Monthly Archives: August 2013

Heartache

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The gray textured mountain ranges and ravines,mother and baby hands

of our Sunday morning bedspread,

envelop my sick toddler.

 

She whimpers in her light sleep,

her binky quietly chirping,

as she suckles it.

 

My pajama top is clutched,

in her pudgy little hand,

to ensure that I must remain at her side.

 

In the kitchen,

there is a disaster scene of an early morning breakfast,

prematurely expelled.

 

In the bathroom there are also remnants on the floor:

soiled baby clothing, a damp hoody towel,

and droplets of sticky cherry medicine.

 

Later I will plan my escape, then my industrial cleaning fury.

For now, I succumb to her tiny,

but powerful grasp.

 

Letting myself melt into the folds of the comforter,

I snuggle close to the radiant heat,

of my stricken cherub.

Maine

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The cold granite stones beneath our feet made us taller,maine

Elevating us above the ordinary cobblestones of Post Office Park,

The moon shinning over our pre-pubescent crew of misfits.

One step closer to the sky.

 

It was on nights such as these that I felt my first creative pangs.

They began as fleeting impressions like witnessing a shooting star,

At first you are not sure of having seen one,

yet there is a sensation of awe that lingers.

 

Then came the tremors,

electric and charged,

pushing me to put words to the haunting beauty that surrounded me.

I dramatically tried to verbalize what I was experiencing,

the sound of wet snow falling on the churning winter ocean

or the scent of wild roses in a thick salty fog.

 

By the time the earthquake hit at age 15, I was armed with the art of words.

Poetry became the valley through which I channeled my raw, turbulent emotions.

At the time I did not understand what was happening,

nor the power I had found in my falling;

I would be saved time and time again

by a blue Bic pen and a white wide-ruled notepad.

 

Life would pull me through twists and turns.

Poetry would make me stay the course.

Hardship would not find me helpless.

 

I often think of the young girl gazing at the summer stars over Exchange St.,

Sipping a cappuccino at Java Joe’s,

Dreaming of what the future would offer.

 

Although 6000 miles and a lifetime away,

not much has changed.

I am still dreaming, still longing, still learning

to be, to love, to create…