It Never Fails

Never does it fail me
tears gather
a feeling of bliss,sheer
wonder at the sight, my
first glimpse of the mountains
as I take that bend in the road.

Never does it fail me
I have to share the feelings
the miraculous sights here,
this place in the north west
of North Carolina.

Never does it fail me
the splendor of being here
in a house that sits upon a mountain
over looking more of the same
right into infinity.

Never does it fail me
amaze and delight me
the feeling deep and soft
that these mountains are spiritual
that I’ve come home again.

The Burden of Grief

I think I know about grief
the five thousand stages
until five thousand one lurks
then takes hold and I’m stricken
pain gouged raw and laid bare
open, visible heart beating out the pain.

I unwittingly become a study in pain.
How does she get through that grief
when her being is a cavern bared
the never ending succession of stages
die then resurrect and she strives
to remain whole though the demons lurk.

Beneath the smile and even joy lurks
a villain real and filled with pain
paused in limbo but ready to strike
death’s claw unacknowledged in stages
regardless of the happiness I bore.

How can one be so stricken
so utterly and completely barren
of any sign of the companion grief,
hope each day will differ when there lurks
the hovering relentlessness of pain
lying in wait for one slip on life’s stage.

I can no longer remember the stages
that I went through when death struck.
All I remember is feeling the pain
that ripped me up and laid bare
my heart for those to see that lurked.

Deliver me from grief and it’s stages
that lurks ready to pounce and strike,
bare my life as it is; a cavern of pain.

Longing

I long to speak his name
have him hear me and answer
with his deep voice that always
took me by surprise.

I long to see him walk out of his
room with his hair standing on end
and head for the cereal box,
heft the gallon of milk from the fridge
and slurp it on and in.

I long to hear him whistle a tune,
to sit still and hear the saxophone come
to life, see his long, strong fingers
moving on the sax and his mouth on
the reed as he plays with such feeling,
eyes closed, putting himself into each
note whether it was the gator stomp
or the midnight blues.

I long to see him walk in the room
so tall and handsome, hug me so
tight, then lean over to kiss my cheek.

I long to hear him say my name
Mom, or Mama, or Ma, depending
on what mood he was in that day
even old parental one would make me
laugh again.

I long to hear his jokes or hear him
talk about something and get so tickled
himself that he’d laugh his all out
wide open, knee slapping laugh.

I long to pick up the phone when it rings
and hear those words, hey mom, what’s up
I thought I’d come home this weekend.

I long to cook him spaghetti and hear his
praise for something so simple, so easy,
see him lying on the couch to watch TV
and fill the house with his presence...
just that would be enough, just presence.

Judy Roney
April 27, 2009

How Could She

How could a mother
give up a child? That’s
the lowest, most despicable
thing I can imagine, she says,
disdain and contempt written
on her twisted lips and stone face.

The woman goes on and on.
She’s a mother herself and she
knows there is no way she’d
ever give one up. She loves
her kids more than that.
How can a mother do that?
I can’t think of one reason
no matter what that would
separate me from my child.

I think I know though. I think
the mother who gives up her child
is courageous and farsighted.
She see’s beyond herself
and what is hers. She might
be hungry, abused, no job,
might have no home or way
to protect and care for her child.
Perhaps she simply
knows she can’t do the job.
Whatever the reason, it has
to be the biggest act of love
a mother can perform, to
think of her child’s best interest
and give the baby the best she
can offer. Perhaps she loves
her child enough.
Judy Roney
April 26, 2009

Hawaiian Luau

The tickets are pricey
but the cause is a good one.
Anything that enriches
a child’s life is vital.

The décor was creative
palm fronds and native masks
sand pails with flip flops
beach balls and towels.

We had a margarita,
a taste of ribs and cole slaw,
and then the real shake down began
at high velocity and pitch.

We were lectured on how we
should pay much more than the worth
of items auctioned because it’s
for a good cause. My head began

to pound from the diatribe over
each object on the block. She shouts
you can do it, dig deep, you can do it.
I begin to feel like the gopher in the game

where you wield a mallet and try to bash
the little critters as they crawl from their
holes. Ouch, bam, more, bam, ouch,
give more, bam. Four long hours later,

the happy faces that walked in were
changed into contemplation and glassy
eyed compliance to the plea for donations
for the kids. Now we were in long

lines to wait to pay for our guilt ridden
pledges. I know there has to be fund
raisers, I see the need, understand it,
have more than one myself but surely

there is a better way? One that doesn’t
drain you but makes you feel good.
Perhaps if I would have won something
I would look on it differently. Perhaps

if there did not seem to be so many
situations just like this one in my life
right now I’d feel better about it. I
feel like an evil being just admitting this.

