Storm
Topic: Poetry
In the forest---
Shadows…
Mischief…
Rocking, the trees sway,
Life undone, unruly.
The wind whips the soldiers’ barren branches,
Cracking,
one limb breaks.
Mischief? I ask…Nature unleashed?
Anarchy…
Shadows…
In the forest.

Stoning Washed Clean
Topic: Poetry
Darkness surrounds me
I wonder where I am:
Energy at first seems static,
but as my
eyes adjust I
feel its history—
Tumbling in the Mississippi,
thrown upon its shores,
Used for scrubbing pains inflicted,
seeped upon one’s sleeve,
This stone I’m in has a history to tell
and seems to be in motion as it
sits upon my hand.

Lashing stings my soul; I wish to feel it on my skin,
this rock
won’t let me
know
its pain,
Too painful, too deep, too real.
250 years ago tumbled
and tossed aside, yet
not forgotten,
Returned to, her flesh beaten upon
its skin, why her?
why? it wondered
and still does.
The questions inside make my head
spin, reel, and
I fall dizzy full
of emotions
rotten
I feel.
Darkness suffocates me
I can’t get out,
the walls are closer and
I push.
Nothing…
Again I push, the cold
slick surface seems
to snicker,
Evil finds a home everywhere.
Light blinds me and my eyes
sting now from the white,
I see circles of yellow and
white,
Blinking to focus, yet
Nothing.
Lungs suck in the air finally there,
the rock didn’t spare
any breath for me and
I can’t breathe in fast enough.
Eyes adjust and I am rubbing my hands
together.
Smooth like the surface, yet warm and
familiar, clean and
free.

Soul Map
Topic: Memoir
I mapped my heart today, not corollaries and veins,
But how I am filled, bleeding emotions and air-giving life,
I feel tears inside comforted by a giggle,
Pictures of silly days, family draped around each other.
Christmas moments amidst candy canes.

I mapped my heart today, strange to see its picture,
What would it say to see it before itself?
Does this look like it does in its mirror?

Teach to live each day as passionately as I feel it beating,
Knocking to remind me to truly live…and believe.

She Embodies Christmas
Topic: Memoir
I see a gypsy tree: white lights against forest green, she dresses with 200 earrings,

I smell cinnamon, the scent of homemade goodies and apple cider on a snowy day; yet, she teases us—it’s only red candles,

I hear jingles like bangles on wrists dancing; it too, simply a mirage—a quiet cd plays,

I feel tricked yet welcome the distraction from just an every-day,

I taste her sweet potion: hot chocolate topped with tiny marshmallows—sweetness is her secret.

I think I’ll become a gypsy and bring Christmas everywhere.

Shallow Roots
Topic: Poetry
“You can eat your BMW’s and Polo clothes!” muttering under his breath, he zips his
Hemp backpack with dancing Dead bears and Rusted Root patch,
$120 Northface coat, somewhat hidden by dreadlocks,
Walking irony—no war slogan on t-shirt waving finger at soccer mom’s in minivans,
He parties—drops $100 easy without a thought of homeless, gang wars, or his gas
hog SUV parked outside.

I’d hate to be so naive, locked into beliefs that were shallow, incapable of seeing the
reflection in the mirror.

“Don’t like my hair?” he questions as I obviously stared too long.

“Don’t like mine?” I fling my rebuttal running my fingers through my $120 highlighting.
I catch my reflection only seeing that I need an appointment soon. I note it in my Palm.

Black roots, the devil, I think. My nemesis for unraveling: schedules, meetings, social
events—nothing matters if I have roots.
The less apparent they are, the better.

I watch him leave, lighting up a cigarette;
I stand in line for my 2nd Starbucks shaking my head as he leaves:
What a lost generation, I think.

Icy Garments
Rushed, frantic, and panicked my day starts,
Crusted, crackling as if speaking to me, hanging above; “You’re late---
You’re late.”
White, bearded from birth, cranky, yet wise. They huddle
Near doorways and hang mischievously from roofs.
Family must be important---where’s there’s one, there’s many.

