Cross hanging from her bony neck,
sways between heaving breasts.
Mary in a burlesque strip tease,
giving one of the parishioners a squeeze,
between his thighs.
Rosary rubles and dinars spinning on the dusty floor.
I just want to say that I have made my blog private for awhile. Therefore, I hope to return to 20 Lines and do a bit of writing here again. This is such a home for artists of words and images and I feel comfortable here. How many new people have joined since I was here last. I look forward to coming to know you through your work and comments.
I have taken Melissa up on her publishing offer through Sable Books and as of last night’s conversation with her, am going to publish my second book of poetry. After a few back-and-forth emails and one long phone conversation, I know Sable is the right choice for me. I would encourage any of you who are thinking of publishing to give Sable Books a try. I am so excited to be in the beginning stages of compiling my book.
I could hardly sleep last night because words and ideas pushed around in my mind for attention. It was such a happy conglomeration of thoughts, though, and I am ready to forge ahead.
Here I come, Sable. Thank you for being there for me at just the right time.
Three years ago, I lost my mom.
She had been fading for years, but we still talked,
we laughed and loved.
It seems like since then loss and loneliness
have been so much of my life.
I feel like I am drowning.
After loosing my child, hope, faith,
and that special closeness with my family,
I feel I will never capture the joy in life again.
I can only beg you, young people,
to take that joy, when you find it,
and treat it as thought it was glass, because it is.
From mountain side
it is easy to see
the turning of the earth.
The wind pushing clouds
dark and light only
Up here the trees sway
slow dances in the wind.
I watch you,
perched on a rock
beside bubbling spring.
in your nakedness;
at peace with the way
skin stretches over bone.
I wonder if there will
ever be a time
when I, too, can let my
hair fall upon bare shoulders,
when awkwardness vanishes
in the folds of soft flesh
stretched toward blue sky,
when I can sit securely
on my own branch without fear.
The river runs thick this year,
higher and faster than I
have ever seen it.
it no longer holds
its breath, but I
can’t remember how to exhale.
I’ve decided to reopen my other blog, Chronicles of a Writer. I just put a post there, but is there anything else I have to do to make it public again? I went to the “reading” part of the dashboard and tried to un-check “keep this blog private,” but it wouldn’t un-check.
Question: Can readers all of a sudden see it simply because I’ve begun writing there again? Or is there something I need to do to change it from private to public? I’m pretty sure that’s the case, but I don’t know what to do.
Can you help me?
And hi to all of you on 20 Lines. I’ve missed you. Be sure to come on over to Chronicles. I’ll meet you there as well as on Brainstorms.
I shuffle and squirm in bed, worn out from another difficult day. I’ve tried everything, reading, watching TV listening to soft music, nothing works.
Suddenly, I her the wind pick up and blow against my screen. A spatter of rain taps quietly n my roof. Lightening and thunder rumble far away. For a moment, the rain falls in torrents, then settles into a peaceful song. Nature’s lullaby.
Before I know it, my reddened eyes start to blink. My mind goes blank, my heart slows to a quiet rhythm. The soft breathing of my cat blends with the gentleness of a warm summer rain.
Soon, I am asleep. The rain has does its trick. Nature has helped me get a much-needed rest. I wake up, a bit surprised that it is morning. Somehow, that is alright, I feel refreshed.
Thank you rain for your blessing.
many thanks to Sky Vani, for sharing this song and beautiful video.
feel free to play it low as a soundtrack, as i did while writing this poem.
as early as her day begins, it ends
a sad memoir echoes an empty room,
and she breezes through her motions
without a care in this world.
as if her love never really ended
wrote the diary, it’s last page.
wide cupped latte’
a quick croissant
and her habitual daily stroll
to every place they ever met.
she’s hoping without a prayer
he’ll be sitting there as always
in his favorite, corner chair.
she chooses spools of woven thread
from the French village mercerie,
that suggestive red dress
he always loved
and it’s noticeable tear.
as if life never did really end
wrote the diary, her last page.
written April 2013