Winterberry Gardens: A Gathering Space for Writers

2021-11-11T13:55:00.000-05:00

An old poem from 1984, that I have a sweetness toward. Partly because it is a bit dark and yet has a very rhymey cast to it, giving it a bit odd "tongue in cheek" feeling. I think I developed this early in my life from my father singing such favorites as " Poisonings Pidgeon's In the Park" by Tom Leher Wrote it following a stay at a condo for a vacation that felt like everybody living there was so enveloped in aloneness despite the supposed "contrived" community. I have also gone on to see articles in papers where this very thing has happened and some people not being discovered for years following their death. How sad to be that alone!

Something is Rotting in Chalet # 5

Somebody is rotting in Chalet # 5;

She’s been there since Monday at quarter past nine.

And now when it is Sunday and six days away –

She loses her eyelids as the world goes to pray.

The postman won’t notice

That the mail goes unread

And the newsboy doesn’t know that the occupant is dead.

Old Mr Kramer.

Thought he seemed something “fishy”;

While walking his dog

Or so he told Biker Ritchie;

Who coasts by her windows, early work day mornings?

And he replied, “haven’t seen anything “alarming”

Except that she used to sing everyday

And she stopped recently….but that wasn’t strange

He thought singing “odd” anyway,

The day that poor Susie’s meat pulled away from her bones

A lover cursed “Bitch, she won’t answer her phone!”

It’s a good thing the central air keeps down the bugs

But it looks like this spells the end for the rugs.

And the whole world goes on as it hasn’t a care

That the next thing she’ll lose are nails and her hair.

On June 23^rd

The rent will come due

And somebody will come banging at a quarter to 2

He will get real impatient cause her car is in the yard

And they hate collecting money when the tenants make it hard.

He’ll reach for the keys on his black leather belt

He’ll wonder if it’s garbage in the air he just smelt.

Then he’ll gasp as he shoves the door roughly inside

Cause poor Susie Matfield will have no place to hide.

She’ll greet him warmly with a fleshless grin

And pay him with maggots as he stumbles in.

The Lost Art of Conversation

2011-04-12T19:38:00.000-04:00

Sometimes you don't know what is missing in your life until you see it...or more precisely, you FEEL it. Like an old jacket pulled from the back of your closet you know suddenly you have missed it all along, and just adjusted to living without it.
    How easy it is to forget. In 1995, my husband and I took a three week trip to Greece. On the tiny island of Tinos, we prayed for a child before the miracle working icon of the Virgin, and relaxed into the simple rhythms of village life. The water was an indescribable blue, the air smelled of chamomile, and the food was delicious. Every day the village closed all the stores and shops at 3:00pm and the inhabitants returned to their homes for naps and family time until the stores reopened after 5. One day at the end of one of these breaks, reclining peacefully on my twin bed, I "felt" an old memory lagging at the back of my head. At first it was shadowy and faint, but as I lay there it crystallized and became clear. It was the sound of children playing in the streets that struck such an old chord in my mind. The clacking of jump ropes on the sidewalks, the sing - song prattle of playground rhymes. the trilling child voices calling out in hide and seek. "How long had it been since I had heard these sounds?" "When did I become accustomed to the silence of the American neighborhood?"
Here in Tinos, televisions were a rarity, the only time my husband and I saw one was in a local taverna where all the neighbors had gathered to watch "The Life of Jesus Christ" Children here in the town played outside in the afternoons as they had for centuries, without the need for self absorbing television, video games,computers. They learned how to socialize with games and play the way we all should.

The adult equivalent happened to me recently. My mother and her boyfriend recently married in a small ceremony in their home outside of Pittsburgh. Following the intimate ceremony there was a brief time for cake and refreshments, where we all mingled and introduced ourselves to each other. Then as if on cue, we all settled down into seats and began to talk. Verbal bantering, mock challenges, and warm acceptance enveloped the group as each person revealed unique pieces of their character. Stories came flowing out, many of them funny and revealing. This was not all family, although there was family present. Many of us were strangers before this day. It all just FELT so familiar! Again, that sense of an old comfortable memory pulled at me as it had in Greece. "How long had it been since I sat in a room filled with people and had relaxed intimate conversation?' Somewhere back in my childhood I am sure...at family picnics, with cousins late at night, maybe in college with friends of like mind. Nowhere had it happened in the last ten years I am certain. The constant interruption of everyday life keeps us away from the process of conversation. Phone calls, appointments, kids schedules, and distance all conspire to keep us from having meaningful conversations with each other. Conversation takes time, the ability to listen and a genuine respect for others opinions and values. The division in our political system also reflects our societies inability to have these conversations. Maybe if we had a bit more conversation, we could come to more acceptable solutions for the American people!
I advocate today for more time to talk, listen and accept each other. Let's all sit around with coffee cups and wait for what will come out if we give it time, let's get excited about getting to know one another again and let's surprise ourselves by having a conversation that is worth something to us.

Lunar Eclipse

The last time I saw a lunar eclipse,
     I was a little bit drunk,
stretched out on a dune at a Newburyport beach.
There under the clarity of a midnight sky,
    wrapped in the warmth of blankets and wine,
the
moon
faded
away...
the clouds, like dark kites blowing about the
    fading man's face...
until only the rim
    like edging on a dinner plate
shone on.

The next day,
    the man in the moon was Tom's father;
and the shadow was cast,
    somewhere in his brain,
like a clot,
    and he fell
and almost vanished
    but for the ring
which like gold
   shone on.

I was six years younger then
     and every shadow I had somehow dodged -
forbidden to fade me.
Tonight
the earth sifts again.
ever so slowly.
turning into the suns rays;
like the fears of my childhood,
creeping
over
the only light that shines in my night sky.
"today you are young ,and tomorrow you are old"
Time I did not know was passing until this night,
under this moon;
I remember the changed face of a man I loved.
"How did I come to be here?"
in this darkness,
riddled with shifting shadows
    like the bark of this chestnut tree
    and the back of the spotted newt?"

In the passing of this moment:
this moon,
I am eclipsed,
and I am changed.
1995

Musician's Hands

Mesmoizing hands
    that in their violence bring forth song
Mastery and tenderness
    weaved artfully in tendons.
Knuckles, nail and bone
    captivated with anticipation,
deserate to match the fingers to the soul.
"Pinky, Play, Play"
    Masculinity marked with gentleness.

Pinky, Play, Play...
    "do these hands belong to someone I know?"
The heart lies unveiled in it's movement.

How I envy that which in diligence and loves
   wooes forth a tune
and in striking notes
draws out the song.
1981

Publication and OUCH!

2011-02-21T20:47:00.000-05:00

You may be wondering,"Has this person ever published anything?" Fair enough question. All writers ultimately aim for publication and acceptance of their writings by the larger society. It gives verification to our hard work , and some times it also gives us money, or fame or both. It can be a long process and often a painful one as you receive letter after impersonal letter explaining why your precious work of art doesn't fit their marketing needs! Patience and persistence is absolutely necessary characteristics of the writer, Below are two of my published works, enjoy them.

The Beatitude of Tears

by Glinda Johnson-Medland

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”

Not so long ago, I lost an unborn child that my husband and I had spent seven years waiting for. I grieved for that tiny person as I had never grieved before. I wondered if I would lose my sanity with the passing of her life. The mourning was more difficult; for if grieving is our internal work, mourning is our public face.

I had never realized how much grief is stifled in the United States. Many people did not understand my deep sorrow over an unborn life, or they sought to assure me that this loss was for the best. When I began to cry in church, I was offered allergy medicine by one person, eye drops by another, but never a tissue — never a hand of understanding.

I began to see grieving in the eyes of all those around me; grief over lost ones, lost ideals, lost youth, lost love. What frightened me was how little mourning I saw, as if all the grief were trapped behind the eyes of the knower.

I looked at this beatitude suddenly afresh, with eyes wounded and tear filled, and realized that God was giving me his blessing even in the darkest time of my life. We often fail to see the Beatitudes for what they are: Jesus giving his blessing to some of the most despised and wounded individuals in the community.

Here he was, surrounded by epileptics, demoniacs, paralytics, diseased; crying, wailing, begging to be healed and Jesus turns to them and says, “Blessed are you: beggars, mourners, hungerers, persecuted.” This was not a teaching so much as his “affirmation of” and “empowerment through” their suffering.

To grieve means “intense mental anguish; deep remorse — acute sorrow. It comes from the Latin word gravis: to oppress, or weigh heavy upon. Mourning is “to express public grief for a death by conventional signs.” Many cultures put a heavy importance on mourning — people dress in black, wail and cry, tear their clothing, or cover themselves with ashes. In modern society, we make our dead as pretty as possible — “Didn’t he look good?” — and bury them quickly. The German poet Rainer Maria Rilke expressed it well: “Once, ritual lament would have been chanted; women would have been paid to beat their breasts and howl for you all night when it is silent. Where can I find such customs now? … I would like to fling my voice out like a cloth over the fragments of your death.”

The people that Christ was blessing were those whose grief was public. Without mourning, we can not be spirituality or emotionally healthy. This blessing was and is a call to allowing ourselves to be honest with others about our sense of pain and loss.

What is holy about mourning, that Christ would bless it? First of all, it creates transparency in people. It tells people we are in pain and we have experienced some type of loss. It opens us up for others to know. What we grieve over and mourn for reveals who we are. If we mourn our lack of money, it betrays our values. If we mourn child poverty, it exposes our heart.

Mourning is also a concrete act toward dealing with our grief. It helps others aid us in our working out of that grief. We all know that talking about loss and sadness does not touch our hearts and change us in the way that seeing somebody cry does. In the moment of the trembling lip and stifled sob, our hearts break, and we are changed.

The shortest verse in the Bible, is appropriately, “Jesus wept.” There is nothing else to say, his tears have spoken.

The second reason why mourning is holy, is it helps us integrate our grief. The inability to appropriately mourn losses, results in depression, psychosis and physical illness. Until we can live with the reality of the loss of a loved one, the loss of a particular relationship, the loss of a piece of who we once were, we have not integrated our grief. In a way, we are not living in reality. We have not integrated our values and beliefs.

I believe the spiritual path is one of integration. We need to be balanced people who reveal Christ for and in the life of the world. In the Orthodox tradition, there are saints known for, “the gift of tears.” These prophets are able to mourn the sins of the people, the neglecting of the poor, the dying of the innocent.

As we look to the words of our Lord, and His blessing on those who mourn, let us be confident that mourning is a true gift. Mourning is available to us that we might let our sorrow, sadness and grieving come out of us. Mourning is available to us that others might support us in our grief. Mourning is available to us that we may be washed and comforted with tears.

Glinda Johnson-Medland is a therapist living in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. Raised a Baptist, she was recently chrismated in the Orthodox Church, taking the church name Xenia.

reprinted from the Theophany / January 1997 In Communion (issue 7)

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The following was accepted and published in Decision Magizine, May 1985 issue. I was also paid $12.00.which made me very happy!

Christ's Pardon

He waits for us in these perilious times
     as a soft shadow,
eluding every self made movement
     in silence;
until in desperate humility
     we reach for Him.......
and only then -
     fleetingly,
our fingers touch.

12/83

Stories,,,,,,

2011-01-26T17:34:00.008-05:00

I love stories. Now that my two children are too old for me to read to them everynight, I miss it very much. In truth, I think I enjoyed it more than them! Stories tie the human race together and force us to accept our commality. I have seen on more than one occassion when people were unable to listen to any form of reason, they will listen to a story. It's human nature. You can't help but to pause and listen. People want to hear the end, they want to ask questions, they want to know what happened to the charecters. Jesus told stories, because people listened to them, and he could reach them on a whole different level than by arguing or lecturing them. Lecture by the way has been known for a few centuries to be the least effe ctive method of teaching, but is still the universal standard for public school teaching.

We as a society have lost the ability to tell stories. Thosands of years ago, oral traditions were passed down generation to generation through stories told on cold winter nights through elders and respected relatives in the community. They taught morals and lessons, provided hope and direction in times of crisis and imparted tribal identifications and connections. I learned the art of storytelling from my mother, who proably learned it in the depression. She would drive around the towns of her childhood in Northeast, Ct. and tell us about the adventures of her growing up. The time the dam opened while her and her sisters swam downstream, The rat that bit her finger as an infant, the caves and hills the "Leatherman" lived and walked through. I loved these stories, and to this day they remain a huge part of who my mother is to me now. At many a training and staff meeting I have secretly wished "oh please, somebody tell me a story!"

we have lost a lot in losing our stories.