Shades of grey and white, the pavement is clothed in icy garments.
I skid across their surface racing—I slide.
I notice the right side is fluffy, untouched. I venture
And it grabs me, slows me, whispers, “Careful—
Careful.”

Red light ahead and I am slowly moving as if listening to their
Voices…grumbling, greeting.
I turn off the side street onto Mineral.
Whiteness no longer. Pavement is bare.

Poetry Hides...
Topic: Memoir
In the tears that I strangle so they won’t fall,
In the race my feet never run, waiting in Reeboks,
In the plants drooping over ceramic pots screaming to be noticed—
“Water me, dammit,” they demand.
In my son’s crooked smile as he says, “No mama, I can do it myself.”
In my husband’s hands hard-working, firm and often close-fisted, holding in his pain,
In my laughing lines framing blue eyes
In the pen I hold tightly as I stare blankly at the dust bunny peeking from under my
fridge,
In Carter wrestling-dribbling-arms surrounding-pushing-knocking-me-over-“I love you
Mama” time,
Poetry hides in peculiar places taunting, whispering, and loving.
Take a moment to find it.

Odor of Death?Customs die with a Saxon
Topic: Poetry
Shadowed, gray eyes
Heart heavy knowing dead leaves are falling to bury him,
Tracks of a wolf circle in his head,
Black mud is his dreams—
He sleeps and humbly seeks death.

New stone, secret laws he doesn’t understand,
Roman coins—the visual for the face of Woden dying within him,
Bells toll for the end of the pagan rites.

Divine horror he feels holding the crude, wooden idol,
Still warm from its recent whittle,
He too, will die,
The world will be a little poorer when this Saxon has died.

Money, Gone, Lost
Topic: Poetry
He comes in the mail demanding for it—
You got it?
Avoiding the phone, he asks?
Where is it?
I won’t fix that window or the warm fridge, he says,
Because I need it, to fix it.

Why daddy not goin’ to work, mamma?
Why you not answering the phone?
Why are we hiding in the closet?
Is it a monster?

No, baby, it’s just the devil dressed in green
He’s slipped out the back door hiding in our new cars, new house, and lovely things.
We used to have him around, but no more.
No more.

Living in Gray (Prompts italicized came from
Topic: Fiction
Once upon a midnight dreary while I pondered weak and weary, I held a flask touted to be a youth potion. Would it work? Would I feel spry, spunky and spirited? I stared at my wrinkled hands and wished for them to be smooth. I slammed the potion all in one gulp. I waited. Nothing happened. My bladder nudged me. Ah yes. Time for the hourly trip to the little girls’s room. I remember powdering my nose decades ago as my young gentleman caller waited. Had I taken too long?
While I nodded nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping. “Are you alright in there?”
“Yes. I’ll be right out.” I remember feeling in a daze. Again my life had faded gray for awhile. What happened? Who stole the minutes from me? I walked down that fated hallway familiar, yet stark. No pictures, no color, no wallpaper to add flair—just white walls on each side. I entered the bathroom scared wondering if the potion will kick in or if again, I will lose more life and come out almost dead or worse.
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.I awake very foggy not knowing even who I am. A beautifully adorned room: velvet drapes, marble fireplace surrounded with slate, books—so many books I’ve never seen, and dark wallpaper in hues of burgundy and forest green. I sit up slowly remembering the last action: turning the knob to my bathroom door. Now, I look down. My body is youthful and shapely. I am draped in black velvet with satin gloves. My hair is up and a strand of pearls bedorns my neck. I am dreaming such a beautiful dream. I barely move afraid to awake from my slumber. I notice a hallway, Deep I nto that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering fearing what that tunnel held. I knew not to tempt myself and certainly to avoid the hallway. I like where I am immersed in rich colors. A wine glass sits on the cherry wood table beside me. I indulge. I savor the fruity flavor and fell how it burns my throat.
“Aaaaaaah!” I screamed and look down at my feet and I see the white walking Reebok’s I had on in my last awake moment. What is this? Some mental trip? Where am I? I try to stand, but I’m trembling and my legs buckle at the uncertainty of my location. I pray someone kind has me captive.
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Are you OK? Should I get help?’
Awake I grab the silver bars next to the toilet. I begin to sweat—cold horrible sweat. I know I must be dying.
“Mrs. Venton, are you OK? I tried buzzing for gosh, almost 45 minutes and you wouldn’t answer. Can you open up? I’m so worried. It’s way past time for your medication. You know what the doctor says about missing your intakes. Mrs. Venton? Lydia?”
“I….I….I’m ok, dear. I must have….f…f….fallen asleep. I will be right…” my voice trailed off unable to continue. Wake up! I scream inside. What is wrong with you!? Slowly, I open the door.
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming.
“Get away! You wretched bird! You’ve haunted me my whole life mocking me, making me remember and forget! I hate you! Leave me along!” I scream at the large crow perched on Mary’s body where her head should be.
Three hospital workers grab my arms and legs. The young nurse has my head.
“There, there, Mrs. Venton. You will be just fine. Ah, there. You’ve had your medicine. You will be your old spry, spunky, and spirited self in no time! My what pretty satin gloves you’re wearing. Have you had these long? I…” Her voice faded into a hum as the meds oozed through my veins. The rich colors fade. Now, all I see is gray.