I don't want to be coerced,tricked, shamed,
or guilted out of contributions. We give
more than our fair shares to causes we believe
in and I do feel good about those.

Judy Roney
April 25, 2009
Event

Ripe With Regret

I regret that I did not
put the fish in the fridge,
that I left it in the car
to ripen in the heat.

That aroma and taste
at Bonefish Grill
was delectable, incredible
the smell now
of the fish, a nice pink
salmon, in my car is rank.
Judy Roney
April 23, 2009

All I Want

All I want is to be published
to see my work go out
to say this is my book
this is what I wrote
this is what I did
this is what I toil over
have a passion for
do every day
and someone will say
this is good, very good
that’s all I want.

Aquamarine

Crystal light blue of infinite skies
to the deep blues of the ocean
on tropical islands.

The color of beach town trim
seaglass picked up along the way
seashells and seagrass hues.

A gemstone said to be discovered
in mermaids treasure chests
revered by sailors ever since.

The gem that promises lasting relationships
tradition promises a happy marriage
the color in my daughter’s wedding party.

One Time Love

I love my husband
he loves me back
it’s a life time deal
a commitment we made
but if anything ever happened
to him, I’d live by myself.

Don’t get me wrong
I love being married but
I’d be fine with just me
making my own way.

I have the best of love
I’d never try to replicate
I’d go to the next best thing
to being married to this man
I adore…I’d choose to be alone.

Death of the Muse

I love to paint
Create with my hands, my mind, my spirit.
I can’t draw, can’t paint what I want to
but if I get an idea that stays with me
that painting will bug me until it's done.

I wonder at the artistic muse
when and why it strikes
how to summon it when I’m dry
facing that empty canvas.

Every time I hit a dry spell,like now,
I think it’s the death of my art
that the ability has left me
as suddenly as it came
and I wonder
does the inspiration leave me
and go on to another lost soul
who needs to paint to get through
who needs a brush to find their way
who needs to re-create their loved one
and find they can do it on canvas now.

I could let go easier if that were the case
If the art didn’t just wither and die.

So We Decided…

So we decided to stay home
give them a party on their return
from Antigua, an island far away.

They got married on the beach
have room service and rest by the pool
sip drinks with those tiny umbrellas
live life now as Mr. and Mrs.

We’re sad now that we didn’t go,
sad we didn’t see and hear the I do’s,
see our daughter transform into
a Filipkowski, watch as he
becomes our son.

Happy wedding my dear daughter
we love knowing your life is flowing
in directions we all dreamed of.

Welcome to our family son-in-law
we will treasure you and love you, too
for you have given us the greatest gift
the love you have for our daughter.

Organizer

Organize me,
keep me on task.
I in-put information
names, addresses,
phone numbers, too.
I list methodically
the dates and times of
appointments, birthdays,
celebrations, meet-ups,
and due dates; even rate
their importance with stars.

I do understand the drill,
that people my age need
to write things down.
I check out the days events
the first thing in mornings light
commit it all to mind, but then,
something always slips by me.

I do my part dilgently, so
can’t for the life of me see
how my organizer has failed
once more in it’s task
to manage and organize me.

Judy Roney
April 11, 2009

Friday

Friday night, end of the work week,
date night with dinner and movies
out, or a party at some club.

Then pizza and movie night
as the kids grew up, the beginning
of family time. We’d watch the kids play
sports and have BBQ’s with friends.
We’d visibly shed the week when we
walked in the door on Friday afternoons.

Friday nights have changed again.
It’s the night I cook dinner at home
or have friends over; restaurants
are too crowded and I’d rather stay in.
We’ll have a sip of wine, cuddle on the couch,
laugh at the dog who vies for our attention,
watch a show, and still celebrate family
in a way that suits us now.

Same Old, Same Old

I wrote Christmas newsletters every October
to have them ready to send the first of December
gave it up because I could have just photocopied
the letters from previous years.

