24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Putting mom by
Fresh ripe bossy
Tomatoes boiled into
Clear wide jars
Without consent
Waiting their destiny
Packing mom away
Moving her into
Clean narrow rooms
Her things divided
Beyond her touch
Sweet bumpy corn
Shaved off the cob
Pickled to last
Revived for
Dinner with ham
Mom fades with
Little grace
No longer queen
Her blue lips quiver
Never to taster
Sweet corn and ham
THE MONTH OF JUNE
crick clack snack she’s a
Jack of all trades
taking her sweet time mulling over
every
last
ounce of sweat.
Their sweat, not hers, she’s transferred pain
onto them and they have
no chance to decamp other than
to accept their fate:
she’ll circle ’round the mount about the
same time every year,
to haunt the minds of impressionables
and to steal
the
breath
of
cold.
yellow rainbow
first food
put me in
a writing mood
monkeys favorite
playful phone
I can’t do this
on my own
all night coffee
and red wine
you’re a morning
friend of mine
crack your neck
peel off your skin
this just got dark
and made me grin
Remember the doll you made me,
her tiny, bendable limbs,
her auburn, embroidery-floss hair?
And that marvelous cape?
Remember the calligraphy you penned
and framed to spur me on in my writing?
Remember that first taste of shared freedom
when I visited you at college,
and you showed me the spot
where the warmth came up the sidewalk,
and another where a poet riffed on the stars.
We talked until you were hoarse.
May we never forget
our latest rain-drenched adventure
where we soaked to the skin in the woods
and I finally ruined my dress shoes.
I love how we fall, sometimes, into
singularly satisfying conversations–
explorations of ideas,
musings over an infinite map.
The gift of you as my sister, my dear,
is inestimable–a thing beyond achievement or price.
I love You.
I love the way you are sitting there
Smoking cigarettes
in a row.
I love the way you turn
your back on me
to show
how much you do
not care
if I leave behind something
or not.
This was something you always
forgot
when I was a soulful
poet
how much I love you anyway
I’ll never
forget.
As a modern day version of the biblical Samaritan Woman (also known as the Woman at the Well in John 4) I survived child abuse and four broken marriages. At age 50 I met my FIFTH husband…who said he did not see me as a “messed up woman…but a woman who had never been loved the way she deserved”. (Later he said he saw me “Through the Eyes of Jesus”. What woman would not be overjoyed to be so “well-loved”. It was the Unconditional Love I had never known in human form. After sixteen years together he lost his cancer battle and I am still learning to live without my Soul Mate. For almost all of those sixteen years my husband Gerry (initials G.O.D.) performed with me as Denee The Clown while working with disabled students in the public school system. He was a Hero to many more than just me!
You said you saw me through the Eyes of Jesus
Not a woman who was too far gone to save
You weren’t afraid to walk with me
This Divine Appointment made you brave
We spent many hours talking
and then one day we KNEW!
God had brought the two of us together
Our Spirits were “brand new”
Two hearts that needed healing
joined forever to be ONE
We saw so many miracles
and we had So much fun!
You shed your shy demeanor
then “Denee the Clown” appeared
We served up Joy and Laughter
and we often volunteered
You helped with the disabled
the students in your care
and anytime I needed help
Guess WHO was always there!
My love, you were my Hero
I am lost without you here
But the God you put your trust in
Is the ONE who keeps me near
He said He’d be a husband
to the Widows left behind
For you were an Earthly Preview
of HIS LOVE…the Heavenly kind
A love that’s always Giving
A love that’s ever True
How Blessed I was to love you
and to be SO WELL-LOVED by YOU!
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For the flowers in the urban tree pits,
for pictures of flowers on facebook,
for flowers for sale and displayed
in the city groceries.
For remembrance of flowers
in the front yard and in the back yard
at our home and at my grandparent’s,
for Mom who volunteered at the Garden Club.
For the church member who brought flowers
to my parents in the nursing home,
for my sister who works for a florist,
for another sister who takes photos of flowers.
For my best friend who has a tattoo of a tiger lily
encircling her belly button.
For someone who gave me an Easter Lily with love,
for those who enable my love to flower.
For all who read this and learn they
gave their gift as a flower to grow.
Beneath The Surface
Lurking there, beneath the surface, hides an insidious spiny thing.
With spikes for hair and claws for hands, never turn your back on the hideous being.
For it’s lightening quick, conscienceless incarnate and, above all, extremely, hellaciously vain.
Spiraling out of control and then freezing, you can never anticipate the creature’s response.
Quite neglectful and woeful, avoiding interactions, whenever and however, at every and all cost.
For the inner critic is a beast wrought and writhing, immoral and, yes, quite mental and insane.
The risks of appreciation more a list than a poem, but that’s okay.
The people get so little praise unsolicited, Unexpected,
appreciation and praise
Atta girl and you did great
That their first reaction is to bridle
stiffen as though this might be some joke
some setup to humiliate them.
Keep it simple, clear, and always truthful.
Do not be carried away with lavish praise.
Be specific about what you liked.
It does not matter where it lay on some cosmic scale
YOU liked it and are expressing your admiration and appreciation.
Do not force them to accept the praise,
Offer it like you would offer a cold beverage,
and accept refusal cheerfully.
It was delivered and it will work its charm.
But it is worth the ristk.
