More stories ...and a bit of an explanation...

Sooo I love stories... And I have a few more for you, but I thought I had better explain to my followers a few "minor" things. First, I am dyslexic, as you might have noticed, spelling errors show up in all of my writings. I could proof read them MORE, but then you might never see them, and that would be a loss for both you and me. A poetry teacher once told me I needed to go back and take a basic English course, and that comment stopped my writings for months and wounded me something awful. For me that professor was not particularly helpful, I only resented him after that.

Don't listen to what other people say. People that need to write do so for their own sanity and enjoyment. The fact that I might help other people, or communicate a message is secondary to me. I need to write to figure myself out,,, and make sense of my world. The gist of all this is that I will ask you to overlook some of more obvious spelling errors and try to hear the "voice" of the poem. If poetry is about finding your voice, I have found mine, and I hope you can hear me even with the misspellings. I can always hope!

I am also a very wounded person, who as a child experienced physical emotional and sexual abuse as a very young child. I have struggled with depression most of my life. You may see this "darkness" in my writings at times and many people are offended and put off by it. it is a part of who I am and so it comes out in my work. It is probably the primary reason I have had trouble publishing my work, as I have been told by other writers that most publications like to leave the reader with a sense of well being. Hurt exists in this world....and sometimes in very primitive forms that hit a very visceral nerve. I see hurt because I hurt and I don;t want it any other way. I want people to feel when they read my poetry, and maybe we all need to voice our pain a bit more honestly in this society. So if my poetry makes you sad, or angry or melancholy, that is OK.. I want you to feel. I want you to feel and think about doing things in your life a bit differently, or looking at the stranger next door as a flawed human being. Anyway, enjoy more of the story variety.

Guilty

Already I forget his name,

child with the almond eyes and dark walnut skin,

whose face peered out from the nightly news.

An impish smile frozen on a magnetic screen,

For three days,

four nights

twelve broadcasts

every newspaper

they searched for that little boy.

Combed the junkyards,

questioned the neighbors,

brought out the dogs.

They flashed his name and face on screens across the state,

until the image of his wide - eyed grin haunted my dreams

like an unconscious retinic image.

At some point his brother told the cops to check the freezer

and there they found him

his severed limbs as delicate as fawns legs hidden in the ice.

Already I forget his name,

as if his four year old life

wasn't short enough

to end.

Severed limb from limb with a butchers knife

like one of the Innocents

killed by the sword in search of the Christ Child.

Already I forget his name...

as if his four year old life wasn't short enough to bring me shame.

Four tar - small footprints

stain the slate I walk each day...

and still I cannot know his name....

like a breath whispered

and gone,

his eyes still smiling from the TV screen.

Today I walk this sidewalk weeping

for a child as unseen as the ghost

who left these marks on the walk of my everyday life.

Spring 1994

The next poem is an actual revealing of my family's ancestral history, which surprisingly included the fact that my grandfather was listed as "mulatto" in the 1830 census. His mother was listed as "colored". It brought some light to some old family myths and stories that was part of my up bring.

Passing Over

All those years of sister's teasing

"Nigger lips, nigger nose"

and wondering why Nana bought me dresses and haircuts.

Told me at the age of eight

"Don't leave flowers on My doorstep"

Why all those years my cousins were accepted,

but my sisters, brother and myself,

were not.

We were not in a very real sense.

All these years of plaiting their hair

holding their hands

smelling their skin:

All those years of holding them in the rage of their fear

and maybe this family secret is why I came here a century ago. (*1)

All those years I wondered "not what?"

This winter I went to Florida to see my grandparents.

My great Uncle Ralph

asks me in a line at Universal Studios

"What tribe did your father belong to in the Caribbean...

EXACTLY?"

My Nana states at dinner

"You can always tell bi racial children by their noses"

and everyone falls silent as they stare at the center of my face.

"Not what?!"

"Not white??!"

"Not completely??!"!

Now the innocent joke my mother has told

isn't funny..

about how following my birth she told the nurse

"you've brought me the wrong baby!"

and pointed to the colored woman in the next bed.

"you were just sooo DARK... My mother laughs,

" ......A head full of long black hair"

I should have known then,

the taste of the color I had been born in..

All those years my father taught

in the small town school

was ridiculed,

shunned,

isolated,

scorned,

mocked,

never befriended despite his friendliness

until finally he took an early retirement at age fifty.

Maybe the same person who told his peers

was the same one who told my Nana

he would never sell his house to that black man and his wife.

My mother should have known then,
      the taste of the color she married in.

All those years I should have learned to hate something...

it was "what ?" exactly?

I didn't know..

It wasn't in my father's nature either

it wasn't in his skin

to hate these people that didn't know the taste of the color of the world they had been born in.

never lily white

always a shade of difference.

This year I got a taste of the color I've been bathing in,

sometimes nutmeg brown,

sometimes coffee with cream,

sometimes tar baby black,

but always...

"you've got you father's beautiful skin!"

gardenias are white

although if you look closely I'd say they look like ivory

,But white enough to be my nan's favorite.

That was my gift to her

a plant that will not die beside her doorstep

a plant whose tropical exotic scent

sweet,

heavy,

like the grease on my child's hair,

will forever betray the orgin of it's snow white blooms.

*1 I worked in a residential facility outside Philadelphia with abused children for almost 20 years.

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