Sunday, July 31, 2011

Woke Up Shirley Temple-ish

Waking up on the living room floor , she found a "Jesus

Loves You" flyer stuck to her forehead, OMG…

her straight hair was formed into tight ringlets;

it was also apparent that the group experimented

with spray-on-tan last night too; only to suffer her body

with disastrous results. Instead of bronzed goddess,

she ended up looking dirty, jaundiced, Shirley Temple-ish …

a major spray tan fail - some vacation high jinx!

Hiding indoors instead of heading to the beach,

she sank into a full tub attempting to scrub the stain off.

Now she was just blotchy brown and pale white…

her humor intact, she saw herself as coated in Holstein

cow style patches in rusty brown and beige or mammoth

liver spots or giraffe  or… she’d run out of ideas.

Friends knew she was prescribed sleeping pills;

it really was unconscionable for them to play their tricks.

OMG… she hopped out of the soaking bath, jumped

into her bathrobe, threw herself to grab her laptop;

OMG… their youTube tanning video was going viral…


Saturday, July 30, 2011

Smack Down -- Poetry 2011

Wondering how much a punching bag

would cost, she considered a pillow…

just not the same sound  or spring.

When you punch a leather bag, you feel

the solid contact, the smooth leather,

the movement as it bounces backward.

Nope, a pillow won’t do at all…

it’s too soft and forgiving.  Her hand would

collapse into the depth without much sound.

Longing for the respectful smack, she looked

around her miniscule living quarters – nothing…

nothing would satisfy her need to punch out

her frustration; to smack down this stupidity;

to jab, jab, jab until her muscles ached and she

could work up a soaking sweat – rather than

a dainty example of lady like perspiration.

Wondering how Cinderella or Snow White

managed after marrying their prince charming.

Did they live happily ever after or instead did

reality break into the fairy tale relationship?

Sighing she felt the need to breach some

of the rules just to feel somewhat human;  

she hoped someday to look back on her ex

with nostalgia and respect instead of

remembering what an incredible jerk he is…


Friday, July 29, 2011

Summer Flavors -- Poetry 2011

Ice cream is one of the few things that

could still make me happy the same way

it made me happy when I was a kid:

carefree, at ease and perfectly content.

My three favorite flavors were strawberry,

pistachio, vanilla with Maple syrup poured on it…

Ben & Gerry’s plethora of choices wooed me

away from my childhood old stand by choices.

I would be enjoying a spontaneous surge of happiness

devouring an ice cream cone on this hot summer day

except for the late onset allergy to dairy…


Thursday, July 28, 2011

Filled -- Poetry 2011

Floating in viscous

Unflavored gelatin

Thick but not gooey

Blurred peripheral vision

Slow motion

Slower thoughts

While everyone else

Speeds by at warp speed

Visible energy trail

Blazing through their time

Seriously depleted

Logically unkempt

Seasoning bland

One foot in front of the other

Never failing to proceed

Dancing out of tune

Out of rhythm with their world…

Remembering the roses

Hearing the birds sing

Simple serenity

Disturbed by others

Passing a heavy wake

As they speed through life

Every minute filled

Afraid to miss what?


Soap Soup -- Poetry 2011

Do you remember the brown Bon Ami bar soap?

It was a strong soap used to wash car oil off hands

or scrub down skin coated in poison ivy oil.

Well, when I hit the Pearly Gates…

my mother is going to serve up a bowl of it.

Swearing has become second nature…

I’m a total potty mouth – at least when alone.

Such profanity would make mother beat red;

I can still see her face when I occasionally

let a curse slip when in high school; nothing

as nasty as what is said today, I was so naïve,

I never heard the “f” word until I was in college.

No one I knew ever said it; we were shy stay-at-

home girls, well behaved and do-gooders too.

Something snapped – maybe a midlife crisis…

I’m not looking forward to the soapy bowl but

in the words of Samuel Clemens aka Mark Twain:

Under certain circumstances, profanity provides

a relief denied even to prayer.


Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Careful of Loyalty -- Poetry 2011

Saw someone amazingly like you yesterday...

freaked me out; I was so startled having left

you so long ago and later moving across country.

My heart skipped a beat or two - partly fear, partly lost

love… we were friends first. I didn't see you as anything

more but you convinced me. I'm obviously not a very good

judge of character. I thought you were the best person I

ever met… I lost so much more than your love.

I was loyal to him but loyalty is like the dog leading the leash.

The dog loves you but wants to go where it wants to go.

Why didn’t he say after the children were born that he wanted

to leave; it would have been far easier… would have hurt like

hell but his sneaking around, lying, disrespecting me while I

tended the children, did all the good wife things and waited…

waited, waited until I was brave enough to check the credit

card bills, phone records and finally confronted him…

I could have hidden everything and you never would have known…


That’s it. --- Poetry 2011

I'm through with men.  I will love my friends, cute shoes,

music and my projects but I can't give me heart away again.

It never ends well.

Sipping on a mocha latte, she couldn’t help but overhear

the two women sitting behind her; she wanted to turn and share

a good cry with the broken hearted… she’d given up long ago.

So many mishaps and mismatches in the dating disaster but the

worst to come was a few years into the marriage; how she stayed…

her parents were furious that she hadn’t left sooner; run at full

speed away from catastrophic danger as his anger intensified.

Believe me I have had my share of revenge fantasies; worst of all,

I still love him. I don't want his life to fall apart. I just wish I could tell

him what a jerk he is and that he never deserved me in the first place!

Her mom was amazed that after being separated and divorced for two

years… she believed her mom’s words were, “I never thought you’d

be alone this long.” What would mom say now? Twenty seven years later…

fear is still in her heart; mistrust that she’ll choose another user and abuser.

She gave up completely so long ago realizing it’s some inherent weakness

to rescue the unworthy, give till she was empty, loose herself in “him”.

She gave up when she still had a shape, vigor, a total catch for any man;

she gave in to an internalized terror that she didn't deserve – leftover from

childhood, the pattern of victimization that she hadn’t been able to erase.

She wasn’t bitter; it’s choices, her choices… her coffee was good;

she felt warm inside – simple pleasures enjoyed alone…


Robert Frost  said: "A poem begins with a lump in the throat; a homesickness or a love-sickness. It is a reaching out toward expression, an effort to find fulfillment. A complete poem is one where an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found the word."

Monday, July 25, 2011

Tea Time --- Poetry 2011

Woke up in a bad mood - I don't like this day already…

Even the most charmed lives have a bit of darkness.

I was drama free for 5 years and it was fine. It's not that I lack

confidence or that I hate men.

You were well guarded believe me after he died and here you

are finally moving forward after grieving for all those years.

The odds of me finding what I want are less than my odds

of winning the lottery so I'm done gambling.

Have some more tea… men are more complicated than

you can imagine. They say contrast is necessary for perspective.

 I’m not ready to put men on pedestals so I can throw darts at them.

Right now I can't even decide if the snooze button is good or evil.

It’s definitely evil. Mine has a frown face sticker on it!

It's just that I had a taste of a certain level of love and now nothing

else compares. The disappointment and heartbreak just aren't worth it.

Why can't people act the way I want them to?

For the most part, people are un-programmable just like life… I carry

this quote from Louis Adamic around with me… "My grandfather

always said that living is like licking honey off a thorn."


Sunday, July 24, 2011

Next Chance -- Poetry 2011

Dogs rarely look skyward contemplating existence.

Head tilted back staring into star dusted sky suddenly

choking back a rush of tears at midnight…

there before her the expanse from horizon to horizon

containing the deep mysteries of light and space.

Her stifled loneliness slipped out; an eternal longing

to share the night walks with a two legged companion.

Sorry Corgis, you count in a different way; brown eyes

turned to her discomfort sounds and just as quickly

back to marking over other dog’s marks.

Tears dried back to sanity and comfort with being alone.

