Haunting Memories of Life

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Waking up in with a mouthful of mulch and blood wasn’t the way Lois had thought her girl scout picnic would end. She glanced up at the slide, remembering giggling and playing for the first time as if she weren’t the weirdo in her neighborhood. It had been to much to believe that the other girls had finally accepted her after three years.

The blood slipped out of her chin, down her neck and soiled the uniform blouse that she had been taught would make her part of a group of friends. No, dirty hands moving up to hold her chin, which suddenly and painfully had made her aware of what had happened. No, she should have known better. She should have sat on the sidelines and watched the other girls play.

“Push her, push her!” The laughter of the girls when she had fallen the eight feet to the ground. She remembered that now, just as she remembered them calling her a baby and telling her she was faking when she hadn’t gotten up. She didn’t remember anything else until the taste of blood and mulch had woken her.

If she could find someone…Lois staggered away toward the picnic shelter where dinner was supposed to happen. It was empty except for her mother and father. “Where have you been? Mrs. Johnson called us, she said you had disappeared.” Lois took her hands away from her chin and passed out.

“Grandma, wake up, wake up. You’re dreaming again.”

“Damn it.”

Her eyes closed heavily again. Sleep returned but so did the dreams. Four months after her chin had been broken and she had been accused of lying about being pushed, even her parents had not believed her, applying a bandage and ignoring her pain. She’d kept her mouth shut, and didn’t argue. There was no sense to it.

Her birthday, she remembered. It had been her birthday. All of the girl scouts had been invited. She had worn a pretty dress, handmade by her mother. She loathed it. The other girls had heckled her since second grade. “You’re poor. Haha, your parents can’t even afford to buy you decent clothes. You’re poor.” The party went better than she had expected. No one came.

Her parents were furious, starting to believe that the scouts weren’t as scoutlike as they should have been.

“Grandma, wake up. You’re crying.”

She didn’t open her eyes. There was high school. The winter king and queen were to be crowned and her name had appeared on the ballot. She had even made it to the final round, not realizing that it was a huge joke. Another put down from a crowd of hateful girls and their all to compliant boyfriends. She should have known better.

She rolled onto her side. Another spook of the past appearing before her. Then another and another. She was a fool. How did she manage to keep believing that she would some day find a place to fit in and be welcome? It would be better if she died. The memories were too much for her. She was aware of tears, and voices.

“Come on, Grammy dear, keep breathing. The ambulance is on the way.”

“Grandma, don’t leave us. We need you.”

Her last thought was, “No, you don’t.”

The Drunk’s Protector

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I was nineteen, full of life,
student, musician, believer
and happened upon 
A wall flower, sodden but sweet,
A drunk, full of his nectar.
 
A peaceful drunk
Leaning upon a concrete wall 
Near the overused metaphor of a 
Greyhound Bus station.
Of a bus stop occupied
By the rushing middle class.
Of a city overcoming change.
 
A drunk, a target of easy mark
Was found by another mark,
A pointed mark.
Perhaps needing ease from his demons.
The voices listened and 
He took a knife, leaned, put it 
On the old man's neck.
Close enough to shave.

The audience breathed drama,
Turning slowly, waiting for buses.
Standing full of wisdom
As far as they could go. 
Time froze.
They were mannequins.

Needs,
Simply a phone in need of quarters,
An operator call,  
But locked into movie reviews,newspapers,work,
They were motionless. 

I was nineteen then. 
Full of life, a 1945 wooden case 
that protected my heart, 
Holding my horn.
My weapon of choice.

After years, why a decade of years,
Of playing, of lugging miles, building brass muscles,
Of practice at spinning, 
I launched myself  
Pushing my horn between the two.

I was a shield maiden,
Because I was nineteen, descended
From blonde Vikings and grim Scots, 
I became a piper of sound
With the bottom of my lungs. 

Somehow, instantly, incredibly,
Unsummoned, the infantry arrived.
A squad car, blinking red,
Drove up upon the curb.
Collared the knife, the shield maiden,
Slipped the men apart.

I was nineteen, set to
Activism, driven in hopes to 
Change poverty, racism, anger, hate. 
The men in blue sent me on my way, 
Part fool, part human. Head patted.
Reform suggested for my safety,
After all, I was nineteen.

Sister Nine Days

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Nine days ago, I met the sister of my heart.
Nine days ago the sun shone upon my hair
Warming me, protecting me,
Nine days ago, I had a friend
But when the storms began
When insanity ruled, when Judas
Of Florida laughed as he killed.
My heart was emptied of hope
That nine days ago was a beginning.

Sister of my heart, you didn’t leave
although the others rushed to the door
Pushing and shoving with delight
At the demise of the old man.
You didn’t dance on his grave,
You didn’t laugh at the freedom
Of chaos, of hopeless indignation.
You raged against the hopelessness.

Nine days ago, I believed in sanity.
Nine days ago warmed by the defense
I mounted against hypocrisy,
Thinking that I understood the writers
Thinking that peace should be upheld
Wanting to restore a dream, a wish,
Finding instead a man under the Judas tree,
Destroying by silvery lies, complicity with
Ignorance. I thought you gone, sister.

Somewhere in the woods, you saw me,
Tears in my eyes as I thought
That our sisterhood lay unbound
Beneath the hoof prints of Percheron.
I heard your voice call me back from
The enveloping darkness,
Calling me back from the fragile line
Between creativity and madness.
I will tread softly praying, to no God but hope,
That you will stay within the orbit of our meeting.

(for Carrie)

Kite Song

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Kite Song

I fly away listening to the sound
of sun warming the air.
I fly to the top of Castillo San Felipe del Morrow
and turn, turn again, spiraling up,
Twisting on heaven’s winds.
Are you urging me to fly?
Higher and higher? Into fluffy ice cream clouds?

