You are currently browsing the category archive for the ‘pros’ category.

a lingering animosity toward you shadows me:
you left without saying goodbye

even so, I imagine it’s your voice I hear in my head so often
a mother’s advice
do this, don’t do that…do this NOW
I follow it
and it leads me right, mostly
that voice, however harsh

you weren’t the type to say goodbye
you were the type I ran from through the house
switch flailing
stripes on my bare legs
hiding under the desk from you
“come out now or it will be worse if I find you”

you were the prude with dial soap
washing my mouth out.
apparently to parade Barbee around naked
and make a ritual of her going to the toilet was obscene

my teeth clamped down on your fingers
and your eyes opened wide
those tense few moments gave us both time to think
I let go but was surprised that for some reason
you did not punish me for that bite, and you never put soap in my mouth again
a mother’s forgiveness

climbing up on the washing machine
to reach the top of the refrigerator
i broke that cruel switch into little pieces
but when the time came you weren’t foiled
just tore a fresh weapon from the tree outside the back door
a mother’s revenge

But I do remember the impromptu scavenger hunt you sent me on
so bored was I, no kids in the neighborhood
just you and me in that big house
you led me to the chocolate hidden in your night stand drawer
a mother’s kindness

I still have the quilt you made for me just before you left
which I will never use
for fear it will unravel and I’ll have nothing left of you

the song of your voice carrying on like it did
so authoritative and reasonable
i marveled at your wisdom, when your temper was calm

A strong memory of drawing pictures with you, so impressed with your ability
but tainted by you scolding me for trying to draw a picture of God
saying how it was a sin to draw an image of the Almighty
a mother’s shortcoming

But you were my advocate when my teenage brothers didn’t want to bring their kid sister along.
You dressed me in designer clothes.
You let me lick the cake batter off the spoon.
and probably in a million ways I don’t remember
you cared for me and loved me
But mostly I remember your harshness. A mother’s reprimand.

I remember the religious travelers crammed into your
bedroom as you paled
 “go play outside” you said, but it was so cold I squeezed into the dog kennel
new born puppies with barely open eyes
lapping my ankles
warming my lap
I recall you fed the runt with a baby bottle
a mother’s nurturing

it made you so mad when I burst into your room
so excited to tell you something,
interrupting the prayer circle of these strangers camped in our house
“she knows better” you announced
I didn’t.
I didn’t understand why you were in bed or why those strangers were there.
a mother’s deathbed

Your sister died the week before you did
and since you couldn’t get out of bed, you sent us to Oklahoma for the funeral.
I saw Mary Jane and Betsy crying so bitterly to lose their mother.

At your funeral, I tried so hard to cry. I knew it was wrong not to cry.
But I did cry. Later.
When your absence leached into the walls of our empty house 
leaving just me and my disillusioned father
who was nourished only with Beefeaters Gin…
 “Come back inside, daddy” but he was so far gone
staggering around our backyard talking to the spirits
he couldn’t hear or see me

everyone disappeared after you left except daddy and we were all alone.
On occasion we would see old family friends
and they would remark on how beautiful you were,
what a cultured and poised woman you were. 
How impeccably dressed.
I would look up at them in my stained dress and wonder
if I could ever be like you.

Occasionally I dream of who I would have become if you’d have stayed.
I know I would be a totally different me if you had.

And even though you did not say goodbye or leave me with memories of
“the perfect mother”
you did start talking to me shortly after you left
maybe that’s your way of not leaving me
why you never had to say good bye

and even though I’m still mad at you

I still listen.

Mary Dixon Henry 1920 to 1968

for my sister suzie…

It’s never a walk in the park with you

But rather we’re rippin down the side of a building on our flying bicycles Our super hero-ess capes billowing behind us With the sidewalk coming up fast No this is not a walk in the park!

We shield each other as evil spirits come our way

And the brush of ocean air mixed with trees reminds me we’re actually speeding downhill in golden gate park with the sharp wind biting my fingers and daring my eyes shut

Not a walk in the park, but a wild ride with my sister on a sunday

Even though we may have argued on which way to go and we went the wrong way (her fault) which turned out to be the right way (ok she wins) like most of our times together are the right way, gone the adventurous way

This is what she brings to my life, as we argue and love each other, she’s a super hero in black sexy leotards speeding faster than a racing vibrator and when we get to the windmill, we share not just a drink but more importantly our stories that need to be told then argue on whether to check the bikes which I think is too paranoid and I win with no checking but she loses, her phone missing oops shoulda checked

but while she hops around hyena-dance hyperventilating and expounding the injustice of being ripped off, I call her phone with her saying (while still dancing hyena) “what for? what does that accomplish?”