She loved the brown eyed regard so open to her…

she loved their willingness to traipse the silent darkness.

Catching a flash across the ultramarine blue, she wished

she could regard others openly with full eye contact.

Strolling back home, the dogs kept nose to the ground;

she scanned the skies for her next chance to make a wish…  


Saturday, July 23, 2011

Whole Time -- Poetry 2011

Failing at love over and over was due to her habit

of projecting what she wanted to see on her partner.

Not that it was far off from whatever mate she was

fixated on at the time; she actually understood men.

She just coated them in her needs disguising typical

male patterns; she wrapped them in longing too.

None of her past flames hid who they were: their habits,

their thoughts, their behavior, their interests…

Coddling relationships, the soft boiling water

often broke the coating free, unwrapped her grip.

Men celebrated release from her net confused

about what had drawn them in the first place.

Blind to her devices, she was disappointed when

she saw what was there the whole time; no love

but a male using her as much as she used him…


Art Studio --- Poetry 2011

Part 1

Why was she sleeping on an air mattress?

dogs bark woke her slightly … so sleepy

she drifted off again in her childhood room.

Reawakening to air stream from a leak

that whispered in her ear “you’re stuck”.

Sandwiched between the wall and the bed, she

was wrapped tightly within a curled deflated form.

Now she was a mattress burrito, hot dog in a bun,

a gyro wrap but she knew where the leak was…

Part 2

Getting untangled in the dark room, she stretched

out her arms finger reaching for the shut door.

Turning the knob, the light cracked then flooded

into her bedroom… confused – hadn’t she just

been home in her Robin egg blue bedroom.

Why was this room so tidy, organized, peaceful

in its Zen simplicity? Of course,  across the hall,

another room. How did she miss it before?

Part 3

Fully awake at last, acknowledging another dream

of being stuck; another dream of a hidden extra room

ready to be delegated solely for her art studio where

organization would reign instead of cluttered creativity….


Hood Ornament -- Poetry 2011

Cars don’t have hood ornaments anymore.

Sweeping metal form dead center on the hood;

one could aim the car with the predominant piece.

Her Subaru has no such decoration unless you

consider the orange wade of cat puke minus chunks.

Such a rush to leave the garage, she left it in place…

the rain that day failed to remove it;

highway driving hadn’t released it.

Disappointed with rain and speed, she yanked it free.

Just one of the prices or prizes of having pets:

fur swirls, scratched furniture, hairy clothing, various

deposits on rugs or other surfaces and of course,

gifts of innate life forms…


Tech Potato -- Poetry 2011

Condense Internet time…

That’s what she needed.

Hooked – addicted:

checking email,

uploading images,

posting to her blog,

updating website,

and more time consumers.

Art materials sat idle…

flickering screen alters

brain wave rhythms.

Cyborgesque reality:

without physical contact;

without connection in real time

to real people;

without enough physical exercise

her PC spread was increasing;

turned from couch potato to a tech one…


Dear Ex-Group: -- Poetry 2011

Dear Ex-Group:

I’m still puzzled, maybe you are too…

why after over four years of meetings

once a month with you four friends -

sharing, encouraging, empathizing…

I disappeared never to return.

I left our group for several reasons.

Perhaps my own expectations,

assumptions and thyroid delusion.

I guess I’ll never know unless

I write my feelings – two+ years late!

My observations:

connection/disconnection; the hysterectomy.

1] I felt out of the loop; you seemed to share

between meetings… but not with me.

2] The hysterectomy was life changing.

I needed physical help… Where were you?

3] I left because I felt abandoned

I never sent this note before today…

Two and a half years ago I did email

with little response – I huddled healing

over several months; regaining strength

by summer, six long months later without

any contact from any of you…  you see

it all ties together with communication

or certainly lack of... so even though I’m

late, very late indeed, I thought it best to clear

the air.  Your observations are welcome




Checking In -- Poetry 2011

Spring was damp and dismal;

summer was depressingly slow…

maybe it was delayed allergies as flora pollen

made up for lost time dusting everything gold…

Maybe it’s partly the pesky thyroid revolting due to stress.

