Tag Archives: longing

more poetry


She hummed and sang in the car

Rising bars of melody

That warmed her throat,

And filled her diaphragm with breath.

She parked the car,

Still singing Amazing Grace,

But softly now, concentrating

On enunciation.

There were other cars in the lot,

Other performers,

Early for practice.

Inside, they walked around

The stage, papers in hand,

Speaking, singing quietly,

Rehearsing away the butterflies

And tremors.

As the hour neared, she searched

Each new face,

Each stranger settling into a chair,

Chatting, eager for entertainment.

She fretted over last minute changes,

Worried that her words

Would not fall from her mouth

In sequence.

Wondered if her poems

Were too dark,

Too metaphorical.

Were the images clear?

Would the audience

See and hear

The message she needed

So desperately to convey?

Then she stepped up,

Lights shone in her eyes,

Voices hushed,

For one long, frozen moment

She stood alone

In the silence.

She lifted her eyes

Saw beyond the light,

And spoke eloquently,

Projected and enunciated,

Seeing the world

She’d committed to paper

Laid out for strangers.

Afterward, warm praise

Made the fear a little smaller,

A little softer.

On the drive home

She sang Amazing Grace.

Carefully, carefully,



Hold me in the dark,

Not talking.

Breathe against my hair.

When you’re asleep

I’ll go,

And take this memory.

Save it,


In a velvet place

Where only I can find it.


Those waking moments

In the darkness

Of the morning

Do you still reach for me?

When you’re walking in a crowd

Do you look, without seeing

For my hair?

When you unwrap

An ice cream sandwich

Do you want to share it,

Bite for bite?

Do you remember

The little ways

We loved each other?

Are they still small

Or have they grown

To fill the empty place

Where I used to be?


There is a place in the bed

Where the blanket never wrinkles,

Or shifts.

It’s on the side where I don’t sleep,

Where the lamp

Doesn’t cast its glow

While I’m reading.

Even during the darkest

Hours of unconsciousness,

When my dreams are real,

My hands never push the

Pillow askew, or yank

The sheet from the corner.

When I wake in the morning

To crisp birdsong,

And sunlight,

bending over the windowsill,

I see that smooth,

Still place,

Where you slept,

And loved me.


Writers, artists and readers

I’m not going to bore you with where I was born and if I like walking in the rain (though I do, actually) because I really want this to be a place for me to post my writing and reactions to things. I have no desire to become a repository for political rants-there are SCORES of places like that. If you want to bitch about the state of the world, go to them.

I am interested in hearing from other artists. I draw as well as write. One day, if I’m very fortunate, I can make a living from my creative efforts. In the meantime, I work 60 hours a week as a CNA so my time is very precious to me. I try to create every day and encourage feedback and crits from anyone reading my blog.

NOW! Writing posts!!



One night,

in a  bar,

I saw a man

Grab a woman around the throat.

He slammed her head

Against the pool table.


I ran between them

Shouting, “Stop! Stop!”

In the struggle

He fell on top of me.

I lay against the floor,

my feet planted against his shoulders

Still shouting

“Stop! Stop!”

His face changed

As his rage dissolved.

He took my wrist

And we stood.

He walked outside,

Muttering and shaking his head.

His woman disappeared.

The bartender asked me

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” I said.

Many nights,

When we were children,

We watched my father

Beat my mother.

We scuttled under the bed,

From the darkness,

And safety,

Under the bed,

We saw him

Slam her head against the floor.

In the dark,

Under the bed,

I trembled.

I was too little

 To help her.



Helped her.

One night,

In a bar,

I stopped a fight.

I’m not under the bed anymore.



We work every day

to pay for our bread.

But the meat and potatoes

the lettuce, tomato

is the morning soft spoken

the evening, unbroken

and the long



of skin touching skin.



For her,

there was only one thing

that could have ended it.

Not his drinking,

not his lazy attitude

about the yard

or the broken step

at the back door.

His friends were loud

but she never

turned them away.

He drank the last of the milk

and put the carton

back empty.

He dropped his clothes

and left them.

He trimmed his beard

over the sink and left it.

He snaked all over the house

leaving trails of dirty glasses

and crumbs.

Still, for her,

only one thing

could have ended it.

And finally,

it did.





A name floats

from your mouth

at 3AM

curling like smoke.

A name

that drifts

through the darkness.

I breathe it into my lungs

expands into my blood


through my veins

and imbeds into my brain.

A name,

a name,







Every morning

in the softness

before clarity



hear you breathing.

Every night

in the moment

before sleeps descends



feel you

pressed against my back.

Every day

in between

I struggle to forget.



lives next door.

She and her husband

have grandchildren

who visit regularly

They come over

and take back gifts

from my kitchen

or craft basket.

The woman I might have become

waves and smiles

walking toward me

across the back lawn

I look at pictures

of their recent vacation.

The woman I might have become

asks if I’ve met anyone new.

No, and I’m not looking

I remind her.

She waves her hand

and assures me

I just haven’t met

the right one.

The woman I might have become

strides back across the yard

to her husband

who tried to kiss me,

again, last week

until I stopped him

with ice in my voice.

The woman I might have become

gives me a final wave

as she goes into her home.

I wave back,

glad to be

the woman I am.