Forgive Me

Forgive me for being single minded, for overlooking the needs I didn't see because I wasn't looking with kind eyes.

Forgive me for being crass, for running you over with my ideas and beliefs without listening to yours and considering them.

Forgive me for being in a hurry, for not seeing beauty while I complained about petty things like an ungrateful child.

Forgive me for thinking wrongly, for milling over nonsense while the world needed me to act on its behalf.

Forgive me for my selfishness, for not sharing all I have with those who need and for thinking I needed more than some one else to be a success.

Forgive me for my fear, for not making the most of every opportunity because I was afraid I'd fail - damned pride.

Forgive me for turning my back on suffering, for not looking it in the face and comprehending the misery of others - for not doing all I could to ease it.

Forgive me for my weakness, for giving up when I should have drawn on my strength and pushed through.

Forgive me. Don't curse me for being weak, afraid, blind, hurried, crass, single-minded. I forgive you for these things. We are only human beings.

The Earth Tilted for Me

I don't know how it came to pass, that the earth tilted for me, that my life became something I felt like a character in. I'm not sure when it began or who is at fault. None of that really matters does it?

I do know that I am human. I am not what I thought I was, not the best mother, not the best wife, not the best friend, not the best house keeper, not the best. Why did I think I needed to be? Now I am sure I don't have to be. I am relieved to put down that burden.

I don't know how to walk with that burden off my shoulders. I am off balance. I flounder, stop, start, give up, start over. Each restart is born from what I've learned, they are getting easier, or I am just getting used to not being the best.

I do know that I am ordinary in more ways than I am not. I am extraordinary in a few ways as well. I've stopped looking for my happy ending. I'll be glad to have my happy moments. I'll take the sad too - if I could give them away I would. I'll try to take these moments, happy and sad, with graciousness.

I don't know what everyone needs all of the time. I know people need food, shelter, water, love, compassion, and a purpose. I need these things, my people need them. I will do my part - but I can't do it all.

I do know I can't do it all. I can't follow every dream, but I can give all I have to a select few. I can't always win, but I can keep trying. I can't always look good in front of others, but I can look inside and know I am good - because I am trying to be.

I don't know how to be normal. I am sure I wouldn't like it, but I am not sure I like who I am either. Sometimes when I talk to people I'm sure they don't have a clue what I am trying to express. I don't like that. I don't like being misunderstood.

I do know that I am part good and part bad. We have to take the good with the bad, I suppose. What other choice is there? We can't give up.

Something beautiful is happening all the time. The sun rises every morning in radiant glory and sets in sultry hues. These two things alone are so beautiful, so miraculous.

I don't know where I'll end up. I know where I am headed. I am not sure if fate will let me get there.
Time will tell.Time with it's tricks, twists, turns, deceptive flow. One minute we're young and we have forever to decide and the next minute we're not and the preciousness of time becomes clear.

I do know this: I love this world even though it's cruel some times. I love my children no matter what. I love myself - enough for myself. The sun will rise on new days for me to travel through and set to give me rest.

Division of The Inside from The Out

Inside they share food at a table made by him. They eat together and share events of their day. She asks if everyone's home work is done. She tells them she loves them very much.

Outside he watches from his car, no longer welcome here. It is his home no more because of what he's done - because of what he's left undone.

Inside they do laundry, folding, distributing it among the members of their little tribe. She thinks:  you can measure your life by laundry - how big the children's clothes have gotten, what you've done the day before, what you'll need for tomorrow, what you've worn out.

Outside he cries, his head on the wheel, his heart in his throat, his hands in his hair, his pain overwhelming. He didn't know pain could be so cold, so black.


Inside the children take baths, brush their teeth, and get ready for their mother to tuck them in, to read them stories and say prayers with them.

Outside he begins to gain his composure, he knows he must drive home and get some sleep. He knows he must work and provide for the family that won't let him back in.

Inside she turns off the lights, she runs the dishwasher, she starts the last load of laundry, she takes out the trash, she adds to her to-do list - which is always longer than her can-do list.

Outside he drives away into the night. He is heading for his bed in the room he grew up in, in the house of his parents. He is heading for an empty bed and a night of dreams filled with regrets.

Inside she stops, nothing left to do but go to bed. She smokes a cigarette on her porch - knowing better but not really caring. She weeps silently now, now that no one can see. She weeps because she doesn't know how to be alone but can't bear to live the life she did before.

Letting Go

The world turned on its side

you held on with all your strength

trying desperately not to fall off.

Things you held dear

were sliding past you

into the abyss.

You cried, ached, screamed out in pain

at the loss of all familiar.

Others seemed glued

to the earth,

walking by staring at you

as if they didn't know you,

unaffected by your cries,

unable to know your struggle,

throwing advice at you,

you held, knuckles white,

to all you once knew.

Your grip was slipping

you felt panic deep as an ocean,


Finger by finger you lost your hold

on all you had known,

all you'd been told and sold.

Holding tight to the life you knew as your own

you bucked and thrashed,

tried not to let go.

Weakness crept into your body,

crept up from your toes

swallowed you whole,

you let go.

Free falling through despair

perfectly complete.

The bottom caught you,

held you in your pain,

that weighed down your heart

and darkened your brain.

You find your feet,

look about a place you do not know.

Here you are left with lessons taught by your loss:

dreams are just dreams until you make them real,

no one can really know how you feel,

you decide what you call wrong and call right,

you determine when to let go or to fight,

you know your mind as no one else can,

you must decide where it is that you stand.

A Night at The Fair

Everywhere they look new wonders appear.

 Laughter floats on the cotton candy air.

Sticky fingers grip prizes filled with fluff.

A great wheel of people slices the night.

Gold fish in plastic bounce on midnight rides.

Roller coasters climb and drop, slow then swift.

Brothers walk the fair grounds together, amazed.

Brothers walk the fair grounds together, amazed.

Roller coasters climb and drop, slow then swift.

Gold fish in plastic bounce on midnight rides.

A great wheel of people slices the night.

Sticky fingers grip prizes filled with fluff.

Laughter floats on the cotton candy air.

Everywhere they look new wonders appear.

The Sanctuary of The Estuary

     On the estuary of the Grand Bay wind combs the trees, reeds, and palmettos. It says to the mad world outside this sanctuary, "shhhhhhh." Be calm, be quiet, listen.
 
     "Turn away from your screens and your date books," it chides. "You cannot contain your time in calendars." Time belongs to the wind, the trees, and the earth.

     Animals listen to the wind, as it speaks it's message of wisdom. They live in cycles that nature imposes on them. Harmony lives here among these reeds, these waters, these trees.

     Along the horizon southern pines, brushy heads atop straight trunks, guard the estuary. They say nothing. In their silent station they provide homes for the birds and shade to creatures below. Osprey and sparrow trust trees to give them a place to perch, to take refuge.

     In their silent station the trees stand. They thin toward  the water's edge and come to a point where one stands alone. A commander for this immobile troop, he keeps his place.

     The water, dark like iced tea and just as cold, ripples under power of the wind. Shiny silver bodies of fish jump into the air and land back in the water with a swish and splash. Are they curious about the space above them like we are? Do they wonder?

     I wonder. I wonder where the feeling that swells in the center of me comes from. I wonder what source determines its hue. Today it is sky blue and reed green.

     Today, right now, it is good.

It is Good

This day is so lovely. Out on the estuary of the Grand Bay the sun is illuminating the cornflower sky. The wind combs the trees and the reeds and the palmettos and says to the mad world outside this sanctuary: "shhhhhhhh." It is wise advice. Be calm, be quiet, listen. "Turn away from your screens and your date books." It chides. "You fools, you cannot contain your time in your calendars," it says.Time belongs to the wind, and the trees, and the earth.
     Animals are content in this place. They listen to the wind, as it speaks the message of wisdom to all, and obey it. They live in the cycles that nature imposes on them. The sorrows of man are his own doing. Harmony lives here among these reeds, these waters, and these trees.
     Along the horizon line southern pines, brushy heads atop their straight trunks, stand guard around the estuary. They say nothing. They too are wise. In their silent station they provide homes for the birds and shade to the creatures below. Osprey and sparrows trust these trees to give them a place to perch and take refuge. In their silent station they stand. They thin toward the water's edge and come to a point where one stands alone. A commander for this immobile troop, he keeps his place.
     The water, dark like iced tea and just as cold, ripples under the power of wind. Shiny silvery bodies of fish jump into the air and land back in the water with a swish and splash. Are these fish curious about the space above like we are? Do they wonder? I do. I wonder. I wonder where the feeling that swells in the center of me comes from. I wonder what source determines its hue. Today it is cornflower blue and reed green. Today, right now, it is good. 

Dear Big Brother (epistolary)

Dear Big Brother,
I'd like to call you by name but I've never known it. I feel like you must know I exist some how in your heart. I think of you so often. You must feel my presence some how. I am thirty three years old. I've known about you since I was nineteen when my eldest son was born. My mother broke down crying so hard I thought she'd die of despair. It was so strange to see her sad at the birth of her grandson. She told me her story. It was her story of you. She told me how she became pregnant with you at 16 years of age. She told me about 1966. She told me how my grandpa hid her away in a convent with other girls "like her." She told me how she was put in a taxi alone and sent to the hospital. She told me about the mistake the nurse made. The beautiful mistake that allowed her to hold you for a stolen hour. She called you Daniel. She loved you. She loves you still. I love you too, brother, wherever you are.
Your Loving Sister,
Pamela

Fate
you betrayer,
you bastard,
you killer of hope.

I'd like to
hang you
on a filthy rope.

You promise,
lead on,
you declare, you tease,
and hold my life
in thin air.

You twist
and you turn
and you bleed me and burn,

burn into my mind
the knowledge that kills,
kills my spirit, my will.

I'm here on the floor,
come on,
kick me some more.

You hateful fate,
your awful power,
eating dreams,
shredding hope,
you devour.

I'm still here.
I'm still here.
I'm still - hear.

I fear.

This Ship is Sinking

The ship is sinking.
We put all we had into it.
All of our resources, our will,
our strength, our hopes,
we put into it.

Blind to our fears,
ignoring clear warnings
we boldly set out
on our course,
our journey of hope.

Now it is sinking,
unbelievable, but it's sinking.
I let go. Let go of the rope
which binds me to this
sinking vessel.

I let go of those hopes,
this takes strength and new hopes.
Down it goes, in a torrent of cries
it goes down, it dies.

Funereal feelings surround
the three survivors of this wreck.
I swim, struggle, feel weak
but go on
as the two other survivors cling to me.

I'd love to sink, go down,
let go, die with the wreck,
but I'm the vessel now.
I am the hope of this crew now.
I must go on.

I cling to shards of life,
gather them in the water,
pull them together and take stock:
us three, our place, our life
we still have this life.

I fight the current looking desperately
for a patch of dry land
to climb upon and rebuild.

I pool my strength and go on.
We three search and learn
how to be just us three.

In this ocean of loss our joy
shines like stars in a sky of darkness,
small spots of joy,
but they are so bright in the night
of our loss.

The life we have lost leaves its mark
on our souls, on our flesh,
on our minds, on our hearts.

These scars, these marks,
incorporate into our newest selves.
We become new together,
stronger than before,
we know so much more than before.

We know now that a sinking ship
is not a world end.
We know now that second chances
can be better chances than those
we had before.

What She Does

She says it, texts it, types it,
posts it, writes it on walls,
in bathroom stalls, in halls of malls.
It's out there, her testimony, her story,
her mantra, her glory, her fear, her pride.
She told it, she sold it, she let it all go
out in the world to let the world know,
her mind, its workings, its lurkings,
its will, its notions, its oceans of thought,
are all on display.
Take it, leave it, don't read it, don't listen.
She'll just keep on shouting:
"I'm here, this is who I am!"
Because she has to.
She carefully chooses
what she'll allow
into the veins of her brains
and the flow of her heart.
She compiles and smiles and makes
up her words, she writes and
she fights with the conscious unheard.
She works and she struggles,
she looks to the space
above her life, that magical place
where ideas float and mingle
and tingle her senses,
she gathers and forms and makes
up her world into the place
she can live in,
subconscious unfurled.

My Mother, My Friend

Mother,

I wish I could stretch back across the years and wipe away your tears,

I wish I could hold the hands that struck you and change them into love,

I'd hold you with them.