And it Rings. was in her pocket the whole time. And like most of our adventures together, it’s never a walk in the park and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 797 other followers

Poetry Reading in Pacific Grove

Ode to Maestro Klein, Peninsula Symphony Orchestra

Performance for San Mateo County Supervisors

Poetry Reading by Maurine

Past Posts

Blog Stats

  • 12,275 hits

Blogs I Follow

Gary Direnfeld, MSW, RSW

Can you relate...

Bill's Blog

I love a statement I found attributed to Saint Francis of Assisi: “I wish to be known all over Europe for my humility.” Throughout my time as a writer and musician, I’ve tried to harbor a similar inclination, a sort of quiet pride in what I’ve done, but I am also well aware that, as far back as 1959, author Norman Mailer espoused, when it came to calling attention to one’s own work, what is a more efficacious attitude. He published Advertisements for Myself—and set the tone for a future we are all a part of now. So here’s Bill’s Blog.

Red Wolf Journal

A literary compass for finding your voice..."You turn toward me, your lips move, wanting to speak."--Stephen Dobyns, "Wolves In The Street"

RedXShoes

My recovery from Heroin Addiction & my journey to build a new life

Cupertino Poet Laureate

Celebrate Creativity

I Am Woman

a reminder that sensuality is a portal to the Divine

ZarasWorld

Look Within Yourself

Dimitris Melicertes

I don't write, I touch without touching.

O-My Fragile Hart-O!

Life with a heart so fragile in His hands.

smcpoetlaureate

The power of poetry and spoken word.

Marie H Curran

Writing, Poetry, Life lessons: Using words to fill the fractured voids within this world

off the margins

off the margins…into the wild terrain of women’s writing

Moon Mothers of Half Moon Bay

Embodiment of the New World Goddess

Lessons In Love

Speaking the words of my heart.

Beyond Words

Prose and Poetry by Robert S. King

Playing Your Hand Right

Showing America how to Live

Transformative Hypnotherapy

When it's time for a change!

Eunoia Review

beautiful thinking

Simple Pleasures

Visual Poetry, Photography and Quotes

ParaYourNormal

A magazine for those who love all things paranormal

luminarieswithoutboundaries

Just another WordPress.com site

Kourtney Heintz's Journal

Believing In The Unbelievables: From Aspiring Writer to Published Author

biljanazovkic

the beauty of words and colors

muags

Just words

Craving The Mat

Yoga.Music.Love

FICTIONAL MACHINES

J. E. LATTIMER

Teacher as Transformer

Education, Leadership, Life, and Transformation

Dean J. Baker - Poetry, and prose poems

BOOK PRICES! most at $9.99, up to $13.99 - https://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM

Audrey Kalman - Fiction with a dark edge

WHAT REMAINS UNSAID now on Amazon.

bussokuseki

fatherhood, zen, and the buddha's footprints in an everyday life

Rants.

Realizations & Revelations.

Snotting black

growing wild in the san francisco hills

Coco J. Ginger Says

Poems and stories of love & heartbreak.

gaymanranting

J.D. Cerna, former columnist for The Washington Blade, copes with Life by Writing

Five Reflections

Books, Stories, Songs, Poetry, Or Reminiscing

Ray Ferrer - Emotion on Canvas

** OFFICIAL Site of Artist Ray Ferrer **

Life as a Writer and Artist

writer, novel, poetry, viola,acrylics

brianbakerwrites

Capturing the Human Experience to Change Human Existance

The Book People Chronicles: A Story Writing Contest

create dynamic stories; raise funds for valuable causes

Carmen the Chicken Killer by Sarah Curtiss

This is the story of my 2-month stay in Costa Rica a few years ago. It wasn’t my first trip. I had visited the year before with my partner, William Solis, who is from Costa Rica. But this particular year I wanted to learn Spanish. My initial plan was to take an immersion course in Mexico. However, William said that if I was going to immerse myself in a Spanish family it might as well be his. They don’t speak any English so I would be forced to speak Spanish and I could get to know them better. I told him that when I returned I would know more about him and his family than he did and so it has proven to be true. William joined me for the last 10 days. This is my journal plus emails I wrote to family and friends and a few comments from my current perspective…six years later. I drew a picture every day using pencil, pen, colored pencil, water colors, and acrylics. I wrote in my journal almost every day. I took photographs.

%d bloggers like this: