The Wolf's View

I was thinking the other day

how parents dutifully, consistently
read to their small children
the fairy tale starring me.

I’ve enjoyed the notoriety, bask in the glow

of the squirmy little morsels all scared
to think of me, my teeth,  and my grasp
as I gobble them up.

That doesn’t worry anyone, especially

not me.  I like the part coming up the most.
It’s about how I took advantage of a bedridden
granny and ate her for dinner. Makes the little
ones shiver.

The story has been told in different

ways…the outcome is the same. I pose
as granny then so I can gobble up
the little girl in red, too.  Oh, yummy.

I don’t think anyone believes the part

about the woodsmen saving them both
and cutting the granny from my belly?
And granny lives? Oh, please! 

(write a poem in the voice of a fairy tale character)

Punishment

She always does the same thing.

I always expect different results.

My gut aches from the knots her games

bring me when she’s around.  She says she loves me

wants me to be part of her life, suckers me in

with all I’ve ever wanted.

 

She always does the same thing.

But each time I’m hopeful, just like the time before.

Then she slams me with her accusations, critiques,

blames me for everything wrong in her life.   I believe her,

try to make things better.  I give of myself,

my resources, my life. She’s family, I have to try again.

 

She always does the same thing.

She can go on and on for years before she breaks,

has to hurt me as deeply and more than

ever before.  She always succeeds.  I always

think it’s worth it before I find myself

crawling away like a snake, unworthy as a human.

I’m wrecked, humbled before her, pleading,

she kicks me in the gut again.  Spears me in the heart.

Stands back and views her damage with some pride.

She always does the same thing.

 

(Anaphora Poem)

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.

Instant Coffee

Instant coffee taste bitter on tongue.

Cigarette throat, hoarse and raw.

Yellow fingers with bloody cracks

reach for another Camel. He swears.

Swollen eyes flinch as the hotel florescent sign

shines gawdawful yellow into the early morning

squalor. He gulps the last inch of vodka

then places the bullet in the chamber.

Demon Birds

 

I know my boundaries. Can’t have

games on my computer if I desire
to create, research, email family,
keep up with my writing group,

critique and respond to prompts,

post, read, or work on my book.

I cannot play games, important

work goes untended, games

possess me like a demon

poltergeist. So -  I download

Angry Birds just to see what

people rave about. Since then

have read nothing, done zero,

become torpedo woman slinging

poor birds to their demise as I

try to get them to kill those

damn pigs. Demon be gone! is my

mantra as I poise my finger over

delete so I can get my life back,

right after I play this level five.

Laundry Meditation

(Prompt from We Write Poems, "I do my laundry when…")

I do the laundry

to contemplate or meditate,

am sad or glad.  My hands

are busy, my mind on hold.

I love the fragrance.

Takes me back to clothesline

days, soft towels and crisp

white sheets whip dancing

to the breezes in sun filled days.

Fold now, then stow away

in closets and dressers,

placement acts as comforter

to ragged, jagged thoughts.

Here is something I can do

when I can’t do anything else.

Musty Minutes

I climb into the attic

for a few musty minutes

with my cache gathered

over the years. School

photos, Mother’s Day
cards made by hand,
child’s uniforms,

toys of a little boy.

Our lives now garnered

in the attic, all of it

history now.

Vision

She cried tears to fill an ocean but no one saw.
No one heard the sobs racking her body
or when she tried to move on, go on, lift herself up.
After she jumped everyone wondered why.
What could they have done if they had seen?


They saw her vibrancy, her abilities, her gifts,
the joy of being  around her; her presence and her
smile was a gift. They saw she produced, helped
others, was vital just by existing. They don’t
know why, they never will.

Everywhere they go now they see her tears,
see her face, recognize the legacy she leaves
with her tear stained life. They know it wasn’t
their fault, it wasn’t about them, but still they
see her face, her life, her hopelessness captured
on the walls of their minds. They wait with dread

for even that vision to fade one hue at a time
for where there is no future, there is no vision.

Skywriters

Skywriters is a group of online poets
and writers who have shared the deepest
recesses of themselves with each other.
We talk about our hurts, disappointments,
crisis and tragedies. We express our joys,
friendships, family, love, surprises
and so many wonders in our lives. We’ve
been at this for eleven years and will
do so until we no longer sit at our computers,
until we are retired poets, but we’ll support
each other still. Everyone needs a safe place.

Dare

Dare to explore. You don’t
have to be so practical here.
I talk to myself.
Find the essence and expound.
Don’t go all black and white, Judy,
live in shades of gray at times, dare
to find new feelings, other worlds,
even new beings, just be open .

