or stuff.
And yet my tree limb was cut
away from bowing wires.
The sky so blue
where branches were
the best I ever saw.
Still an empty patio chair
heated up from noon day sun.
This man by day
left with a cold kissless goodbye
to come back at night
and heat me with his touch
the best
the best
the best…
No mockery allowed.
In a Snow Globe Storm
In a dome of glass
I saw the town
in a world topsy-turvy
with no one about
caught without people – just think.
That whizzing around
settled down on the town
in a town without children
with no one about
that buried their bodies in snow.
No angels in white
who could pray to their God
in a place with no heaven
with no one about
trapped in a snow globe storm.
As the night settled in
on the snow globe town
no lights were turned on
with no one about
to see in this up-side-down world.
I’m outside looking in
on the terrible whirl
I can’t warn of the danger
I’m all shook about
a place without people – just drink.
Grow!
I can die now, I just begin to live.
How can I say that
and yet go on
as if I hadn’t heard myself.
Okay, so I don’t often listen
and I more often speak
of what I don’t know anything about.
But I know this.
I can’t grow just because you tell me to
any more than the plants that are dying
this minute in my flower box.
They need water.
I need you to leave me alone
so that I can grow at my own pace
or die.
No dumping in my head with your ideas.
No stuffing your words into my mouth.
I will not spit them back at you.
My mother raised me to be more polite.
She taught me to crochet
and I am proud to say
that I can make lovely pansy shaped doilies.
A necessary life skill.
Sure to come in handy
when a man asks forgiveness
and he needs a white halo to soften his sins
and leave no marks on the table.
And yet you say it must be so.
My very life depends on it.
Grow.
So be it.
But I must warn you.
I don’t think I’ll like being a daisy.
They’re too yellow.
A silken replica of you.
Fears
Sometimes when I’m quiet
and I’m not talking to you
in the rambling way that I have
that I know you don’t really listen to anyway,
I’m afraid.
I’m thinking about how I’m going to save
some money from my next paycheck
and the next
and the next
and buy cans of tuna fish or Spaghettios or beans
and hid them in the space under the stairs
or up in the ceiling tiles
in case of war.
So I can eat only a little each day
and I won’t get too fat and cause the neighbors to wonder
if I have food hidden while they are starving
and I build a fence and don’t prune back the trees
hiding the vegetables growing under a tarp
in case a plane flying over would see
that I’m afraid.
If the soothsayers warnings should start coming true
and I’ve got to get out of town before they come
I’ve got to have matches in a plastic bag
and my dad’s old knife with a sharpening stone
and a jacket for winter to keep off the rain.
I’d head north because there are woods there
deep and dark to get lost in until it’s over
and I can go home.
Home to listen to you talking in that rambling way
that gets my mind thinking of all the things I’m afraid of,
and now I’ve totally forgotten what we were talking about.
Would you tell me again?
I Make the Day
This winter day like any other
the sun shines like before
what makes this moment
more than most
is what I take from you.
I make the day with memories
the kind my mother gave
to help me hold on to her
and grandma gone to God.
Decorations pulled from time
and hung upon the tree
the handmade boot in red and green
remembrance of a life gone by
when you would smile at me.
Crispy crackling of the fire
fallen logs their ashes crumble
into the dust of yesterday
it flames up love to heat today
my cherished traditions glowing.
The bread is baking the scent to rise
like warm and steamy hugs
I need that taste upon my tongue
of yesterday right now.
My grandma’s touch, my mother’s touch
have reach through time to me
I hand them to my daughter now
with floured whiteness on our fingers
clasping tight to hold the day.
I make the day with memories
with tender gestures seen in her
that make me think of you
lingered glimpses of a former time
that stay though you are gone.
The bread we share and laughter too
stories told to keep you dear
I make the day with memories
this time, and time again.
Hand to Hand
I reach down to grasp her hand
her tender grip returns
our eyes fixed upon our smiles
connected to our bond.
The warm linking of ourselves
in one we venture forth
to stand beside the edge of age
where mothers can not cross.
The children’s voices calling out
to any that would hear.
My child is captured by the urge
to join the youthful game.
I feel the tug, the Mommy come
to play the game with them.
I can not go. They call for you.
You have to go alone.
Fingers release, but then catch on
the shyness creeping in.
It’s okay. I’ll watch from here.
I hug, then pull away.
She pivots with uncertainty
the choice too hard to make
until the child while running near
holds out a hand to her.
She reaches out while looking back
to see if I approve.
I smile my happiness to her
and thank you’s to the girl.
So off they run hand in hand
to play the game awhile
with me to wonder of the thought
of letting go – and gone.
Life on the Fringes
They stand outside inhaling
the stories told
laughing exaggerated puffs
at the butt of the joke
only remotely funny.
If only to say later at lunch
they were there all along
and heard every word
as if they were a necessary
piece of the action.
Like the fringe of a cover
hanging over the edge
their scent lingering still
concealing from the others
the drag that they’re on.
Only gathering dust balls
as they sway to and fro
wishing to be a part
of the put-down layers
in a thrown together quilt.
Without warning pulled off
in a wavering unraveled yarn
by a twittering adolescent
lying around they are left
in an unwanted heap on the floor.
And so on their own
they are unable to join
back with the rest
and are swept up as debris
and tossed into the fire.
Where they are wanted no longer
for fear that they’d stain
the addicting reputation
and comforting life
of a middle school pack.
Reduced down to ashes
when hearing the gag
they are unable to smile
and the joke smoking still
in the restrooms of school.
In Mr. Gringrich’s Briefcase
Mr. Gingrich teaches science to seventh graders
a frightening thought in itself,
but more chilling than that to the wonder of kids
is what is in Gringrich’s briefcase.