Homeless on 15th
Newspaper stretched, blanket on the dirt of streets,
Shoes black, worn, no laces, tips of the tops no longer black,
Asleep he lies as if in the Hyatt comfortable with no troubles, his
wares neatly lay out on his “dresser.”
Steps instead make up this man’s boudoir 2 blocks from the Capitol.

Poetic justice some think, he’s not been a good citizen—no job, boozed too much a
I’m sure, they say,
Justice is in stately columns with courtrooms close by, but for one Chinese man,
America’s Jury and Judge are blind like their sister Justice holding her scales—empty,
yet tipped in favor, not his.

Two black duffles—the contents—would answer our questions:
Jim Beam, Smirnoff, Boones Farm, and a Colt 45?
Or pictures of a family smiling behind a birthday cake, the clothes speak of
decades lapsed,

For now, I walk by and wonder. I throw a $5 bill and it lands next to the umbrella.
I hope no one steals it; I hope it will by him a hot meal.

Grandpa Hurley
Topic: Memoir
March 14, 2005

Sparkling blue eyes gave the message that each of us grandchildren are important. You found a way with asking questions to show us how special we are. Table-top conversations turned into hours of wondering and remembering memories of your life and how they relate to ours. Thank you for all of those precious moments.

Gentle commandments, “Jeremy, the lawn could sure use a mow,” “I have a fence post that needs to be dug out, you got a half hour?,” as you adjust your black rimmed glasses above a smile. Half a day latter and promises of an ice cream cone: I thank you for sharing your boyhood stories, determination and persistence of getting jobs done.

Rocking from toe to heal you made each song and story we ever told meaningful. We will never forget you telling your stories and singing your songs. Taking the time to share your wisdom to college dorms, two dollar bills at Christmas time, hand written “I love you’s”, and poetic ministries will stay with us with each of our passing days.

Embrace that tells you that you are one of my children, you and grandma taught us children how to love: two stories weaved from Grandma’s mouth to yours complete each others thoughts, a hardship that has found the funny moment, a name remembered, a place recalled, the long looks, helping each other with laughter. Thank you for showing us respect, humor, and how to love.

We will always see you standing at the edge of the farm gravel road or the walk-way waving good buy until we greet you walking up to heaven’s doorway.

Poetry Collector
Topic: Poetry
Bagged in black, white, or blue,
The ol’ adage applies: one person’s trash is another’s treasure.
Burly arms bulge as he heaves the Hefty
wondering what’s inside.
Tin cans not recycled and papers unread,
Old food uneaten smushed onto milk cartons pressed against
bills and notices never opened.

The objects he can guess by a shake or a feel,
He watches and listens, collecting and trashing
The things we don’t want—something wasted he knows.

