Stories,,,,,,

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..

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..

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

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

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

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...

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.