Stories don;t have to be true, however they usually start from truth or have peices of truth woven into them. I get frustrated with people who ask me "is this true?" about my writings. A good story is aLWAYS better than the truth! the truth is somewhat irrelavent....I want a good story!!

So tell a story, or write a story, or as the kids always say "TELL ME A STORY...........AND MAKE IT GOOD!!!

A few poems in story form...

Trackings

I think my cousin Patti
choose the color pink for her footprints.
This was long before the rose granite headstoner was lugged in by hand
to mark my grandmother's resting place.

Naomi,my sister was the youngest then,
only three, new at walking.
She refused to take off her shoes
fussing
till I was afraid gramma would sing a siong about how we always made her cry..
gramma didn't sing today,
only handed her the yellow paper
and hummed as she watched us work,

I helped Naomi trace around that hard shoe,
guided the scissors through the paper
until her steps spread around us like a carpet of sunshine.

My grandmother almost died the year Naomi was conceived.
My mother spent her pregnancy waiting in hospital hallways-
wondering which visit would be the last
always fearing that these child that lay curled in her womb,
as yet, unknown, unnamed,
would be born into a void - unfillable.

My grandmother told those doctors she would live to see this grandchild born!
and "DAM IT!" they should have listened
because she did.
Now Naomi was walking and that beat all the odds!

That day before the sun had set,
every grandchild had left their soles on her walls, and her ceiling.
Each of us leaving a trail of footprints to remind her of who we were after we'd gone.

Patti's was pink
Mine red
Naomi's was yellow.

Naomi is twenty now....
She told me she doesn't remember Gramma:
and a look as empty as those hospital hallways crosses her face.
I tell her I know -
because buried in my mother's old trunk,
we still have the toeless yellow foot to prove it,
I tell her
she was there.

The Call of the Wild ( for my brother)

There was a time
when the call of the wild
shone clear in your wolf eyes;
one moment green, then grey,
the flash of silver fur
seen as the slash of summer sun on your tanned shoulders.
We hoped then
we would always run free;
as wolf and child,
brother and sister,
under the canaopy of leaves.
We tracked the mink and owl,
the hawk and falcon,
trailed them from tree to tree
stopping only to stretch our bodies by the creek.
The wolf had no fear,
neither the deer
only games, mock battles,
desperate chases, feigned death....

Till the night without a moon,
he chased her, the deer;
through a feild of milkweed flowers.
Almost upon her,
he dodged between two poles,
felt the sting of metal barb across his cheek,
the tear of flesh beneath his chin...

and oh the wail.......the wail of the wolf
the wail of the wolf turned boy again!
and the blood,
red and sticky in the black night
warm as life
as we struggled home, to the hospital,
to return
with thirteen stiches and a scar on his throat that would last forever.

The "thin " time of the year..

2010-12-03T13:42:00.006-05:00

My husband and I refer the the season following Thanksgiving until late March as "the Thin Time of year. In ancient days it was believed that during the days of shortened sunlight and increased cold the veil between the physical world and the spiritual world "thinned out", thus allowing people to see the non physical world ; and in some cases actually "slip" through to that other world without much prompting.
If you have ever worked with the mentally ill, or on a psychiatric ward, or have family with emotional problems you know this all too well. A running joke amoung staffers at the residential treatment center where I worked for many years was"if it's not a full moon, it's the holidays!" This was our way of explaining the insanity that cropped up so horrifically during the festive season. There are probably many good reasons why people get struck down by depression during this time, or go psychotic, and just get a little "wiggy" We miss loved ones that have passed on, we feel incredible pressure to spend money we do not have, we are cold and sunlight starved...but I love the image of the "thin time"better than a scientific explanation. Perhaps we also hear those voices calling us from the other side, whispering the pleasures of madness or the dark secrets of life's futility. Maybe the scent of a sweeter afterlife mingles in the air around us and tempts us to step over. We need our courage during this time, our commitment to keep on trying and hope that tommorrow the sun will shine brighter. Our friends and families and our passions keep as grounded until spring can fill us with new life again.

