Tag: love

  • ON HER SIXTEENTH BIRTHDAY

    ON HER SIXTEENTH BIRTHDAY



    My sweet girl.
    I have watched you grow
    blossom, sometimes struggle.
    Who would wish adolescence
    on anyone they love?
    Like childbirth to life,
    these years a
    necessary albeit
    challenging passage
    into adulthood.

    I remember Buddha you
    straight from the womb.
    Unafraid of toads you
    In your Alexandria backyard.
    Baking bagels you in my
    Clinton kitchen.
    Knitting you trying when
    I visited to master the craft.
    Teenage you behind your
    bedroom door.

    I wish you passion
    for something to focus
    your mind.
    Mentors to speak
    to as you grow.
    Books to warm
    and comfort you.
    And the sure knowledge
    of how much you are
    loved.


    
    
    
    
    
  • SLEEPING BEAUTY

    SLEEPING BEAUTY



    Tall hedges surround the house.
    The long grass has gone to seed.
    Fading peonies hide among the weeds.
    Only one wicker chair on the porch has a seat.
    I knock on the door and wait.
    No one answers though their car is in the drive.
    I call Anthony on my cell.
    “Cindy! Where are you?”
    “I’m on your porch.”
    “I’ll be right out.”
    Time passes.
    I sit on the chair and look at the fields
    where sheep once roamed.
    The chicken house too is still.
    No chickens or peacocks strut its yard.
    The air smells of country – grass, pines, sunshine.
    Anthony opens the door, and we hug.
    He is old, his curly hair gone grey and wild.
    His smile wide. Julie sits in the kitchen
    talking to herself. She smiles when I say hello
    not knowing me or why I’m here.
    Anthony makes us coffee from Wards in Newark,
    a joy we share. He grew up there.
    I’ve brought pignolis – cookies his mother
    used to make at Christmas.
    We chat and drink our coffee.
    Julie stands by back door and looks out - still talking.
    She brings something in from the hall to
    place by her parents’ photos,
    a shrine whose people she no longer knows.
    Her eyes shine. She smiles.
    Before I leave, Anthony shows me his tomato garden.
    It’s perfect. Many plants. Orderly rows.
    Fenced to avoid predators – his
    escape from incontinence, locked cabinets
    the constant vigilance that protects his wife.
    He is her husband,
    her jailor
    her Prince.


  • NESTS

    NESTS

    The whole place we built by hand
    not just paper and paint.
    We hung rafters from the sky
    a chimney and bright metal roof
    which sang in every rain.
    We walked blank land and invented
    life anew in the Blue Ridge
    as if anyone ever starts again.
    Years later a blind date remarked
    “You’ve spent your life on houses.”
    True. Like a nest-obsessed bird, I’ve
    painted my way from town to town
    designing space for friends and music,
    tables to sit at and chairs to read in.
    I envisioned a family unlike
    my scattered patchwork
    which rarely gathers where I live.
    All that time and work
    for a life dreamed of
    a love desired – perhaps that’s
    why birds have not just nests
    but wings.
  • HEARTS

    I did not know when I birthed my son
    that he would take my heart with him.
     
    At night, desperate for rest
    half asleep, barely present
    I’d attempt to nurse him.
    The choice frustrated us both.
     
    One night when he cried, I took
    him downstairs to my rocker,
    made tea, made us comfortable
    and realized he was my life.
     
    He grew. I watched my heart
    learn to walk, read
    navigate friendships, school
    and grieve a first love anew.
     
    He became a man
    who with his spouse created
    three children into
    whom he placed his heart.
     
    Together, powerless but present
    remembering our own youth
    we watch their spirits grow
    as they navigate their lives.
     
    We’re participant and spectator both
    since we freed our hearts
    to beat, break and love
    inside our children.
     
  • TREE MAN

    TREE MAN

    Squirrels remind me of a man
    I loved, who with rope and spike
    mimicked them
    climbing trees and swinging
    limb from limb.
    “They are my brothers”
    he said.  Came home crying one day
    because he crushed a nest,
    killed babies, when he felled
    an oak.
     
    I stop to watch
    a tree man work today.
    High in the air he swings
    in chain saw ballet. As
    I watch him cut, climb     
    leap from limb to limb,
    my young life returns to me.
    I see my love without a net
    fearless and free
    against the sky.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
  • where the trout swim

    where the trout swim

    Loving you prepared me for Walmart
    where greeters are friendly but the merchandise
    is made by strangers in dark, distant rooms.
     
    Losing you prepared me for Reductions in Force
    Being told “You’ve worked hard. This isn’t personal. 
    It’s about stock price.”
     
    Watching you leave broke me like an egg
    Nothing I knew was true – zip – zero – nada.
    I must start again from the beginning.
     
    Starting over prepared me for God,
    who waited at the still bottom of a life 
    emptied of passion, distraction and theory.

    Not the stand up sit down God of my childhood
    But the God who put a rainbow over the barn
    And showed me where the trout swim.

     
  • SHALIMAR

    SHALIMAR

    My mother's scent was hers alone
    familiar from the start just like my own.
    Shalimar and lipstick
    salt air and steam irons
    beige powder dusting her dressing table,
    scattered sweaters, a turquoise negligee.
    
    Once, invited to the Waldorf
    for a DuPont dinner,
    she spent a fortune on a formal dress.
    Arrived in lace and pick satin
    to face women clad in cocktail clothes.
    Edna, ever the Indiana girl.
    How many Manhattans did it take to kill 
    those feelings?
    
    After her death,
    I asked Sister Jose Hobday
    “Will I ever smell that scent again -
    touch her soft white hair?”
    So much of me left with her
    I am my mother’s child.
    
    Peaceful in all worlds,
    Sister Hobday laid
    her hand on mine
    and smiled.
    
    
  • 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.

  • SMALL ABANDONMENTS AND LEAVE TAKINGS 

    I thought elephants danced in the car
    as my aunt clasped me, age two with pneumonia
    and mom drove to hospital – I screamed when they
    left so the doctors forbade future visits.
    I was alone with nurses and needles
    for two long white weeks.

    Pat left me tied, age five, to a phone pole.
    She didn’t do it. Gerard and his buddies did
    but my sister, my protector, walked away
    left me bound ‘til dinnertime alone
    next to the street, a kindergartener
    in suspenders and red Keds.

    In 9th grade, Sandi broke up with Tom.
    He asked me out – the blond boy of my dreams!
    Sandi coached me for a week on
    dancing, clothes and French kissing.
    Then, outside Grunnings, his friends laughed,
    teased me – the date was a joke. Didn’t I get it?

    Jamie had a sister – institutionalized.
    I had no brother. We were siblings for each other.
    I felt safer with him than anyplace I know.
    He married young, grandson by 52. A mole grew.
    Jamie, who could corral whole rooms with laughter,
    called one afternoon to say he did not feel
    like he was dying. But he did.

    Glenn “with two n’s, like Glenn Miller”
    had wave blue eyes I swam in.
    Knew me better than I knew myself.
    Is married now to someone else.
    He called to make amends –
    apologize for choices he knew better than.
    Said he loves me still – he always will.

    I saw the color fall from mom’s face.
    “She’s going!” I said.
    Pat and I grasped her hands.
    “Our Father, who art in Heaven
    Hallowed be Thy name.”
    This is it. So gentle.
    Then gone. Her final gift to us.
    Death, fearless, light as air.