Misc. Old Poems

One More...

Not enough
make me forget
I'll ignore
the trouble brewing
need an escape
lose control
possessive it wants
more
consumes
the need
the urging
I feed on its desire
its wastes -
me.

All For What?

I did it
laid there while they
sucked that life
right out of my body.
I had to.
I was afraid of what
you would
say or do
if I told you
so I lied.
Kept the pain inside
all these years.
You always said
you would never
be ready
and now you call
tell me the news
how you and her
are having a baby
and I'm suppose
to sit here
in my silence
of what I gave up,
and all for what?

Time to Think : Airplane Ride

Waiting for my flight
the boy in the next row
sings the Old McDonald song
distracts -
need to forget
Sunday afternoon strolls,
romantic picnics,
flying kites,
brief goodbyes.

Making my way through the narrow aisle
I found my seat.
There are fifty minutes left alone to think
about the last two years and to forget -
a get-away to collect my thoughts.

Not enough time for reflecting.
Maybe I'll throw out the excess:
screaming fights
bursting out the door
down six flights of stairs
into the cold,
without a coat.
I wasn't going back
I would freeze first -
and I would.
But two blocks down he came running
with my coat in his hand,
tearful,
from the cold or emotion
(I'll never know which)
He wrapped me up,
like his package
taking me home.

Turning down the runway
the plane stops for its final pause before
thrusting into the sky.
Looking down noticing
how small everything has become -
as if unimportant.

Hurtful Feelings

Every Sunday afternoon
spent as a child
dad made chili with
his recipe of beans,
hamburger, spaghetti noodles
and tomato sauce -
thick.

Mrs. Beasley
with yellow yarn for hair
and I
would climb on the wooden bench
with my sister
say our prayers
and eat.

My sister and I would
kick our feet against
the bench's edge.
The clamor of the dishes
and voices
silence was often mistaken
for hurtful feelings.

A Screwdriver to Forget

Out the window
of the twenty-sixth floor
the ball game
at the stadium
across the hotel
let out - -
the fans
like ants,
exited the hill and poured into the streets.

I pulled my long brown hair
into a ponytail
slipped on my black and white
silk dress
went down the lobby
and out the brass doors
into the cool night air.

The crowd talked with drunken slurs
while children ran
up and down the curbs.
I pushed through the mob
as if I had a destination in mind,
stumbled upon the Locust Street
Underground Restaurant
and escaped into those narrow stairs.

The tables were empty
except for one
where an old man bit into his rib sandwich
and drank his Busch beer.
I took a table in the corner and
ordered a drink - -
a screwdriver
and dinner.

As the waitress placed the drink
on my table
I glanced over at the
opened glass doors that led to the bar.
I could see a few people
who were singing
as they held on to each other's shoulders
swaying back and forth.

My meal arrived,
I played with the potatoes
and steak -
left most of both.
I ordered another screwdriver
and watched from my table - -
a safe distance
from those in the bar
and remembered.

Thanksgiving Eve

is always the same
memory.
Its been two years
since I stood
on that wilted grass
feeling alone.
I was supposed to be
saying goodbye
for the last time
but that seems
so absurd
when there are
these reminders -
like today.



originally posted on 08/05/12