The kids are doing great, Jeni is settled
and happy, Brian is ready to graduate
from University of Florida. We are so
proud of them. Bill still works hard every
day at home and will soon retire from
the fire department. That will allow him
more time at our business. Ha! My life
is full with family, friends, travel, and work.

I stopped sending the newsletters, no more repetition.
I knew it had to be boring to read since nothing ever
happened out of the ordinary; same old, same old,
day in, day out. I loved my life but it was nothing
to write about or even bother friends with.

In December 1999 my son died and I could have
begun my newsletter again. Plenty was happening
but I didn’t have the strength to relay the details.
I often thought what I wouldn’t give to be back in
the same old, same old of days the past. What I
wouldn’t give to have no real news, just status quo
to report, everyone is doing fine.

It’s been nine years and I still can’t find my common
place where I am comfortable and life goes on
in the same way every day. Every aspect of this life
has changed and continues to change. I can never settle,
never feel that comfort zone. I so want to write
“no real news here; same old, same old.” but instead I
write: I hurt, I search, I do, I try, I keep on moving.

Judy Roney
April 8, 2009

Clean Up

I spend a portion of my day cleaning up
the house, the kitchen when I cook,
the bookshelves or my closets,
my junk drawers, dresser drawers,
the fridge, the stove, the cabinet tops,
the floors, the porch, the pool, and me,
the garbage can, the sink and the baths.
I spend my days cleaning up.

I spend so much time cleaning out
the to-do file on my desk -
a poem a day at Robert’s bidding,
the poetry I need for the city archives,
the homework or critiquing for a poetry class,
work on several projects undone, paintings,
my knitting, my blogs, my writing group online,
my clubs,e-mail, family, Facebook, and friends.
There's birthdays, holidays, celebrations, too,
cards to send and thank you notes,
snail mail to write and gifts to wrap,
I spend so much time in my in-basket
it’s so hard to strike a balance in life.
April 7, 2009

The Problem With Flowers

The problem with flowers
Is that they die
but before they limp over
the side of the vase, they
turn the clear water to snot.
Primordial ooze that begins
a stench about the third day
and permeates the whole
house by the fourth.

There’s no conflict in fragrances.
the slimy stench of the water
doesn’t vie with the non fragrance
of the hothouse flowers that had no
scent to start with save the smell dank soil.

Sometimes flowers last a week
and you can spend a daily task
snipping off the rotted or diseased
places or taking a flower out here and there
that has already wimped out,
then you have a thread bare bouquet
left to look at and admire for a few more days
as you watch the death descend,
approach each petal, each leaf,
each stem and take over your thoughts.

What possesses people to give
flowers as gifts… Your dad just died
and it helps to see this bouquet
of Forget-me-not's shrivel and die before
your eyes? Who’s idea was this to torture
the tortured; to send death disguised
as a thoughtful gift? I know their
meaning, and the gift they represent,
but the problem with flowers
is that they die.

Judy Roney
April 3, 2009

Outsider

They play their games, fort
and club, with signs no girls allowed.
They talk around me, over me, through me,
pick up a game where they left off.

They have a sport, “let’s break her now”
they know I’m quick to tears. But mostly
they ignore me, don’t give me a thought,
act shocked when they see I’m there.

Time has mellowed them
I’m not so quick to tears
I understand, it’s really not their
fault, they were born into that group
so I was born to be the whole number one.
They try to work me into their lives
and I love them all for trying, but still,
I don’t understand why I still find myself
searching for my way in.

Judy Roney
April 2, 2009

Origin

On the day I was born
the sun was out of alignment
listed to the left, then fell
leaving the world in darkness.

What is it my mom and dad
asked each other as their heads
turned first one way, then another,
my mother’s tear fell onto my face.

What happened, my father asked
the Dr. who stood there staring back.
Don’t ask me, he replied, this has
nothing to do with me.
My grandfather turned the other way
walked out and shut the door softly
to make his getaway. My grandmother
looked at me with her kindly sad eyes.

What is this, what happened, each
one there implored the heavens.
A nurse took me in her arms
It’s a girl, she said, just a girl.

On the day I was born there was silence
as they wrapped me up to take me home
I’m sorry Jake, my mother said,
Can you ever forgive me?