Seattle

Do you remember walking downtown Seattle?  The aromas of,
  of course, coffee,
                       filling every space, mingling with all that rain to come, rain that
                                                                          had been-all that damp.
                                                                            And we ate pizza, Chicago style,
Italian style, whatever style because pizza was my favorite, along with you.
     And everything was affordable because we had no knowledge then of
                                            families or budgeting or mortgages. 
We
were
kids playing house.  Sort of.  Except that
                                                                 then I was never any good at it.
                                                                               We went
                                                                               when grey was turning green       
and we, too, were still so
green
and
at night, your arms around
                            me, long,
                                  like the branches of all those trees
                                  in that sad but promising state, surrounding me when
                                   I’d cry, my tears natural there where it rained all the
                                                       time.  My
                                                                   mood dreary
                                                                                       as
                                                                                       any winter in Washington.
                                                                                         No sunset noticeable in                
a place where no sun shines
and so I didn’t see we
                                  were cleaving but for a time
                                                           because Broadway plays and bookstore
                                                                           browsing were all that lay on the
horizon of my still young heart.
                                                 A life planned to echo youth and a hope that
                                                                                          you would always be my haven.
I saw Jesus in you,
                         you know.
                                        When time after time and trip after trip, you carried
                                                         me home and watched me sleep.  When
                                                                                      we sang in church and
                                                                                                           hiked mountains of forgiveness,
weathered headaches and hangovers,
roommates and pour the wine
and philosophical talks past the wee hours and I translated poetry into
French but couldn’t translate my own slurred language into sense.
                                             And your patience took me through.
                                            And I remember everything.  Things I shouldn’t
                                            And I don’t have a clue who you have become
                                                                                                                but
those memories form imagination and it’s not hard a stretch to find you well.




At Bluebell Books and accepting award from Hyde Park.


I nominate C Rose

We arrived in a whispery
winter
and I remember saying,
“This isn’t
     so bad,”
          as the snow danced down.
         Bundling the babes
                in
                 new coats
                           and
snapping photos
              of their delight
at catching flakes on tongues, their glee contagious.

And then,
      though the
seasons
came and went,
I fast
  found,
for me,
an interminable,
    inescapable, exhaustless
frost.

The winter of our discontent
lasted five weary
                    years,
or maybe, the discontent
           belonged to only
me,
I, blue, like the white, in spite of
                                    or because of
the sun, the brightest star-
that
tease.

I created two snow angels
in that promising white
     and they melted me for a while.
                                           I watched four children
                                                 then and there
                                                 take with ease
                                                 the
falling,
freezing,
slushing,
sweating.
      And I heated cocoa,
weathered blizzards,
      travelled roads of ice,
                drew warm baths
                          and soaked their illumination
when skies
        spanned
gray for days.
  And tried.
         Tried to
glean joy
                or at least, peace
by their example.
    They forgave the climate
but my heart was freezing in my chest.

I returned to winter
            during summer
to see my mother
but
   though bare of bite
    the land still scant
of anything I would
                want.

I sat alone
with no one,
knowing why
        I left.

Loneliness is worse than hell
         so, home now, in (some
        say)
unbearable torridity,
my heart glows
       at last
in good company.

Submitting at Bluebell Books and Tuesday Tryouts

Our Funeral

I walk
  with all but I want to
fly away.  Escape the rain, the same, the progression we are on.

                 The long journey toward our funeral where no one cries but me.

submitting at Bluebell Books 

Bring it on

“It’s a great day for ducks,” my dad would say whenever it would rain.
                                               Yes, and a great day for me. 
Today, I will join the ducks.  I will let
the rain pour upon me.  My umbrella, my rain boots and a smile on my face, I’m here to say,  
‘Rain, bring it on.’




submitting at bluebell books

Time

Time, no longer in tempo, and I've forgotten the meaning, anyway.
Here, now, it feels like hell but in another time and place, we'll meet.
This is hope.  These are prayer said as the hourglass of our lives, slowly drips its sand.
Which epoch began last Friday? Was it last or a week before?  The calendar keeps better time than I but doesn't help if I never look at it.  You, I want to look at but you don't see.  Time is elusive as love.


bluebell books

dverse

She had walked home without really being aware of her steps. She had grabbed her lit assignment and drawn a bath.  She'd set her fattest towel (her special bath towel) on the sink, poured the bubble bath and lit the candle. All these things her mom had sent her for her last birthday.  Perfect gift for a lonely, dateless girl.    Her tears had dried but her insides felt raw, as if the salt of her crying had done permanent damage. She started in where she'd left off on A Room of One's Own.  The words blurred strangely together but she gave attention to focus and when she read the lines, "What is meant by "reality"? It would seem to be something very erratic, very undependable"...  she put the book down, carefully on the sink so as not to get it wet. She turned the water on hotter, and then let the faucet pour the water through her hands as she tried hard  to recall the most recent memory of him.  The moment had endured deliciously but of course, had ended too soon.  And so here she was again in this world, immersed in the hottest water she could stand,recalling his face, his feet, his hair, the way he'd looked leaving.  She needed some comfort. Surrendered to the warmth and the water, she inched down so her whole body, face included, was covered.  She lay there listening to the sound of engulfing water.  She was sad.  That was just it.  Sad.   The confusion had dissipated but she was left here, in this house, this town, this world, alone.  Her heart had not broken when he’d left but it was breaking now in his absence.  He came at will it seemed and she wondered if she had any say in their meetings.  Underwater, she imagined for a brief second what it would be like to scream soundless, submerged; to let the water fill her lungs.  Coming up, she gasped for breath and reached blindly for a towel for her eyes.  She wondered if he could see her now, see her choice, however meager, to live.  See her pain.  It was a strange thought and one she hadn't considered before. She whispered his name.  Nothing.  Finally,when the water had cooled, she rose and wrapped herself in that fluffy, thick, white towel which spoke of her solitude.  She didn't even bother with pajamas.  She just walked into her bedroom, laid down on top of the covers, thoughts of him, her blanket and fell into a deep sleep.