Staccato pearls of laughter from a child.
Could it be me, young again?
As if I could reach up and snip my kite string!!

Traveling trails of dragon’s breath, spun
Of bright reds, greens, and yellows,

spinning

While Higher and higher, blues compete with clouds.
Children, made of flying happiness,
Shriek with delight. Just catch the strings
and follow the wind to rainbows and free.
Sunday passes families stretching their hearts to the sky,

Racing each other to the top of the hill.
Kites fly across borders, over the old fort and cemetery.

Mama sits on her blanket and reads.
While she sits, I fly to the top of the world.

The Drive to the Hospital

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My mother-in-law made my father-in-law follow me for the first five years I lived in Virginia. She was worried that I had no sense of reality, couldn’t recognize trouble, and would end up shot by some deranged person. If I told them where I was going, they would drive slowly behind me as I walked around DC. They thought I didn’t see them, and they were right. I was always focused ahead of myself, full of anticipation of the adventures before me.

It wasn’t long until I became a pregnant walker, heading to a job, living in a neighborhood that was filled with “interesting” characters. Life was full of roach poems, bus rides, and walks to monuments where my soldier husband was lined up with the Old Guard to provide historical presentations, security cordons, and presentations of the gun salute at funerals in Arlington Cemetery. He looked so good in that blue dress uniform, tall, straight, handsome, and a bit out of focus because he didn’t always wear his glasses. I followed him like the puppy I am inside: positive, happy, always looking for an adventure.

Adventures always have a point of risk. The family tried to keep mine to a minimum, after all I was about to become a mother. When I went into labor, my husband panicked, my in-laws panicked, and my neighbors panicked. No one seemed to have ever done this before, this birthing thing.

I found myself tossed delicately into our old blue station wagon that only worked on alternate weekends. Final destination? Walter Reed Army Medical Center, whose name is as big as the facility. Off we roared, exhaust system on auto pilot, hitting every pot hole in Washington, DC. I was not a happy camper.

Up, down, up, down, down, up. It was not a surprise that when we were a mere four miles for the hospital, the car broke down. We coasted into a gas station, and out my husband leaped looking for a taxi or his father to be home to rescue us. I’m sure that the payphone on the corner of the building had never heard such panic. That’s when I decided that in the car I could do nothing to calm him down. So out I gingerly got, trying to move slowly so that the bumps and bruises inflicted by the car wouldn’t mutiny against me.

I stood there for only a few seconds when one of the guys hanging around and ignoring my husband, except for some rather funny comments about a white guy in a black neighborhood having a panic attack, saw me for the first time.

“Oh lady, are you in labor? How far apart are the contractions?”

Enter a new adventure, for he ran to the car and caught my arm.

“Which hospital?” And that’s how my husband turned to see me being stuffed into a mustang by an energetic and rather panicked black man with my suitcase in his other hand.

“What are you doing with my wife?”
“Shut up and get in the damn car. It’s going to be okay, lady. Just breath easy and let me know if the baby decides to arrive before we do.”
“Have you delivered a baby before? What’s your name? Why are you helping us? Will my car be okay or will it be on bricks before we get back?”
“Shut up, man, your wife is having a baby.”

We arrived at the hospital in plenty of time. I hugged my young hero and grabbed my suitcase. Both men tried to grab it back, but this was my adventure. The suitcase stayed in my hand.

“Listen, man, thanks for the help. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Just don’t judge a book by the off-duty color man. You are Army, I’m Air Force. Now, go help your wife deliver that baby.”

It’s a lesson that has followed my husband ever since, and when he forgets, I remind him, pointedly. Our son was born with all of the toes and fingers a mother could desire. It was the beginning of another adventure, one I’m still on.

At Bat

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Just let it come. It’s looking for you.
Stand still, head steady.
Breathe. Inhale.
Focus on the pitcher,
The ball will come.

Don’t worry over balls.
They weren’t for you.
Focus your eyes.
Open your eyes, larger, larger.
The mound moves.

The pitcher moves.
Slow motion, hand curving.
Eye on the ball.
One third of a second and
You swing.

You can do this.

“A Dog’s Life”, an exercise in similes

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A dog’s life, oh I wish.
If I could spend my day
Lounging and lying in the sun,
Gnawing on shoes, bones, and wood,
Carrying stones as if they are puppies
That need the barking of a mother
Oh, dinner prepared for me
Filet Mignon, Strip Steak
And licking the plate clean
Sitting up at night, dedicated,
Watching at the window
For people, wind, and snow.
Waiting at the door for love,
For you to come home when you can.
Summersaulting with joy year round.
Always loved and needed, hugged,
I wish I had a dog’s life,
Its calm and lovely life.

“As One Mad with Wine” a study of similes in poetry

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“As one mad with wine”
The bottle swirls and twists
One after the other
My thoughts disappear
Until my humanity is gone
And I feel nothing, nothing,
Voices come and go,
Loudly they demand attention
Finally I stand and fist raised
I twist and swirl until the view
Goes black.

Following Rules

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Regarding rules Of capital letters
At the beginnIng of each line,
I got yOur message,
about hOw the meaning
of the pOem
is the impOrtant thing.
TraditiOn placed
the largE letters at the
BegInnIng.
My use Of the lovelies
never wAs about the
meaning, bUt was the act
of clinging wIth despair
so that I dOn’t get pulled
off my wall Of security.
See what hAppens when
I
become rAttled?
The cApitals
on the lEft are my nod
to sanity, pUrpose,
Anything else
is just my clUtching the
margins sO I don’t get
pulled intO the insanity
of all thAt follows.