I wish I could go back and be the friend you needed,

when no one was your friend.

I'd smile at you, dear Mother,

I'd make you laugh and we would play,

we'd dance together in the sunshine and know the good that makes one whole.

I'd keep you safe and break the cycle.

Your loving daughter and friend,

Pamela

The Battle of Wills

The brain does its work,

remember the laundry,

pay the bill,

add milk to the list.

The heart interrupts,

kiss this child,

put a note in his lunch box,

call your mother,

tell them you love them.

The brain interrupts,

study the past,

learn from mistakes

the heart has inclined you to.

The heart speaks in earnest,

stop all this thinking,

do what you love,

act now, before it's too late

make time for love

and fight all hate.

The brain and heart

bicker and argue,

warring in fury -

what's next to be done.

This day much transpires,

the brain longs for order,

the heart for its fires.

Listen to both,

discern what is next,

let your brain do the work

but the heart have context.

Guard the Door

The doorway to our selves
can only open as wide
as we allow.
The tides of life
rise and fall
carrying toward us
things we cannot control.
The doorway lets
the water in
as we allow it.
Sometimes the rush
is too powerful
and pushes through
without our consent.
Storms in our lives
may pollute the water
with pain and sorrow,
these storms are
a part of life's
ecology.
But don't bolt
the door for good
and suffocate,
sun will come
and clean the water.
Joy will rush
on the same current
as the pain.
Just wait,
collect the water
sift it through
your prayers, your hopes
look to see
what lovely things
there are to know
as you guard the door
in helpless hope.

*erasure poem from USA Today (9-25-2012)

Arrogant people like it
I like it that art is subjective
I can live with that
her family, her role,
and her testimony
her life
beloved one
there are no vivid imaginings
of life and adventures
spawned
deeply rooted landscape
if you love something
you do produce good
so I need
what I need
and I needed worlds
on a sunny fall day
I wanted this to be a furor
and the thing took on a life of its own.

Bedroom of a Dreamer (prose poem)

She walked into her bedroom. The bed lay before her, a vehicle for her dreams, a portal to worlds beyond this one. An escape from the world of reality which can be so dreary at times. To the left of the bed a lamp with geometric shape casts soft yellow light onto her bed. "Come," the light says warmly,"take refuge here." Above the bed a painting on square canvas displays a round bird cage. Upon the cage a bird perches, delighted at its freedom, with wings tipped in gold that glistens with magic, a trace of the magic from the woman's dreams caught in reality, frozen in time for her to see in waking hours and inspire her to keep going. Don't give up.

A mirror casts back a reflection, a double of the woman. This looking glass exposes to her view the stranger everyone else sees. "Know me, love me, let me love you." The woman's eyes say this. "Become unstrange to me," they say, "so I don't have to fear you ..." they implore.

Her cousin Jenny's wooden jewelry box sits upon her dresser, filled with magic little trinkets she finds here and there: a rock in the shape of a heart, the first tooth lost by her son, a ruby freed from its sharp metal clasps, a dried rose from the casket of her Grandmother, just little precious things, memories.

The box is lined with red velvet and on top are the initials J.M.D.. Along side those initials a painted butterfly stretches its wings in suspended flight, suspended much like the moments in the box. The box its self is a suspension. Jenny flew away at age eleven. Leukemia made her body so light it just flew away, her skin so thin it couldn't contain the great soul within. But Jenny meets with the woman in dreams, not a stranger, and other magic things like her mingle as well. 

In this small box-like room the woman can be only she. Naked and unjudged she can breath - in and out - and sigh aloud. Confined in this small space she is free. Safe just to be. The room speaks to her: "Rest here, lay down your worries, lay down the burdens of this great troubled world, and just rest."

Washing Women (Ekphrastic)

He sees the women washing

Langlois Bridge at Arles by Vincent Van Gogh

on the riverbank
shoes off
bare feet in the clay
they work
raw worn hands
scrubbing away yesterday's grime,
preparing for tomorrow's.
The curls about their faces
cling to glistening foreheads
in the sun --
one whose hair is red
like the earth
sings a hymn
she is made from this clay,
the breath of life
resonates in her song,
the chorus
hummed by all
is applauded by the reeds
who dance and sway in the wind
The river chuckles and cheers
happy to be of service.

