Away from home in my own skin - a prose piece for Poets United Sunday Pantry

Breasts. Yearned for as a tiny girl and then, and then, they came seemingly overnight. Breasts had power over my life, like some slutty cousins who come unexpectedly to stay with you and end up following you wherever you go and leaving you with their bad reputation. For, as everyone knows, or should, girls with big breasts do have reputations, whether they have earned them or not.  Reputations, that are created behind bathroom doors, mostly by adolescent boys who want to get their hands on “them” and less often, but frequently, by girls who would just as soon rip them off for their own if they only could. They boys, I knew at thirteen, would gather in clumps around the water fountain in the hallway at school or more disturbingly after school in front of Joe’s Pizza Palace in the shopping center, thumping each other on the arm and nodding as though they all had some secret knowledge about me. When you’re a girl with big breasts you can either go with all of this, or retreat.  I favored retreat – under voluminously big shirts and after school days at home after homework, down in our cool, damp basement, curled up in a soft old velvet armchair that had been my grandfathers, sipping iced coffee which I considered very sophisticated and reading a Russian novel which I knew was. Sometimes, I’d cry into that tall tumbler of iced coffee, the glass pressed tightly against those two treasonous mounds – sometimes I’d convince myself it was the Russian heroine who was throwing herself under train tracks or some such drama, though I knew.  I knew. It all seemed quite dismal until I met Jerome Fitzmaurice in Problems In Democracy, and everything changed.   (298 words) 

in short ...

in short ...

when in the course of human events 

ringing - this chime of a line, that sign 

of a time that still holds within the melt

of time, the groan of time, the shimmer

oath of time, in each heart beat then, now

and ever that looked over the horizon to a

time, a chime a sign, over the water and be-

yond a rainbow where all would find in the

course of human events a place, a purpose 

a vision of life, liberty and the unfettered 

pursuit of happiness…that chime of a line

crystalline, perfect ringing - sometimes so

soft one needs to strain to hear the sound, 

othertimes pounding with purpose, passion

and the urgent push of now . When?

In the course of human events, 

it becomes necessary…

a.m. thoughts: fruit and eggs

She wondered for a while

at the perfect color of the 

peaches rinsed with cold

water, put into a white bowl

the exquisitely perfect oval

of pure white eggs hard boiled

and cooling, the navied majesty

of blue-berries – She wondered 

why she ever though of any

other – 

A Writer Admired:Dr. Seuss – Theodor Seuss Giesel – father of Horton who I heard *

Dr. Seuss – Theodor Seuss Giesel – father of Horton who I heard *

long ago lived the small me
big eyed and quite serious
some said an “old soul” a
little mysterious ….
Questioning rabbis, teachers,
father and mother – questions
‘bout G-d and country and why
some people did what they did
to each other. Up late at night
watching dark curtains sway
unable to sleep, or even to pray
Even grandparents and elders
never knew what to say – when
I simply asked them why some
people treated others in a horrible
way – I’d seen pictures of piles of
childrens’ ripped away shoes, was
more than enough to give a small
child the blues – I continued to
ask all I could find – the strangest
thing was that most grownups did
very much mind – did mind that I
knew and questioned about things
not so cheery- they looked back at
my big eyes awaiting with looks that
were, well, yes, I’d say leery –
Leery of what? I wondered
about that too -! for I only wanted
to know what, what could I possibly do –
But, they shied away from my questions
told me to go out and play – when all
along I knew they did not know what
to say – and there were other things too
not just this old war stuff from back then
the way some people were treated it looked
like it could start up again – I stopped asking
so much and read and read more – even found
uncle’s book on a doctor Sigmund when I opened
his door – but it wasn’t until I found a big picture
book by another Doctor that I stopped and gulped
and took in a big look!!!
For there in of all places in this “childrens’” book
there it was! not the answer for don’t but the guideline for does!
Right there in sweet rhymes –
an elephantos whale of a tale – of how all could be set
right going forward marching on out there into our future times –
A tale of morality, persistence and kind
A tale of empathy, passion, courage and of so much
more – a tale of standing up for what one believes
one must stand up and fight for –
and there in the words was the
validation I sought – that view of the world as I thought
it could be ‘ought’ – the ache that I felt could vanish if all
just accepted and lived the sweet credo that a
“person’s a person no matter how small”

