Looking back and letting go...

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

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

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!

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

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

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.