The Natives are Restless

The natives are restless.
The hours in a day roll
quickly, yet slowly.
Ideas form and float
like vapor amongst
the rafters of this place.
Visions of possible
outcomes bounce off
of one another.
They collide and merge
rolling about into
an amalgam of genius.
Let my hands and my heart
work tirelessly to realize
the potential of this life.
It seems too short
already going so swiftly by
yet creeping slowly
through the corridors of the days.
The hours compile, stretch on, fly by.

Catch one of them with me
and let's see what we can do.
Let us plan and form
our reality with the tools
we are given.
Let us stroll and
talk of the future
in this place.
This place we can see,
this space that is fed
from the tributaries
of the universal rivers
of knowledge.

Geography of Childhood

Our street was made of dirt,
they called it red, but I remember orange,
afternoon thunderstorms drove muddy splashes
onto the light rough bricks of our house
the brick still carries the orange stains
even though the grass grows there now.

The great oak tree in the front yard was a wonderland,
large branches nearly touching the ground
beckoned to be explored.

The neighborhood children were my gang,
we small hide and seekers and kool-aid drinkers.
I smoked one of my Mother's cigarettes behind the shed,
all the gang looked on amazed, 
my badness was my strength in that crowd,
I never got caught - and they never tattled.

The chain link fences of the neighborhood
were like lines dividing countries,
in some there were pools, in others unmown grasses.
One neighbor never was seen by us little people,
we speculated he was an axe murderer, or worse.

The hot summers were never too hot for me,
I stayed outside until my name was cried out in the dusk;
owl hoots and bat squeaks
enriched the soundtrack of the evenings.

Weekends on the boat were common,
sailing along in the sun with the smell
of sunscreen in our noses,
ham sandwiches and orange soda in the ice box,
porpoise darting in  and out of the boat's wake like magic.

Our toes in the sand and our heads in the clouds,
the days moved past like a charm,
sun on our blond heads burning memories into our brains,
a jelly fish sting, a sunburn the only price we paid
for fun splashing in the waves or lazy days outside,
night time campfires ushered us off to sleep
under the stars of our happiness.

In The Back Yard

We go out after dark

we watch for stars to shoot - we shine

we go out in the tangled honey suckle vines

we hear croaking frogs and cricket's songs

we just pause

we listen

we absorb the humid air

we see dew glisten

we celebrate the night

under glorious moon

wish for time to slow

knowing dawn will come too soon.

Christina Anna

I remember the cloth

of Grandma's dress

soft cotton - worn with time

she smelled of ivory soap

and lotion

she sang while she swept the floor

notes of warmth and joy saturated her air

she knew what and when I needed

before I knew my self

she kept me safe

when the rest of the world was hell

she helped my good to grow

she suffocated the dark

she called me an angel

she knew me - and loved me

she trained me up in the way I should go

her love was a work of art.

The ABC's of Understanding

Almost is never quite there

Because people are flawed

Circumstances always shifting

Don't forget your reality check

Everyone wakes up after dreaming

Fools are born every second

Glad to be free

How could I be so blind

Instead of going on - I quit

Just because the wrong-way sign became visible

Knowing it would be frightful - I left the path

Loving my freedom

Mainly because the cage was shrinking

Now the chains are broken

Onward - I see a new horizon

Please God - protect me

Quit second guessing

Right now is all that's real

Seeing is not always believing

Truth is always relative

Understanding requires no pride

Violence needs a barrier

"Why?" the question with no answer

X-ray your intentions - I see through them

Zip up your damn bag and move on.

Attempted Murder

Your love is a noose

tight on my throat

dividing my mind from my heart

dividing my sense from my self

dividing my house from the world

dividing my essence from me

dividing my dreams from my life

I choked - broke free from your bonds

and fate resurrected me.

Give it Up, Man

You believe in miracles

or so you say

you are getting the help you need

or so you say

do you know what I have become?

You are a better man

or so you say 

the door to my heart's bolted.

You wont give up

or so you say

time will reveal your needs

are greater than your resolve.

You will never ever love another

or so you say

I find that hard to believe.

You will wait for me

or so you say

don't waste your time

I moved on.