Bonded By Our Words

Against all odds our online poetry critique group
has lasted twelve years.  We’ve been through a lot,
diagnosis, loss, worry, birth of grandchildren, children’s
weddings, grand celebrations, and publications. We hear
each other’s joy and pain through the writings. 

We carry on to encourage, critique honestly, learn from,

and inspire each other. Each of us are stronger for our union.
Our lives, personal and writing, keeps changing but the core
of the group, the friendships we have forged holds steady.
We are band of women, The Skywriters, bonded by our words.

Evening Goes

I relax into the evening
The hamburger is browning
Smells of tomato sauce bubbly.
All is ready, I sit at the computer
To tap out a few more lines, thoughts.
Lexi starts to bark, jumping around like
An aerialist, she runs to me, then charges
For the door. He’s home she seems to say.

A kiss and hug for me, a treat for the bouncing dog

A hope from me that he’ll settle, be calm,
But no, we have to go.  He thinks we should go
To Sam’s or to the mall, just walk around, grab
Dinner.  I cooked, he says, let’s save it for tomorrow.
I have work to do here, it can wait.  Come be with me.
I was hoping for a bath, TV, some writing before bed.
He was hoping for a ride, a walk, see sights, do things.
He’s a go, go, go guy, I know that.  It’s hard when
I’m a sit, sit, and sit kind of girl.  Work to be done here.

I go.  Be with him most times.  That’s the important choice.

To be with him, tomorrow we’ll eat spaghetti and watch TV.
Tomorrow I’ll get some writing done and finish the painting.
Tonight we’ll hold hands in Wal-Mart and laugh because
Someone said something funny at work.  He likes it when
We are out and I’m not working either. 

Ghost Story

She feels a being, stealthy and languid.
Someone in the room, but not, someone watches her.
She slid the saffire sweater over her head. Her eyes
are drawn to the blood red splatters across the cowl.
She needs a bath, the laundry can wait.  She turned
the hot water on and let it run over her, clear her head.
She can't lose her nerve now.  She's home free.

Her body feels like fire but she scrubs the blood
from her hair, lets it bubble down the drain.  She was cleansed.
She steps into the bedroom wrapped in a towel.
There on the bed lie her clothes and across the sheet,
written in scarlet letters was the epitaph,
Bloodshed in red,
you’ll wish you were dead.

Tribute

She takes the rap
Everything I dish out
If only in my mind
She keeps moving
Her shoulders hunched
From burden of a life
Unfiltered.

No one kept her safe

Loved her, told her
She was special.
No one showed her how
To be a woman, mother, wife
Have respect for self
How a good man behaves.

No one said you are pretty,

Smart, kind, strong or loveable
She had to eke out a life
Without guidance, love
Or help of any kind face.

She survived and was

Toughened by a life hard
From the beginning
She knew what to expect
What she'd get from this
Life that spit her out.

She didn't know marrying

An abusive man would be
Her undoing where hope
Was concerned. She gave us
What she knew, a good spanking.

She ridiculed and set up, made a sport

Out of beatings. Didn't hug, touch.
Her children never heard I love you
Or you are precious or pretty or smart
For she didn't believe in spoiling kids
Or giving them the big head. She kept
The six at bay so she could have a life.

Such as it was. Her husband came first.

He ate steak while they went hungry.
She'd say she gave her life up for them
And I know she did. A husband who drank away
What he made, six mouths to feed with no support
Her life swallowed up in have-to's and wants
And all the never haves.

They were never a consideration for her

She didn't raise kids to think differently
She worked hard to keep them down
She'd never raised an uppity kid.
She did a good job by her standards
She worked all her life to make sure
She handed down all her knowledge.

The Good Old Days

These are the good old days.

The golden years were in the summer
of my life, when the sun was shining.
I met my husband, held my children’s
wiggly bodies for the first time,
had a houseful of laughter and activity.

The good old days are now.  I’m old,

but there are riches to be found
in the love of this same sweet man,
the mountain top in fall, or a winter
scene when I write or paint to my content.

All Consuming

Our tragedies have to consume us in the dark and daytime, too.
There are only slight reprieves from our duty to get through this,
before another tragedy strikes. Or the delightful floats into our lives
and needs our attention and ministrations to become joys. 
We aren’t strange in our unrelenting, all-consuming thoughts,
it’s how we grow and go on, how we move through and survive

Gathering Fellows

We gather to poem, the poets and I,
in the months of April and November.
We ponder, write, and share the angst
of producing that poem a day.

I like being surrounded, if only online,

by those who write poetry and prose.
This connection through stanzas and lines,
gathered fellows of the word, we poem.

Hey!

People up north in Tennessee
where I was born and raised
say I have a northern accent.
They ask me why that’s so
when I live further south than they.
I say, hey?

People here in Florida

say I have a southern accent thick
they strain to understand me.

They never knew Florida

had only two syllables.  Not till
they heard me.  Well, hey!

