To who I was

I miss my mind at seventeen,
wide open, inhaling scripts whole,
tape recorder, keeping copies clear

I miss my heart at twenty four
 pulsing with hope,  confident
love would withstand every storm.

I miss my body at thirty two,
strong, graceful,  life iving,
confident in the flow of the dance.,

I miss my soul at fifty five,
sheltering matriarch soul, steady,
root, trunk, branch and leaf.

At sixty four, mind slower,
 heart sadder,body stiffer,
 soul weary, I am myself still.

This poem was written for dVerse Poetics

Told

Five years old, elective mute.

Her parents brought her to therapy

on employee assistance - five sessions max.

Four and a half sessions, she played.

I talked, waited, hoped. Twenty minutes left.

I told her "Last chance, Please tell me now."

I held my breath. She told. I called the police.


For Poets United Poetry Pantry.

Tranquility

After flash and crash of storm, 
tranquility hangs silent, perfect, 
a single shining raindrop caught
for one moment, gone the instant
squirrel shakes branch. Transient.
This poem was written for Poets United Midweek Motif, where the theme istranquility.

Visit?

Scent of fresh peaches boiling in sugar 

water woke me from well intentioned nap.

She leaned over the bassinet, her back to me.

Familiar blue dress, red scarf, neat white bun.

Time creased hand stroked soft cheek.

My grandmother crooned over my firstborn.

No matter she was fourteen years dead. 

This seems right for All Saints Day (and yes I know Jews don't celebrate All Saints Day but what the heck?)  Some possibilities seem to cross traditions.  Anyway, this one is for Poets United Poetry Pantry

Rainy October Night

Wind shakes windows, roars and

croaks against illusions of protection.

Walls resist intrusion, push banging back.

Water pounds roof, knocking insistenly

reminding me death will knock too soon.

posted for  Poets United Poetry Pantry 

Writer

Writer breathes soul into characters
creates life from memory and word
orchestrates details, crafts world
until finally characters rise up real 
to make the story their own.  


This is written for Poets United Midweek Motif.  The theme is "Animation."

Haunted

 

I am dry in my house, this rainy night

but cannot settle to sleep. He haunts me.

Can you spare a dollar?  he asked

and I could, I did.  That was all I did,

placed  crisp dollar in shaking hand,

got back into warm car, laughed with

grandson, ate a Rollo, wound my yarn. 

And the man sat in the rain behind Savers

with his crutches and his cast and the

sense of death surrounding him.  I gave

him a dollar, left him there.  He haunts me.