He brings it daily to class with it closed up tight
and nobody’s ever seen in it.
They guess and they giggle of what they think in it
the mystery of Gringrich’s briefcase.
Perhaps it holds formaldehyde toads or paramecium parents,
and nobody knows for sure if it holds bones or fossils,
tapeworms or Playboys, or the substitute’s bra.
Does he carry fuses and switches, explosives or time bombs,
with only seconds to tick, or missing messages the president needs
to save the world from war?
Perhaps it holds just leftover lunch, hard drugs or narcotics
keeping him sane on the job.
But since now one has seen inside the cover
the list grows bigger each passing year
of what’s in Gringrich’s briefcase.
I Fly in My Dreams
Walking along past homes I don’t know
the faces and people are staring at me.
As my body floats past them
they are startled to see
me drifting upward
and leaving them
down.
Soaring along past posts on the ground
birds on the wires are staring at me.
As my body floats past them
they are startled to see
me drifting upward
and leaving them
down.
Flying along past fluffy clouds in the sky
pilots of airplanes are staring at me.
As the passengers fly by me
they are startled to see
me stuck in the wires
and I can not get
down.
Drifting along past my shouts of need
the angels above are staring at me.
As prayers lift to God above
they are startled to see
He will not get me
down.
Crying softly aloud in my flying dream
my caring husband is waking me.
With the gift of morning
I am startled to see
the sun coming
up.
I Dance Alone
My pajamas are cold
and covered with bears
that dance across silk fabric.
But my robe is warm
and covered with fur
as I hold it across my chest.
And I drink cocoa so warm
and covered in cream
that floats across the surface.
The cup leaves my hands warm
as when covered by yours
dancing across my heart.
And the music flows warm
covering cold kitchen tiles
as I swirl across the floor.
But my slippers are warm
and covered with bows
as they dance across the room.
I dream of kisses warm
covered with love
that brush across my lips.
And a tear trickles warm
and covers my skin
dancing down my cheek.
The memories linger warm
as I cover my thoughts
bringing you back to me.
But I know that you’re cold
your body covered with dirt
and I dance on the floor alone.
Abort
The power lines were there first
hanging up man’s pride
in his accomplishments.
And so the tree
not thinking as straight,
but gnarled,
grew up not knowing
shw was in the way.
Her boughs spread wide
to strain the sun of rays
bearing down upon man’s earth.
Come mighty men with axes high
cut deep into her canopy.
Gut a slit so deep within the tree
her branches spread as stirruped birth
and lost virginity.
Raw stumps bleed their colorless tears
crust in time to seal inside the degradation
repeating and repeating
until it becomes the very circle of her life.
The shame to bare the passerby’s glare
can not stand to see.
No children play
no kite strings wound
within the leaves and twigs.
Stripped of life, she waits.
She waits for the return of a blood red bird
whose fledgling flight
left a feathery paternal breast
softly quivering as the aspen do
when the wind won’t show its face.
Roots hold her tight, she can not fly
from the nest that she has built
with the stumps of her cradled palms
and the shameful pride of bark stands tall
exposing the injustice of us all.
Grandma Crossing the Bridge
Water soaked gapping wood
edges my grandmother’s washboard
with ridged wavy glass leaving no splinters
for those who toil to wash the tears away.
When my chores are done
and night falls into memories
that dance slowly upon the wall,
Sophie stands astride the toothless bridge
with her apron pockets hanging low
and fists inside hiding tight and hard
as wrinkles in her brow.
Too lovely to be worn by day
Sophie’s babushka in colors like my own
is wrapped weighted down with rhinestone pins
and worn around my daughter’s head
while she struts with head held beauty pageant high
to see angels crossing bridges floating above her bed.
I could never see her standing by my bed.
But my daughter, only seven, speaks to her instead.
Fear for Tomorrow
Future stood before Scrooge
with an outstretched hand.
Scrooge with uncertainty whispered,
“It is you I fear of all.”
Future stands before me
with an outstretched hand.
But I tell the specter this,
“It is fear I fear of all.”
Fear puts the flame in the arson’s hand
and hands the noose to the lyncher.
Fear presses the nozzle in the vandal’s hand
and hands the soldier his gun.
Fear finds fault in every face
when it can not see its own.
And hidden in that cloak of fear
a heart loses its life.
I offer Future my outstretched hand
and tell the specter this,
“I bravely face my fears today.
I will not fear you, Tomorrow.”
Nothing Without His Name
In HIS image and HIS likeness, God created man.
With heavenly life blown into dust and bones,
God tried to make man perfect as HE was.
And he was.
So man was born and they put a name upon his tiny wrist
to proclaim to the world that he had arrived.
He was.
He sought the knowledge God alone possessed
so he went to school with a tag on his neck.
He had arrived.
He was.
But not leaving well enough alone, man embellished himself
in designer clothes that promised to make the man.
He had arrived.
He was.
Later he cast them aside for a more current fad
because he needed more important names on his ass.
He had arrived.
He was.
Leaving school with his diploma, he entered the workforce
with a plastic name tag to prove it.
He had arrived.
He was.
He worked to death to obtain it all, and down in the morgue
a tag on this toe proclaimed to all:
He had arrived.
He was.
I’m Looking Up
The sun is out
a glimmer of hope
shining through the clouds.
I see it now
so clear to me
what I could not see before.
Now hope has come
and strength is here
to push aside my fears.
I’m breathing deeply
the crisp fresh air
of pride.
I will not fail
to conquer that
which crushed me just before.
I looking up
instead of down
and out into the day.
Whatever is just beyond
will have to be a better view
than what I’ve seen before.
So I’m not afraid
to venture out
into the change of life.
The light is seems so
comforting and beckoning,
I look forward to its warmth.
And soon, so soon
I will be there
and looking back on here.