Coordinated Fruit

I have oranges in the fruit bowl

October and November,
shiny red delicious apples
all December long.

 I know it’s a little strange,

won’t make sense to those
who like their seasonal fruit.

But the oranges match my fall décor

and apples, well you get the gist.
Coordinated down to my fruit bowl,
my way to say  I’m with it.

Best Ever

He decided he’d go with me to the mall

after we had breakfast at his favorite spot.

The back-ups that lead to the Bucs stadium

went for miles.  We forgot about that.

We sang old songs and poked along.

At  the mall we parked in the overflow lot,

walked around holding hands and sharing soda.

Saw Santa Claus in his ice palace, heard the squeals

from children, grumbles from adults that it's too soon.

Such a magical time, the times I spend with Bill.

Suspicious Mind

I don’t like this cloud that rolls in and covers everything each time I think of you.

You act concerned, but I recognize the moments of forgetfulness and disorganization,
the times you lose your place and tap your finger on your desk.   You need a haircut.
Are you taking care of yourself?  How can you do this job, probe here, pull there, check
this, singe that.  I don’t know what you think or whether you are good, do I go on faith?
How many have you saved?  How many were killed by your practiced hands?
I have to put the upmost trust in you; I put my most precious possession in your hands.
Should I really entrust his life to you, Doctor?  What are my choices?

Delusion

Marshmallow Santas are my heart’s desire.
Christmas music makes a lie out of disappointment.
We cheat cancer like a con man, shaking hands
with the enemy when he's cut down with lasers.
It's too late to get a foothold on slippery
slopes too steep, too deep, and complicated,
like health,  mortality or faith, and who
He is. Delusion is a grifter taking up room
and board in this slop house of a greasy spoon.
This health guru cooks fried chicken and bakes
cheesecake, promises to get a grip before he kills
us all. He’s unaware of deceptive practices.
He only wants us to be happy and we love him for it.

Revelation

The nurses wheeled him out of my reach, my sight
and then out of my hearing. Wrenching.  He’s alone
on this journey, I can’t even share a whisper.
Can’t touch his hand as they cut and laser, decide
his future, mine. 

I meant it when I told him, “I’ll never leave you”. 
I face the facts I will, or you will leave me when
we are most frightened, most alone.  I walk by his
side in joy, in love, but what has been revealed
is he’s alone and so am I. 

Once Upon a Neighborhood

We see proof, we know you are there
though you hide in cars that pass me by
no acknowledgement to my waving hand.
Your garage door opens, automatically,
closes before you get out of your car,
before I can see you and know who you are.

I wonder if it’s because we are older now,

no children to get to know you through,
or if this is the Twilight Neighborhoods of today
where no one knows, no one speaks, no one
sees the other. How do they get their mail? 

I feel like a ghost walking a tiny dog

down the empty, quiet streets, my head
tilted at the houses for signs of life. My lips
form the word, I whisper.. then shout, Boo!

Love of Life

Love lies fallow in every lonely heart,

ready to sprout, take root.  He hopes,

looks for the chance to bring sustenance

into his life, have someone to love and be

loved by.  She prays she doesn’t miss

out or give up too soon, waits for the spark

when their eyes meet.

I want to tell them relax, it’s all chance,

a big gamble, nothing is ever for sure.

Enjoy today and the love you share,

there’s no guarantees about tomorrow.

Deadly

So many ways to die.
Automobile accident, cancer,
suicide, drugs, disease, murder.
The number of ways are infinite.
We wlll all die, but for now
we live our lives full out and steady.

Kind Healer

The doctor’s hand touches

my husband’s arm, my hand

as he tells us its cancer, quickly

tells us the way we will do

battle, irradiate the enemy,

keep close eye on rebirth.

He’ll slice away every cell of tumors,

then singe in  the fires of a laser. 

We - keep our appointments,

pray, and don’t give up hope. 

Electronic Excess

Phone rings, it's my cell

Where is it, in my car!

No, it’s my home phone,

no, it must be my husband’s cell.

Ping! They must have left a text.

I just want to write on my laptop,

at least answer my email.

But I’ll use my IPAD so I can

catch the phones, too. 

The door bell rings,

the dog barks, her collar sprays

water in her face so she will stop.

The phone rings again,

It’s not my cell, I'll get the door.

A Day to Forget

Eleven, Eleven, Eleven

at eleven:eleven a.m.

A day I won’t repeat

in my lifetime.

Only look back on,

remember where I was.

I was beside my husband

while he slept, checking

for fever or any change,

wondering if I’d notice

something important,

something that went awry.

This day has become

a day I want to forget.

The day after his surgery.

The day we heard cancer

applied to our life.

The Stage

Cancer or not?

It's cancer.

We are in the club,

I hope the name

is Cancer Survivors.

Tomorrow, surgery,

then what? Find out

what stage? Stage sounds.

like a performance.

I need to be on that stage

brave and true for him.

Where do I get that kind

of strength ?  From no

where I've been before.

He because he has it,

me because I love him.