As a licensed social worker, I have many years of watching and hearing people struggle with mental illness. For that reason it shows up frequently in my writings, and poses guestions to my readers about life in this world as we know it. I am particularly fascinated with the decisions people make in critical junctions in their life that change things forever for them in a negative or positive way..The catalysts of change so to speak. So, here are some of my poems of people and "the thin time" Some old, some newer,some weird...but written to make you think...

Try writing about social issues in the people that you see around you and brings large issues to light with specific stories

Decision In Philadelphia

A crumpled leaf
she choose to fall.
beneath society's gaze.

Pulling herself together ,
in a multi -colored billiard ball
she laid down
bent in an awkward fetal cur.l

Asleep upon the sidewalk of 41st and Pine
Nobody exactly knows
"WHY?",
in a moment's hesitation,
she preferred concrete to going on.

11/83

The Obsession

He looked up at the luggage rack
that hung above him on the train,
BARS ABOVE HIS HEAD.
the guardrail by the stairs,
beneath his hand,
BARS OF LEAD.
Hidden in peoples mittens, scarves and three peice suits
BARS OF PURPLE. BLUE AND RED
BARS OF BONES - within his chest,
made him try to hold his breath;
Seeing BARS in mirrors, walls and ceilings,
he turned around and fled
Then one day he was convinced the bars were
growing IN HIS HEAD.

So, he swan dove out the 8th floor window
and when the bobbies found him,
both the bars and he were dead.

1/82

Unseen Pain

These tears ,
like the memories of seconds passed,
are unharnessed one by one -
to paint a momentary glint of glass on cheek,
trace my jugular with my pain,
and hide with intimate knowledge
in the clevage of my breasts.

2/85

Gotta get that loving feeeling..

2010-02-14T14:12:00.002-05:00

Happy Valentines Day everybody! The celabrated day of the year when all those that "have" love, wallow in it and all those who don't feel pitiful and alone! Love in America is a "feeling" an emotional rollarcoaster of losing yourself in the personality of another. In other countries, love is not based on feelings, people marry spouses their parents have choosen for them, and "learn" to love the indidividuals. Some marrages are preserved through tradition and routine, without emotional "feelings" for each other. In the United States if the feelings change we question the exsistance and the history of our commitments and relationships. Love is deeper than a feeling, and often the true test of love is the ability to be courteous, hug, share, smile and carry on in the absense of emotional highs.

A Poem for my Love

I heard your heartbeat in the city today,
As clear as the cyrstal flakes that kissed my cheeks
and danced in the air.
What I saw more jeweled and fair,
was your ivory fingers entwined in my hair.

Wedding Vows

If there is any time for love,
it is now
rings the song of the meadowlark into the blazing dawn.

If there is any time for hope;
it is now
whispers the rustling grass

"Take me now!, please!"
see how already the morning dew
dries into noonday heat,
and today becomes yesterday's past.

Love

2010-02-02T22:17:00.003-05:00

Love in all it's forms, family....friends...platonic....sexual...spiritual...still eludes us often in day to day existence We are born alone...we die alone, that is a truth we try very hard to ignore and suppress. Dorthy Day called it "The Long Loneliness", many call it depression, it hurts...and when we find a moment of relief from that feeling of aloneness, it makes a permanent impression on our psyches.

Some early poems of love------

Sisters

The bonds of love
like invisible curtains,
surround us
envelope us,
cocoon us in their security.
Occasionally, the softness
draws closer
brushes our cheeks with it's aged coarseness
and brings to ones remembrance
it's powerful existence.

Leather man Hobo

I think of you as I wander green fields
bathed in the summer heat.
Miniature daisies coat the wild grass
like a layer of new fallen snow;

Why did you go?

Innocence

In child's play
I gave a flower away --
A daisy whose petals tear my
heart like flint
has returned to stay.

Paradox

I find a strange peace in your anger,
For I know
even in your hate
you cannot help
but love me.....
Sadistically,
I smile.