Seems to be big muscle function refusing to walk

too far or step up onto things – a sure sign of relapse.

Dogs whine at the screen door; evening soft breeze

allows tantalizing perfumes into the small house.

Stars call her name, moon came and went without

moonbeams caressing her form pushing through twilight.

Sun wouldn’t notice as she hid from its view preferring

late night to full day too bright with revealing light.

Corgis register disappointment for progressively shorter

night adventures and less time searching for critter scents.

Can’t figure out the aches and slow brain function;

can’t be all allergy related – time to check in with a Dr…


Friday, July 22, 2011

Without Sync -- Poetry 2011

Desperate to maintain a functional

to-do list… she felt out sync.

The Google calendar was useless –

of course, one has to check it daily

preferably in the morning;

otherwise the email reminders pop

up during the function’s set time.

Not a good reminder at all…

she wasn’t a slave to lists but

lately her brains seemed scrambled.

Missed deadlines of class start times,

bill paying, ordering supplies posed

dreadful ramifications let alone panic.

Without sync she was talking to herself,

then answering herself, mumbling

what else, where’d I put that, OMG…


Breaks -- Poetry 2011

Another cigarette break…

how many per day?

Maybe they’re splitting for the day…

3pm and out the door; Friday

exiting early works only if

you’re the boss…

maybe she should take up

smoking to schmooze,

get in the good graces,

be able to make an early escape…


Directions -- Poetry 2011

Nebulous directions on scraps of paper;

scribbled street names, right, left

or straight with mileage notations.

Past trips to drop or pick up art.

Papers stuffed between car seat…

worthless without last detail:

who, what, when, why…

periodically recycled until next drop

off causes a new scribbled set

stuffed between the seats…


Thursday, July 21, 2011

Poundage -- Poetry 2011

So hungry she could eat a horse

or eat like a horse…

salads were not filling.

The pounds were weighing her down…

wider and wider each month.

Without resources for larger sizes,

She faced the dreaded diet:

so many to choose from…

none succeeded for long.

Few pounds disposed of…

if you lose it, you can find it again.

Changing lost to disposed didn’t

help as she felt bloated as a beached

whale or opossum road kill simmering

in the sun – she continued to see

the worst hoping to sway incessant hunger.

Schedule hung on the refrigerator:

running, walking dogs, yoga, snack

time, weight training, treadmill;

not enough hours in the day to exercise,

to fight fat, to count endless calories…

maybe she could pay to have it sucked off…

again… but how many times was it safe

to have liposuction; picking up the phone

to set another appointment,  she collapsed;

autopsy weight 85 pounds…


Key Lime Pie -- Poetry 2011

Misery was sweet…

only way to deal with it.

Love it,

cherish it,

roll in its completeness;

embracing all its aspects

till seeing black…

everyone had their pain

that seemed insurmountable.

Maybe a pity party was necessary

to tame the consistent state.

Oh, it wasn’t that bad…

a matter of perspective

considering tornados, hurricanes

and other natural disasters.

Mini bouts, emotional flairs,

self-doubt, misery was condensed

milk over whelming in its thickness,

unable to eat directly out of the can.

Mouth watering, her mind listed

ingredients, her favorite pick me up;

her favorite hobby to share…

friends alerted to Key Lime Pie…


Cold Calling -- Poetry 2011

Vowing not to comment on the weather,

she stared morosely out her cubicle

taking in rain pelting windows…

calling list circled and dotted

libations swilled but mouth still dry.

Hate, she did hate making cold calls:

being paid by scoring…

duping others into free trials.

Visualizing bills paid…

bills dangerously close to due date,

she adjusted the headset, filled

her voice with charm, lilt, sweetness

only to be told to….


empty stomach calls -- Poetry 2011

Weariness settles on a barely started day -

in the hole already…

How is it with modern conveniences still behind?