Triptych Relationship

Heaven, Earth, Man
ethereal, solid, changing
dream, landscape, reality
good, green, individual
baby, dwelling, husband
laughter, stern, emotion
fun, work, complications
writing, painting, photography
creator, create, creation

Opening Day

I stretch and yawn but not wildly
So as not to disturb puppy poking
in my ribs or my husband spooned
on my back, legs entwined in mine.

The soft white cotton
That covers us floats off
Our bodies as my one free foot
Moves to the moment, as I awaken
With my bed mates. Sunshine

Glows through the bamboo slats
At our windows. A bird begins
His morning song from far away
As senses come to us all. Our
Movements are choreographed
In the opening day of life forward.

Conversation with A Friend

I tried so hard to make our family strong,
strived to get us all working together,
felt stronger with the four of us there,
worked to see the children blossom,
have every opportunity, everything
I could provide I did. I know ...

I don’t know what went wrong!
Did I not try hard enough,
do enough good, say the right things,
provide enough stability so they
were grounded and always felt safe?
Did I? Of course you ...

Am I the one that didn’t stretch far enough,
didn’t cover all the basis, who took a left turn
when it should have been a sharp right?
What did I do that was so wrong, devastating
enough to break the dream apart? You did
the best …

You keep interrupting me but I don’t want
you to say the words. I know I wasn’t the
best mom, best parent. I don’t need
for anyone to tell me what I know.
I just want to know there is something
I can do to fix things. What can I do?
Noth…

Yep, that’s what I thought you’d
say. You are no help.

Pricked

First line of each stanza taken from Art’s Blood by Vicki Lane. Prompt by We Write Poems.


The list is long I should think
Too many people who have been hurt
By words said or written
With intent or unintentional
The results the same, shaky
Egos are hurt, even destroyed.

The low murmur of conversation
Comes to a stop when I walk in.
Such a clear sign who is being
Skewered with their broiling
Words that scorch the proud.

I’m sorry for all the crap
That hits you, hits me, by
Unthinking people, or purposeful
Ones who can’t empathize enough
With the ones they abuse.

It Wasn’t Until I Lost Him

It wasn’t until I lost him
that the blue sky turned
murky and closed in, my body
became torpid, a reflection of
my life without the ability
to even care for myself.
I looked to my husband,
my mother, my family and
friends and finally strangers
to save me, to help me find
my way back to a world
that made sense again.

It wasn’t until I lost him
that I lost my lifelong
faith and innocence.
One plus one began
to equal three or four
and a look in the mirror
reflected a ghost with
no face I recognized.

I stared at my husband
and daughter, wondered who
they were and how I fit
in their broken lives,how
I could shelter and take care
of them. My arms felt
empty no matter whom I held.

It wasn't until I lost him
that my life became a jigsaw
puzzle with missing pieces,
huge gaps that I couldn't fill
but was forced to put back together.

The Pursuit of Happiness

The girl told her grandma,
whom she loved and felt deep
connection to, that she wasn’t
happy in her marriage. The abuse
takes it's toll, Grandma, and some
days I find it hard to crawl

out of bed. The grandmother
in the wisdom of her century said,
You made your bed,now lie in it.
The girl never told her grandma
how crushed she was or that she
would learn to make her bed
in a different way.

The Number Game

I played the lotto for years when it came to state
Spent my millions at least a million times in mind
And on paper. We talked about what we would
Do with our new wealth once our numbers came
In. I played one lotto built on numbers from our
Lives, birthdays, ages, important dates.

One night I had a dream and six perfect numbers
In different shades of beauty appeared one at a time
I woke up, remembered each number, each shade,
Every part of the dream right down to the smokey
Hue the numbers were all coming from. I was a
Winner, this was it, I just had to play those numbers,

I did for four or five years until I had a daydream.
I was sitting on my front porch looking out at the world
When everything became hazy and smoke filled
Finally letters began to appear one at a time in
Different bright neon colors. S..U…C..K..E…R..
Then nothing else.

(Written for We Write Poems Prompt)

This Hour

This is my Wordle for We Write Poems:

I divine the wisdom of the ages, my ancient blood
knows what I have forgotten. I give in to the night
hour and take stock of my resident life and ask
within for help so I don’t make a mockery of what
has been given to me through my DNA, through
the life force of my ancestors.

Healing

My life should leave its mark:
Evidence that I existed
More than my scars
Or disappointments
More than every day life
And doing and being.

My life should leave a mark:
Not the pain of my childhood
But how I perserveered, not the
Scars of my son’s death
But how I honored him by
Moving on.

Healing

Each time I tell my story
face to face or inscribe it
to paper, I heal infinitesimally.
Every day, hour, and measured
moment I heal with the passage
of time whether I note it or not.
With each finished painting
that speaks truth and love
I feel more whole. Every time
I listen to another who now walks
the same path, I grow stronger
and my pain is diminished.