Dealing with Perfectionism

2010-01-30T22:55:00.005-05:00

Every writer has to deal sooner or later with when to end the poem and/ or to stop working on it. There are many poems that I created that had wonderful lines in them or images that I could "see" with every fiber of my being. That is not always enough, the entire poem has to work..and it has to work for more than just you! I have poems I have worked on for years...yes, I said years... and I still don't like the way they came together....or I felt it needed just one more little tweak, but they still don't feel complete to me. We are often our own harshest critics, and it is so fun to punish ourselves repeatedly. I believe 90% of writer's block is perfectionism in it's worst form.
Everybody writes for their own reasons, but I write because my sanity depends on it. It doesn't do me any good to be harsh on myself, or to stop writing because it doesn't look exactly right to me. Write because you love words, write to tell stories, write to find your voice. Your writing is uniquely YOU, like your fingerprints...so tread softly and be gentle, just keep trying!

Two poems that I never "finished" or liked..but couldn't let of...

On The Art Of Blooming

The swollen buds hang un - birthed,
seemingly suspended by expectancy alone.
I laugh as the moon reaches a silver beam
to tickle with abated breath the plant
the plant that writhes to retain it's eminent blooms.

One elderly curiously gent pauses to consider the mirage of gold
his eyes at first perceived;
There -
slivers of canary color forewarn
of an explosive revelation.
The tension becomes increasingly acute.
Brilliance that demands disclosure
must first wrestle with restraining boughs
that know how beauty offends an ugly world.

we scream together for tomorrow's release.....

A mornings sigh will find our lives shattered,
splintered with the shrapnel
of a vibrant yellow forsythia.

1980

On The Value of Words

With trembling lip and acid dread
I gave birth to those atomic words.
"Poor victims that they were!"
they flew like a hare before the hounds
to finish a mercenary job,"Well done"

Though they had ruptured from my bowels like a sausage overstuffed
and ripped my soul with their urgency,
It might have made all the difference as a grain of sand
falling unnoticed from the workman's bench.

"Fool that I was!" to lower myself to words
that I might have thought would change the color of the sky!
Why speak such idiotic syllables?
if they become but a child's whim to wipe away the brownness of her eyes?

I did not think the blades of grass
would shout at me a brighter green.
nor did I dare to dream the Hyacinth would emulate a richer scent...
so why give wings to those cursed thoughts
that until not have only tortured the recesses of my heart?

My mind twists in pain
I now confess
were I to guess and admit with quaking fear,
my true motive for speaking such,
was hope...
you might have grasped those birds of articulation,
held their bloody treasure in your unstained hands
take that meaty mess
raise it to your lips

and kiss...

OK yes, I was in love, and yes I got my heart broken! Have yourself a good laugh at my expense! There is something awful about these poems! I still can't let them go! These are just some of my imperfect poems...so go ahead ..write ..and enjoy yourself!

Family

2010-01-09T18:44:00.002-05:00

Our family forms the basis for all our future relationships. Like it or not, your family as a child was very important to how you veiw the world and who you let love you. My siblings were critical for my survival. We banded together to protect one another from our unpredictable father. We made promises to each other, we tried as best as young children could to meet each other's needs and experience joy in our lives. My youngest sister, Naomi was born when I as 10 years old. At first I was threatened by her appearance on the family scene, but soon pulled her into my world with excitment and love. She has grown up to become one of my closest friends and confidents. Here as a teenager,I write about her to encourage her to enjoy her childhood, several years later in college, I would write a more serious poem about how knowledge of her exsistance often gave me hope in a trying world.

Smile Naomi

Smile Naomi, Life's gonna pass you by
Smile Naomi, Your too young to cry.
Childhood's a fantasy, the only time in life you can be free.
Free from worry,
Free from care,
when games are life
and skys are always blue -
Smile Naomi, for the time will go too fast,
Smile Naomi, for your life will soon be past.
1/1976

Hope for the World in an Adolescant Little Sister

Pinned beneath the gaze of the city man's optical rape;

I whisper innocences name.....

Naomi.

12/1081

Looking back and letting go...