* inspired by prompt at Poetic Asides to use a writer's name as title of poem - on re-reading this lovely book - it occurred to me, given our turbulent times then and NOW, why this book moved me so profoundly. 

dare

dare

We all sit in our own booth 

ears straining to hear our song

Others walking quick stepped or slow 

footfalls of mercy or damnation we do

never know - as we sit in our own booth -

contemplating a new song, a verdant  new 

beginning -  emerging from souled cement 

from our own booth,  blinking softly in the light 

we dare to open the gate ... 

we dare to open the gate. 

The Song

The Song 

There through the gate on rusty hinges 

walking through trials of hope, surprise, 

and anticipated mercy ... 

walking through the gate on rusty hinges 

there on the other side cement gives way

to green pastures 

I kick off my shoes

let my heart fill once

again 

https://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/

Little lights ...

Little lights 

sleep over – at my grand-

mother’s as a tiny child –

She had a green wooden

back porch and rickety

stairs that creaked down

to a yard that to my four-

year-old self was football

sized – hydrangeas – those

snow-ball bushes bursted

blooms big as basketballs –

and that hot summer night

given a mason jar – she

told me about fire-flies.

They sounded magical.

I could not wait – even

before sunset and after

my bath – dressed only

in one of her satin slips

straps sliding – skirt

slippery swirling round

my ankles – I tiptoed

bare-foot down the

stairs and waited –

the jar grew heavy

and heavier – as the

sun still held in the

sky – Not sure when

my eyes closed but

when they opened

it was dark and I

was on my grand-

mother’s lap –

“Look” said she – and

in the navy night the

air flickered -flashed

as though fairies dipped

and danced peeking in

and out of the darkness

I was enchanted. 

Slid from her lap –

mason jar bumped

to the grass – I did

not wish to catch,

only to whirl with,

and I turned in

circles in the dark,

fireflies on fingers

in my hair, I was in-

vincible – blessed –

immortal – mystic

metapmorphasized –

a princess in the

living diamonds –

scattered shimmers

through that night –

I never knew

that one needed

dark to see light

until then ..

on that

firefly

night.

And now

tonight

another

night

dark

and

we

are

the

fire

flies…

now…

Dedication to origins

Dedication to origins   

I come from the loins of teenage 

passion - think  Here From Eternity 

at a lake in the. Catskills - I come from 

the watchful whirling spectator of two

youngsters in love - singing from song 

sheets - playing handball on bare apartment 

walls - rocking their mattress in what I thought 

was their private wrestling game that they so 

enjoyed - I come from a movie idol dad lighting 

two cigarettes and giving one to my mom with 

the perfect tawny skin and tangerine lips - 

and from beyond this literal love - beneath - to 

the seductive scent of turpentine, the story beneath 

music-trembling-walls,  sinking into my soul as my 

tiny chest trembled - I come from the coalescence of 

survival in the face of oppression of having my small 

face turned to ingest the taste of ash - to feel the closing 

chambers - feel the forest and swamps beneath the ripped

feet of the fortunate -to fall into a hand hewn grave and to

burn bright in the crematorium of forever - I come from endless 

wondering at the ponderous spectrum between the poles of 

love and hate and a continuing incomprehension of indifference. 

I come from the far beyond then, the life bound then, the evolving 

this, and the thrusting forward into the then as yet unwrit ...

In dedication to these flickered images of origin and the 

layered miasmic, the mummurated mass of all omitted ...

each moment touched and razor scored another layer on my soul ...

earthbound still and yet dedicated to the sensed oneness that 

connects this filamented me to it

all. 