Chores seemed more complex despite

pushing buttons,

turning dials,

flipping switches.

Focal point of grandmas kitchen –

wood stove adorned with polished chrome –

hottest, muggiest days of summer

found her preparing meals on it.

Long after her death, grandpa stoked

the fire box to keep water heated for tea,

cooking his meals, warming leftovers.

Farmhouse kitchen became the recipient

of my uncle’s small electric stove;

cornered, it’s white enamel surface was

mismatched with the cast iron behemoth.

At 90 grandpa complained one day…

he only split a cord and a half of dried oak,

stacked it, filled the wood box, banked

the fire before heading to bed…

he went to his grave without using that

unnatural electric appliance.


Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Not Rescued -- Poetry 2011

What is with this melancholy…

reading a friend’s poem -

lost in thought -

electric shock snaps synapses:

instantaneous melancholy.

Blinking her heart chilled…

what the heck!!!

Enough pain in the world,

she stayed at home a lot

to avoid interactions,

ignored news sources,

but here it was stifling

passion with porosity.

Drawing in more discomfort,

life was a fairytale –

not the adulterated Disney style:

all sweet and cute…

life was deep, dark, and dangerous –

hero and heroines were not rescued…


Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Lost Cause

That odd burning sting snuck up on her…

again – every once in a while – slammed.

Checking emails, the pain sank her…

brushed and basted with lonely.

Twitching, the skin response stopped

leaving a seared heart - it was and is

closed, shy scraped with past devastation;

she wouldn’t notice a curious advance even

if her friends stood next to her and said, look!

Thought yesterday was going to suck, it did,

but only in a Monday sort of way, it really wasn't

all that bad of a day. Here the next morning, the

suck certainty dislodged any hope that she would

have a partner. The divorce was ancient history

but never even a “date” since the separation.

Not going to try and predict today, lost cause  

wading hand in hand with tortuous ghost mirages

of a soured black and blue relationship…


Monday, July 18, 2011

A Girly Girl -- Poetry 2011

Pink… so much pink…

she was such a girly girl;

her best friends made gagging

motions but she laughed them off.

Checking Facebook, she squealed

with delight upon seeing this post:

a Hello Kitty, pump action 12 gauge shotgun...

her friends knew she had already cut out an ad

for a pink .380 pistol; it was a prominent

feature stuck on her pink cork board right next

to a pink Taser image because she thought they

were so awesome; crazy for shades of pink

and desiring to be armed to the teeth, the shotgun

just shot to the top of her Christmas wish list…


Sunday, July 17, 2011

Habits -- Poetry 2011

In conversations with herself,

she talked about the weather

leaving questions unanswered;

consciousness swam the surface

creating a crawl backwash that

pushed more meaty topics away.

Sticking to the banal…

nice day today – yes it was


When will this rain ever stop?

Sure is more like fall.

Weather reports…

Garden observations…

House cleaning lists…

One side assumed habits were unbreakable…

The other looked skyward, more rain…

The in-between was duct taped in silence…

Status quo quagmire prevented in-between’s voice:

You are so stuck.

Stop doing that to yourself!

You need to change these habits…

e qu'il me mettra dans son ''Bilbo;le hobbit''?Hum,hum!

Saturday, July 16, 2011

See You -- Poetry 2011

Don’t mourn my passing;

I am you and you are me…

our fourteen years together

encompassed many changes.

I’ll still watch over you just like I did

through your surgery recoveries.

I slept with you as long as I could;

you tried to keep me from falling

but it hurt my old body too much when I did…

the dark was calling me.

The seizures were hard for you to bare;

I’m sorry you had to see my body writhing.

Sleeping brought relief to my declining

body – finally I lost the ability to walk;

I was in-between living feeling your need.

The last three days, I could hear you…

I could feel you stroking my matted fur;

I appreciated your kind words;

thank you for cradling my wretched form.

Your mother buried me under her art room

window; she misses my talkative ways too.

Help her heal from my passing;

I will see you in your dreams…