Some days he rips a small hole, digging for cool bottles or
interesting letters that spark his pen,
Shapes and colors hidden beneath plastic wishing to be found,
washed, and written about.

This is what he does. Trash and recover, then write.
Don’t you wonder what you’ve thrown away that may end up
on his kitchen table?

Why My Melpomene?
Topic: Declaration
Life weaves in knife-like string unexpectedly at times, and our quilt becomes raveled, worn. We need to find our Muse, to find the string that cuts us the deepest...and become inspired. I call this My Melpomene after the Greek Muse of tragedy. Despite the fact that Zeus, forgot his female daughters, the Muses lived their life praising, and creating beautiful music, honoring life. Like the Muses that wrote and sang, life inspired them and I too, will search for the little moments.

You must feed your Muse.
Topic: Declaration
As Ray Bradbury pointed out, it is necessary to offer a Muse sustenance before you can expect one to come to you.

Labeled?Jumbo Size Kosher Pickles
Topic: Memoir
Long lines formed, awkward middle schoolers, pretending

To be older than we felt,
Bonnie Bell LipSmacker in my pocket—strawberry.

It felt like the first day of school, donned in new clothes--
Sweatin’ it in stiff blue jeans from
Summer heat, yet we were in the mood for fall.

Physicals were required, doctors waited inside,
“Urine sample?”
“Yes, in my sack, here.”
Students would fidget and wish the process to be over.

We gabbed and gossiped, looked at faces we didn’t know from other schools:
“He’s cute.”
“She should’ve shaved.”
“This is so embarrassing.”
Bits of conversations surrounded our stickiness.

A boy, Tom Heald
Sam’s Club-size pickle jar,
No brown-paper sack surrounding his specimen,
Snickers, jeers--
“Ya been saving it all summer?”
Red-faced and freckles dark brown,
A student of West Middle School, no longer
Has a name, only a place---
“Not here, go away, freak.”
This person stripped of humanity, holding his life in
Glass, see-through as he felt,
Yellow and aged in a moment,
Did he wish to melt away? Start the day over?
I reapplied the gloss, tried to smile his way to say,
“It’s ok; they’re jerks.”
He didn’t notice—anyone.

One-Sided Story
Topic: Fiction
“See you later, Mom,” I say as I run out the front door rushing to catch the bus, bus 19C. As usual I’m late, but luckily I only have two blocks to go.

There’s my neighbor, Mr. Thomas. I’ve never noticed him riding the bus before. I saw his house for sale, maybe he’s selling his car, too. The bus will take me to work, he too, I suppose. He lives four houses down from me, the brick house with the green shutters. He had a great looking wife and a little girl, Maddie. She played with my little sis, Mindy. Pretty cool kid. He and his wife were always out doing something together: gardening in the front yard, playing in the sprinklers with Maddie, or jogging past my house as I was on my way to football practice. I’d watch them race, laughing, seeing who could beat the other home.

He looks up as I approach the bench and sees me staring right at him. I nod and apologetically smile. He just nods, no expression.

I decide not to sit next to him. He seems like he’d rather be alone. I lean against the bus stop sign. I should’ve worn a jacket. This flannel shirt with the elbows worn through just isn’t cuttin’ it this morning. I see he has hot coffee, steam rising. He wraps his hands around the Styrofoam cup, to warm them. A coat and a cup of Java would certainly be nice.

An elderly woman, hair pinned to a red see-through scarf, walks across the street. She doesn’t need to look for traffic. This end of town has pretty much dried up. Businesses have moved outside the city. Peterson’s Groceries is about the only thing still living in these skeleton buildings. Good ol’ Jack Peterson is still trying to make a living on the corner of Edison and 8th Street. Of course everything they sell in there is purely profit, I swear. He still has inventory from the fifties.

She sits on the bench next to my neighbor. She turns to him and says hello, yellowed teeth shows. He doesn’t seem to notice she is there. He closes his eyes, putting one of his hands in the pocket of his tan corduroy pants. You can tell he’ rather talk.