  

If … only

If … only

If only I could catch 

the whisper in the wind –

a single floated chestnut

blossom, the tincture-tang

of turpentine, shimmer of

ebon raven’s wing –

If only -

after all, 

I could coalesce 

all contained, re-

tained, imprinted

held to converge

from this anchored 

soul’s simple loving will

you manifested from the All 

where filamented you persist

to a-light 

on earth 

for yet

another

sacred 

touch 

4 poems inspired by the prompt "Stolen" Day 5. PAD (Poetic Asides)

Four and a half months 

On an April afternoon filled with sunlight

I painted my kitchen with bright yellow enamel

thought I felt The Universe smiling upon me –

Until she crept into the day, stealing buried treasure

Stolen: at four and a half months into an unaware 

childbearing - My tiny daughter, snatched, though 

I never knew for certain she was a girl, I felt her –

Felt her trapped in a Fallopian Faustian horror – 

could see her, caught, captured and squeezed, 

beating her miniature fists and feet on closing walls – 

A well intentioned and sweetly Catholic friend-of-the-

family surgeon – assured me when I awoke with –

one tube and no child to be – assured me smiling 

gently that the child had been perfect – compounding 

the theft – demolishing any this-is-for-the-best peace 

of mind – successfully twinning grief and guilt 

grief and guilt – at my inability to keep her safe. 

I stayed on the maternity floor listening to the 

unstolen infants –my daughter’s future colleagues. 

That Autumn – the Universe called again – yet again just

at four and one half months – of a newly anointed child-

to-be - One I felt fluttering breasts strokes and somersaults

within my womb – In a gush of blood more blindingly bright

than any seen before or since …the theft began - again – 

A short time later – gowned and bedded – a student nurse 

at my side – I felt the slip slide of my child whoosh from me 

as its soul danced somewhere 

beyond my puny understanding. 

I believe the Universe is kind and often smiles upon me as on

all others and yet, and yet. 

I know Her other face and name from long, long ago –

Thief.   

Freely given 

I never had a kiss stolen

or a watch or wallet - 

nothing of that sort

 all that flew away 

from me - 

was given - 

either directly 

before or after

the fact - but..

time ... time..

lately there has

been Time which

I have allowed to

slip -  stolen only

by my magnificent

arrogant negligence

of its importance and

so I return - calming 

this pounding heart

for moments, months,

years that have no re-

clamation and avow to

be more mind-full

now and ever 

more

as the

clock 

ticks

stolen? 

his first laugh and the gales that followed

the way he pulled himself up and stood on

two feet, ten toes unrecognizable to me, 

the flash of new teeth pushing through 

the color his eyes became after newborn days

his third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth,

ninth, tenth, eleventh, twelfth, thirteenth, 

fourteenth, fifteenth, sixteenth, seventeenth,

eighteenth, nineteenth, twentieth, twenty-first, 

twenty-second, months. 

the delight of recognition in his eyes 

when he sees me

and reaches up

for a hug

this first-born

grandson -

six minutes

in geography

and an infinite

abyss of un-

explained

unrelenting

banishment

away. 

Stolen?

I'd say.

Grown and Flown Away – Matricide in modernity 

(a clumsy stab at a vilanelle) 

My son has grown and flown away

His ringtone silent, long now still

There is he says nothing more to say

He lives behind an enmity of gray

Beyond all pleadings, talk and why and will

My son has grown and flown away 

Cast me as though dead each day

I cannot revoke love nor maternity

There is nothing more to say 

Why is it that the words still play

In ever thronging bonging possibility 

My son has grown and flown away 

Posits and poetry flutter and lay 

He cannot read what he will not see

There is I suppose nothing more to say 

What would the Oracle say of this modern matricidal display

Irrevocable, inviolable love blood borne by him - incredibly

My son. My son has grown and somehow flown away 

It simply cannot be that there is nothing more to say