2009-12-28T17:25:00.003-05:00

Looking back at much of your earlier writing can be painful, humerous and well...a bit...humbling! I wanted to start my writing blog w/ my beginning poetry so individuals following it could see the progression in my writing over the years. I have to admit it is is embarressing to start with your "worst" writings, no matter how proud you are of them! I find myself trying to correct, improve, edit or trash the old writings because I am no longer in that place any more. For that same reason, I am unable to improve them significantly, even I don't know what I was thinking back then!
As I post these old writings of a teenage girl in the midst of unresolvable angst, I have to smile and let her be who she is, young, immature and lonely. I have to let go of the writings in the same way; as they are the beginning of a trail that leads to who I am today.
I encourage those who are writing today, whether you be at the start of your journey ..or well along the trail; to let go of your past and ermbrace the writings that continue you to find meaning in your life today..

This is one of my first poems. I was smitten by Emily Dickenson at the time and you may see some of her in the writing. I think I identified with her loneliness, her shyness, and her somewhat dark sene of humor! I think I was seventen at the time of the writing of this poem.

Loneliness

Loneliness is a bitter friend , that knows no enemies.
He walks with ease amoung our lives
and never does he bend,
to broken hearts or swollen eyes or yearnings without end.

For some he touches lightly
then vanishes gingerly;
but to those that he attaches to
he haunts eternally.

untitled

2009-12-20T13:37:00.003-05:00

This year I am the river
I toss up dead branches on the red clay banks,
leaving skelatons for smaller prey to nest in or devour.
Even with ice in my veins, I move on,
a glossy black ribbion of life winding from town to town.
I pick up only what is given
and discard on my shores, tin cans, bits of plastic,
tree trunks and sometimes human bones.
1993

Winterberry Gardens: A Gathering Space for Writers: Needed Emptiness

2009-12-17T22:49:00.002-05:00

Winterberry Gardens: A Gathering Space for Writers:

Thought I would post with some of my older and...more "morbid" poetry. As a way of explanation I have struggled on and off with depression, and often my work reflects this obsession with the dark side of our psyche. I think I listened too much as a child to Tom Lehrer O'Lear with such funny songs as "Posioning Pidgeons In the Park" Check it out on youtube.com. I wrote this peice back in the early 80's when condo's and co op's where becoming popular. I wanted to convy the aloneness a person could experience even in the midst of many people. Hope you enjoy the "tongue in cheek!"

Something is Rotting in Chalet #5

Something is rotting in Chalet #5.
She's been there since Tuesday at quater to nine
Today it is Sunday and five days away
she loses her eyeballs as the world goes to pray.
The postman doesn''t notice
that the letters go unread.
The newsboy doesn't know
that the occupant is dead.
Old Mr. Cramer thought he smelled something "fishy"
while walking the dog, or, so he told biker Richie,
who coasts by her window each morning
Richie said he hadn't seen anything alarming
except that she used to sing every day
but had stopped...but that wasn't strange -
he thought singing "ODD' anyway...

The day Sally's meat pulled away from the bone
The lover cursed "bitch ! She won't answer the phone!"
It's a good thing the central air keeps down the bugs,
but it looks like this spells the end for the rugs.

The whole world goes on like it hasn't a care,
that the next thing she'll lose is her nails and her hair.

On June 23rd the rent's way overdue
and someone will come banging at quater to two.
He'll quick get impatient
cause the car's in the yard
and he hates collecting money when the tenants make it hard -
So he'll reach for the keys
on his black leather belt
and he'll wonder if it was garbage in the air he just smelt!
Then he'll gasp as he shoves the door roughly aside
and poor Sally Ridgfeild will have no place to hide.
She'll greet him warmly with a fleshless grin
and pay him with maggots as he stubbles in.

Keep writing!

2009-12-13T19:44:00.002-05:00

Just a reminder to everyone to keep writing during the busy holiday season. Many deep memories are rooted in the scents and traditions of the holidays..keep your mind open!

The Beatitude of Tears

2009-12-09T14:39:00.000-05:00

This is a link to an article I published with In Communion.

It is entitled, "The Beatitude of Tears" http://incommunion.org/?p=396

Needed Emptiness

2009-12-09T14:10:00.002-05:00

One day
I looked around -
and there was no small pocket to put myself in.
Everywhere, my life was too full to find a needed emptiness
to rest as the world went on.

I want a square flannel corner
for the small brown mouse
I used to carry in my pocket of my shirt,
whose tiny furry movements first began to stir in me
a feeling of love against my still unopened breasts.