“Oh, it’s a bit brisk, today, isn’t it?” she says in a shaky voice looking straight ahead. “I’d like to nip at Jack Frost’s toes like he did to mine this morning. My poor aching arthritic feet. It was just about all I could take. My doctor gives me some anti-infamma..inflamm…something to make the swelling go down, but then they get so darn cold!”

She reaches into her pink polka-dot, plastic bag pulling out an afghan to cover her legs and pulls out her newspaper. “Isn’t that the saddest story? I guess the pilot was drunk. At least he’s being charged with voluntary…ah let’s see, what do they call it. Oh yes, here. ‘Voluntary manslaughter’ and his license will be revoked. I don’t know what’s gotten into people lately. It’s the parents’ fault, I think. Don’t you?” Again, asking her question, yet looking ahead, eyes glossy and seemingly talking to herself. Neither of us answer.

“Harold and I tried to teach Bobby to be a good person. ‘Do what’s right you’ll have a good life,’ we said.” She gives me a look specialized by mothers and grandmothers everywhere. He sips his hot coffee, glancing at her paper.

I look over the lady’s shoulder to read—“JUSTICE TO BE SERVED—Pilot intoxicated on Flight 1539.”

“Damn,” he says and shakes his head. He spilt his coffee on his pants and tries wiping the already saturated pant leg “Sorry,” he says to her for no reason. His pants were wet, not hers.

“Oh, I remember the day it crashed. It was Harold’s birthday. Well it would’ve been. He passed away two years ago, bless his soul. I sure miss him,” she sighs and rubs her gold band. “Do you remember the day the plan crashed?” turning to look at me directly.

“Yeah, I came home after footb—“ I try to say; she interrupts.

“It was that awful windy day. I remember looking out my picture window to the north watching the snow blowing. ‘Not today, Tabby; you’ll freeze your little paws right off,’ I remember telling my tabby. Yep, it was a cold one. I’ve never liked the cold. I grew up in Louisiana—Shreveport. After Harold got out of the Army, we moved north. I dreaded living here. Harold used to tease me. You see, I don’t wear boots, snow boots, ya’know, so every year come first snow fall…boom! I always fall. He said it was a winter tradition.” Yellow teeth showed and her thin skin wrinkled around her eyes.

She just motors on. I think she just wants to hear herself talk. Change the subject, lady. Where is the bus? That would help. I look over at him and he actually seems to be enjoying this lady’s stories. He barely smiles and nods at her. I remember seeing him and Maddie a couple of years back out in the snow. Maddie was pretty little. She was all bundled up sledding down the little hill her dad had built for her. Kids look so funny in their winter clothes. Their snowsuits all bunched up and puffy make them look like miniature Michelin tire men. I laugh aloud. He looks back at me, but she keeps talking.

“I always wanted Harold to learn to fly. Oh, what fun, flying off here and there. But his feet were firmly planted, no discussion on that issue. He was a stubborn one, my Harold. I’m just glad he never learned. I might never have seen my little grandbaby, or our Bobby’s graduation from college. That poor man, to lose them both, too.”

Thank God, the bus is here. Maybe now he can get away from her. He sits in the sixth row, the seat next to the window. I sit next to him, so he wouldn’t have to sit by her.

We bounce along through morning traffic. I try to think about my day ahead, but I can’t get that lady’s conversation out of my head; ‘to lose them both, too.’ Man, that had to be rough.

“Off to work?” he casually asks me.

Surprised, I answer, “Yeah, I’ve got a ten-hour shift, today.”

“I remember those days,” he says. “Trying to make some dough, so you can move out of the parents’ house. You live on the same block I do, don’t you?” he asks.

“Uh-huh,” I say.

“You have a little sister that plays with, ah—used to play with Maddie,” he says stumbling over his words.

I nod and fiddle with the frayed edges of my flannel. I look out the window, watching the skyline blur together as trees and buildings flash by.

