A WELL TRAVELED HEART

Tag: fear

  • GYPSY

    GYPSY

    A stranger stands ahead of me 
in line at the Post Office 
in a dusty black hat 
grey gauze hanging below its rim.
Her neck, also dusty, is
bent, the vertebrae like tiny peaks.
An old black jacket hangs from her shoulders.
As she stands in line, she tugs at the jacket
to straighten it.  Her worn black pants fall 
to just above the cast on her ankle.
Gauze wraps that too.
I am afraid to stand near her,
hang back as the line moves forward.
I cannot see her face but fear 
it may be ghastly.

Her turn comes at the counter.
I’m next.
When I glance over, I recognize her. 
She is the gypsy I’ve seen here so often.
Her dark penciled brows 
and bold rouged cheeks usually
paired with dark skirts and tops.
Today, hurt, she does not look herself.
She leaves a suitcase by the door
while she gets her mail.
That task complete, 
she straightens her jacket,
collects her suitcase 
and wheels it and her pain
back into the world.

    depositphotos_150954514_xl.jpegOctober 11, 2021

  • 32B

    32B

    Abuse is subtle
    Nothing friends see
    I'm blamed for his mistakes
    He credits my work to himself
    Observes I'm “almost” thin enough
    Implies small things lacking
    If only I were smarter, prettier, quieter
    He laughs when I fail 
    Photographs my clumsiness 
    Ignores my success
    Mumbles under his breath
    the whispered threat
    “I’m getting angry.”

    He pouts childlike when ignored
    Hovers over me in arguments
    Buries the kitchen table in papers
    Resists clearing it even for parties.
    Holds my arm tightly lest I leave
    The Christmas tree he promises to take down
    remains up until Easter.
    His hatchet for cutting up chicken
    for the dogs rests against the hoosier.
    It gives me pause.
    He harangues me while I book vacation.  
    I select the seats.  
    I'm in 13A
    He’s in 32B.


  • TERROR

    TERROR

    Dad dreams we flee the Nazis,
our ‘55 Buick low on gas.
We drive by the sea.
They come with guns.
They come in submarines.
He wakes sweating and terrified.
 
He shares his fear with me.
Nazis enter my dreams
dragging the stench of Dachau.
They come with guns.
They come in submarines.
I wake sweating and terrified.
 
Neo-Nazis march in Charlotte
armed - flags waving,
hatred palpable and near.
In dreams, I hear
the thud of boots
on the night stairs.
  • FOXCROSS FARM

    FOXCROSS FARM

    When I think of the farm, 
    it’s the stone bridge and country
    road curving by the low barn.
    It’s Tony’s tomatoes, white peacocks.

    When I think of the farm, I see pine
    trees, green pastures, the
    bramble roses by the creek
    sheep standing in the field.

    When I think of the farm,
    I watch women spinning wool
    the whir of wheels descant to
    soft voices and gentle laughter.

    When I think of the farm, I see
    Airedales, Romney sheep,
    a rabbit and Rhode Island Reds,
    a well-fed Peaceable Kingdom.

    I do not think of the ground
    we walked last night when
    one of their flock went missing
    fearing death had stalked a lamb.

    When I think of the farm,
    I don’t see Anthony striding the fields
    Julie peering into corner and cranny
    in tense, sweaty anxiety.

    Death’s but a hair’s breadth
    away each day. It makes
    sweet our brief walk through time
    I don’t think of that.

  • LIKE ME

    LIKE ME

    Like me.
    That’s the drug – a draft of this nectar
    can own me into the next life for an accolade
    you barely recall.

    Like me.
    Quiet my fears with the smile and nod
    I awaited endlessly at war zone dinner tables, parentless
    performances and lonely surgeries.

    Like me
    and it’s ok not to have been born a son,
    to be funny, a tree climber and never a prom queen
    to get migraines.

    Like me
    and I could weep, run,
    dance, spread my arms to this fast warming world
    in joy, terror and love.

  • SPELLING LESSONS

    SPELLING LESSONS

    Father would quiz me at the dinner table
    on my academic failings.
    “What’s the capital of Wisconsin?” he’d inquire as I mixed peas into my mashed potatoes.
    “Where’s Patagonia?” he’d demand as I twirled spaghetti onto my fork.
    “Spell squirrel.” he’d order as I lifted a forkful of pot roast to my lips.
    My mind would freeze – my brain become empty as a clear frozen lake
    and the scared rabbit of my heart would skitter across the ice seeking shelter.
    Finally I ‘d pull from somewhere
    “S-Q-U-I-R-R-E-L”
    and the meal would resume its course.
    To this day, I prefer to eat alone and
    direct questions hit me like the Artic Express,
    blasting away all thought.
    People think I’m arrogant or not-too-bright.
    They can’t see that small rabbit
    skating frantically for the far shore.

  • PEDICURE

    PEDICURE

    Morning in the nail shop,
    two Vietnamese women and I
    hear a man’s voice drawl

    “I want a pedicure, that’s all.”

    Men don’t enter here, this world
    of polish, lotion – free of fear.
    Perhaps we misheard – he repeats it slow

    “A pedicure, please, nothing more.”

    We avoid each other’s eyes
    as he climbs the chair
    to perch above the foot bath
    a green beret on his unkempt hair.

    Is it memory or mercy this veteran seeks or
    simply gentle hands on tired feet?

     

    Published on http://www.vietnamwarpoetry.com/cpcynthiamsheward.html

    Image – Old Shoes  © Zimogljad | Dreamstime.com\