24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
In the Pool
With my granddaughter
Is a perfect joyous space
The Arizona sun beats down
The water is warm yet cooling.
The child at ten still
Plays with abandon.
She is safe and knows it…
Has no idea what a luxury that is.
Immersed in vivid colors
A world of vibrant wonder
A visual symphony
Temperatures rising
Foreign debris has moved in
Colors scream before fading
Residents are gone
Bleached skeletons remain
“I slowly stare at the blue water rushing by,
As I sit down and dip my toes in the cold river,
And the river keeps flowing unconcerned,
Eventually I gently ease myself into the river,
And bathe in its refreshing cold water,
I feel the weight of the modern day,
Slowly lifted off my back,
As I fall in love with the flowing water.”
The one thing that I needed
Was the same you wouldn’t grant me
I tried further explanation
But you couldn’t understand me
Couldn’t being wouldn’t
You had so very many chances
And if only you had asked
I would’ve given all the answers
I needed ‘cause I love you
I needed utter disbelief
But when I asked you why
You married me
To show me I’m naïve
You looked me in the eyes and said
I thought you’d never leave
Shadow of the Tower
In the shadow of the Tower
just beyond the Circle,
practicing Tai Chi in Central Park
as Bennie, Zoe, Liz, Adams,
broadcast tales of criminal corruption.
Empty wine bottle on nearby bench
proclaims last night’s comradery,
debauchery while other creatures slumber.
Brazen little brown mouse
scampers between our feet
asking for some reciprocity,
some quid pro quo.
“How about I don’t crawl up your leg,
you drop me some food.”
We play in Central Park,
home to mobster mice,
guarded by monuments to evil men.
The door opened and the room came into view. It was a room brought together by
musicians and artists and writers and their guests. It received them. There was
no challenge as to which group was most important. The musicians wanted
audiences to hear their music. The artists wanted people milling about looking at the pieces on the walls and tables that they had created. The writers, who had worked, through nights
with candles burning down to save electricity wanted people to hear their words,
the order of the words they had chosen and the ideas the words generated.
They needed people, guests. All of the people who came to visit the room were
its guests. Guests of the other artists and guests of each other. They all gave
their time, the most important thing that they each had to give, to each other.
She could pinch on the
inside of your arm with her
thumb and index nails
so fast and hard a bruise rose
immediately, water
spilled out of your eyes
as a reflex, and if you
flinched, you got one more.
I wore sleeves for five
years, kept my hear down, sang all
the right notes… always.
They say a little
black dress, the right one, will change
your life, and it’s true.
I wanted that sleek sleeveless
shift more than her approval
more than her threats of
never being good enough
for her, more than her
intimidations, and her
promises of leaving me.
That little black dress
saved me. In the shower one
morning, she grabbed my
upper arm. Seering hot pain
blew through me to my fingers
familiar blood welts
made crescent shapes in my flesh.
That afternoon I
bought the dress. I left her that
night, and I never went back.
I didn’t wear the
dress for almost a year. When
I finally did
my arms were clear, and my head
was clear, and my heart was healed.
And I looked fabulous.
.
From Across The Pool
And the fire burns
as the hotel shines bright
Six rescue trucks light
the way, pick-up volunteers.
Flash, flash, flash the window
screams, holding tightly.
Lightning streaks across the sky.
Old red trucks pile
in, water tanks poised
to aim, but nothing
ever comes, no men
to bear arms. Electrical
stairwell waiting to win.
And the fire burns,
screams holding tightly,
wisps of hope trailing high.
Ubiquity in my memory
The fact that you are missed
As the day glows yellow and orange
The summer of the eighties
Overlooking you for brighter birds
They sing sweet melodies
But I cherish the rattle and the chatter
An epitome of freedom
You don’t show the weakness and pain
You hide behind the tough guy charade
So, no one can see you afraid and cold
You taught me to let go and fly freely
I let my heart break
over a lost father I barely knew
all the while pinning blame to my mothers sleeve
I am not sure I am ready
to turn back clocks
or erase pain that felt like gasoline dousing me
until I caved to the twisted truth
that not everything that happens
can be placed securely in named spot
I miss German chocolate birthday cakes
sneaky smiles from across the room
momma letting me bend rules because I am the oldest.
I miss well intentioned IOU’s
in my Christmas stocking
late night Turkey Dinners
the kind that start prep at noon
I do not miss the disappointment in your voice
the curled lip when I refuse to fold
never caving to your interpretations of my “imagined” pain
At 44 I learned that while you might not have lied
you certainly have a knack for bending truth
I am not sure I will ever escape the guilt I feel
over feeling things you thought I aught not have felt
while I was dealing with things I didn’t know how to process
and you were helping in the only way you’d ever been helped
I can still hear you chewing ice
if I let myself
I guess you had coping mechanisms as well?
Everyone in the family has some spin
on the black sheep I am
and my imagined struggles
I guess the way you see it
I let my heart break
————————————————————————–
My Dearest Mother
If we never speak again
know I am trying