“Maddie loved bus rides. She just loved ‘em. She’d sit on the edge of her seat or on my lap trying to capture every sight. She didn’t miss a thing, boy,” he laughs. “She’d even notice when I would space off and start twisting a piece of hair without knowing it. She’d say, ‘Daddy, quit twist’n your hairs. Mommy says you’d be bald if you keep twist’n.’” We both laugh and then he looks outside the window. I look at the back of his head and notice he is balding.

I read in the pocket of my flannel, searching for gum or candy; I always have stuff stashed somewhere. Ah, a couple of peppermints from Casa del Rey’s. “You want one?” I ask.

“That’d be great. That coffee is burning a hole right through me. My wife always carried some in her purse. I have a weak stomach, and peppermint seems to settle it. She knew how to take care of me,” he says. I notice he starts to play with his wedding band, turning it around and around. I don’t feel too comfortable, either. I don’t know what to say to him. I reach down to retie my tennis shoe, halfway in the aisle; it’s something to do.

“My Bobby and his little Mary fly in today,” the lady turns around and says looking at. “Oh, I can hardly wait, I’m so excited. It’s Mary’s first trip on a plane. I hope it’s going ok. After the crash, everyone’s a little jittery, but they’re flying in on a commercial flight.”

“I’m sure they’re fine,” he loudly answers even though this time she was just talking to me.

The bus stops and I try to get out quickly. I get the feeling this has been too long of day for him, already. Of course, everyone’s taking their own sweet time. I let him go in front of me.

The lady turns to him as she fixes her scarf, “Are you flying somewhere today?” she asks.

“No, I’ll…never fly again,” he says. He tries to push past her.

She asks, “Why? Why don’t you like to fly? Since that accident, and since that pilot was----“

He snapped. “I had two drinks, lady! Only two, do you hear me?” He shot her an angry, hurt look and pushed past her down the bus stairs. The lady turns to me, shocked and confused. We shuffle out the bus as well.

I thought I should explain, but I’m irritated and sick of her prodding and talking. And to be honest, I don’t know what truly happened. I look up watching him enter the airport service entrance for employees only. She’s still looking at me. I shrug my shoulders not knowing what else to do, then I too, walk away.

What I Have, I Must Not Forget
Topic: Memoir
I have…
pain that whispers continually,
a house we don’t own yet, but one that is ours,
a son on earth and a daughter in heaven
a window that takes me somewhere else.
I have…
a love for salt and yet hate disagreements—
feels like salt on wounds.

I have…
two dogs that are pinballs inside our house and
fireflies inside the night that’s my soul.

I have…
a mom who smiles even when she’s sad,
I have the same smile.

I have…
a 4-wheel drive that longs for speed and riveting roads,

I have to teach in the weekly moments of my days, but often wish
for more teachable moments.

I have…
a love that makes me feel at home even though
he no longer has a home, but ours.

I have laughter that is loud and seeks for humor…always.

I have…
what I do
and remember that what I don’t have---
is probably for the best.

Green Fuel
Topic: Memoir
Darker than the first leaves sprouting out of limbs,
yellowed spots hardened, crisp and crinkled, I am surrounded.
Shaking in the wind, rattling like the poisonous snake’s tail hiking in tall grasses
trying to soak up the last of summer’s sun, I hike unaware.
Dog pants, tail wags-- whether an hour run or a whole day; Wyatt never tires unlike my legs.

Panting, humming, taking in nature, a Monarch flitters by and lands on a pink yarrow. I pause to capture the image; the
digital image remains as the butterfly takes flight.
This solace fills my soul;

I am absorbed in this hike
forgetting the city, to-do lists, and worries.
Nature fuels me.

Geometry for an English Teacher
Topic: Memoir
Scribbling, doodling, wondering, wandering, I fill my pages with words. Boxes—3 dimension, triangles and spheres, the margins is an easel for brainless walks with
my pen. Creating stories, dialogue that feels real, intense images—
Scratched off and thrown away. My poem feels finished,
but my fiction feels forced. I write to
bleed and cry and scream, at people
and sorrows too deep and too
real to approach. It’s
an outlet, an island,
an escape I
take; focus
on the feelings,
yet not getting
too close to the
ink that
flows out
of my
pen.