One of Those Days

It's amazing to me that a happy holiday spent with loved ones can still produce moments so low you wish you'd never been born. I felt like that this morning despite having said a congenial "good-bye" to relatives last night. Everyone got back home safely, so there was cause for thanks, but this morning the memories of things painful and past brought tears and the wish, again, that I had never even been a dream. How can such a seemingly "good" day do this to someone? I was not thinking of past hurts or grudges; slights or arguments, yet this morning there were tears and pain associated with yesterday's good time and pleasant visit. Perhaps, someday, this will cease to occur but, until then, it is something I will have to deal with and continue to try to analyze. I know that once I fully understand its origins and why it keeps recurring I will own it and can make it go away forever. No one should have to feel like they wish they had never been born and no one should ever deliberately do anything to make someone they are supposed to love feel that way. Perhaps it should be spelled "haulidays" instead, just to describe all of the baggage that goes with you when you have one.

A Few Free Minutes! Now, What Should I Do With Them?

It seems almost incomprehensible, but I actually have a little "extra" time (sort of like the budget "surplus" our national leaders declare periodically) and thought immediately that I would like to use it here, posting some more of my poems.
As I have mentioned before, my poems dwell in a state of constant transition and revision. Helpful comments or criticism are most welcome, but please be willing to take part in a discussion if I heed your words and comment back - discussing things is a very important part of the transition within my poems for me and, though I may seem to be arguing, I am just trying to "figure things out" and really do appreciate the input of others :-)!

The Poems:

(*note - Jack Kerouac used to live in Lowell, MA. I live almost next door and graduated from UMassLowell, so I find him an interesting character and, sometimes, inspirational - although I do have some doubts as to whether he would like what he is blamed for inspiring in my writing. I hope, however, that all of you enjoy reading it. I.)

I Wonder

I wonder if he would have liked me?
Probably not,
because I never dared
to live, I never dared
to bare my soul
(or myself, for that matter)
to anyone before I was thirty-five.
It was only then I became fully alive
and aware.
I was always a late bloomer,
but Jack
made daring to be bare fun.
Perhaps, somewhere in his poetry,
he would understand
that I grew old first,
before my time.
Maybe he would forgive me then
and like me a little,
although being born
when you're thirty-five
is an awful waste of time.
Jack did not waste time
but now
he has no more time.
I am still alive.


Channeling Kerouac
(*note - within this poem the asterisk (*) is meant to indicate a finger snap :-)! Also, this poem is loosely based upon Kerouac's work "On the Road.")

Ja-, *, Ja-, Jack
Kerouac*, -ac, -ac.
Tormented, wander-lusting soul
Hiking trails into
Inebriate burgundy depths
Of dark thoughts and days.

Father of a million
Bastard children
Playing
Beat, beat, beat
With critical syntaxioms of
Unframed, wanton words
To a writing-souled
Literary Evolution Revolution.

Hot, brooding genius
And drug-tethered brains
Jailed in addictions
But salient with
Life-pulsing
Relentless pursuits of
Swing, hip, jazz.
Beatific angel flights
Through new-sky time.


South Song
(*note - As a child I saw and heard many things that younger people today are unable to understand, these experiences having come from an era now, thankfully, long past. But I can still remember the sights, sounds, smells of a time when the Civil War still had living participants and I met many of the children and grandchildren (mostly grandchildren) of former slaves. It is to that time I still see when I close my eyes and wander back into my childhood that this next poem is dedicated.)

I heard the sad, slow sound
Of broken backs and tattered hearts.
Those spirits, caught between
The Song and The Freedom,
Still living in the fallow fields.
I felt their sighs, like a heartache,
Wafting to me through the windows,
An old Rambler chariot,
Mixing with the red dust, sullen heat,
And misty-bright, dusty light.
There was red dust on the kudzu,
The wooden shacks on stilts, and
Clinging to the car,
The grass, the sky.
Enveloping my heart,
Their tune, a slow constriction
Of tears and grief,
Exited the windows and rested,
Hovering,
Over the still fields.


My Mother's Heart

You were the tigress, always fighting
To make sure your cubs got
Their chance, their justice.
Ever watchful, you gazed into my days
Keeping me safe when I wanted to run
Headlong into the Tree of Life.
You never let me tangle in the branches or roots.
You taught me the blossoms
And the newly budding leaves,
The beautiful skies above
And the soft grasses beneath,
The songbirds and the small, irridescent insects.
You showed me the view of life
From a high, safe place,
Certain the sight could carry me through.
You knew that, one day, you might not be there to watch me soar
While you stood beneath me
"Just in case."
I hope you finally knew you succeeded;
Fledging a tigress with
Pegasus wings, a true heart and
Wildcat dreams.


To H.R.H. Prince Simon Monyo Mihailescu-Nasturel Herescu

The ringing stopped
and the voice with the heavy
accents of Romania and advancing age
said, "Hello."
"Might this be Prince Monyo?"
The response, "This is he."
"The artist, himself," I said.

We chatted briefly about
the reasons I had called
and he was very charming
and spoke with a twinkle in his eye
that was betrayed as he said,
"I have beautiful, blue eyes."

"You have beautiful, blue eyes?"
He said, "Yes. And a ponytail!"
"A child of the sixties," I laughed.
"Yes," he said.

He knew he was hungry before he
realized he was royal
and the artist is more the man.
He was humorous and kind
to this old New England bird
and will be remembered fondly
for a very long time.


(untitled)

Awakened by a dream
I cannot return to sleep,
such was the subject
of my dream,
a night time watch
I keep.
It feels odd,
this time of night,
as darkness rapidly
becomes the new day.
It's almost as if
I'm standing guard
for all humanity.
A prayer sleepily
recited, born
on wings of
desperate hope,
that the nightmare
waking me from slumber
never becomes
reality.
It was the kind of dream
calculated to make
all children scream.
It was devoid
of every hope
for this world's ability
to cope with its own
perfidy and lust.
So, I awoke to
pray and fuss
at whatever God might hear
because I hold
those dwelling on
this world as
very dear.
I have hope for better times
and better things to come.
We need to work and live
together;
this is our only home.


First Child

I was the dolly,
The one that was not quite real,
Until those nights
When, in the early morning hours that
Screamed their silent reproach
From the bedside alarm clock,
Dad would come into the room
And walk with me
So you could sleep
And I would not cry and cry.

I was the experiment,
The test tube, for you
So you could see
If all of the sad things that
Had been so wrong
With your poor sister
Would reveal themselves in me.
It must have been sort of a let down
to have a healthy child after all of the fears,
Although I know that's
What you really wanted;
A healthy child.

It was always first, first, first
With me, and I hated it.
The times I had to wait
For your fears to quiet
So I could finally do something.
Sometimes it took years,
And that is hard when
You are not too many years old,
But then you would say, "Yes,"
And I could fly to my wish.
But then, I had to watch
As the others got to fly,
Much earlier than me,
To their dreams
And I thought they should have
Had to wait, too.

I was the big disappointment,
The one you never really
Understood,
Although you tried so hard
And asked me for help but,
I didn't understand myself
And could not help you.
You were angry then
And slapped me with your words.
I was a teenager
And fell off the edge of
The family, dwelling as
A stranger in our home
For many years.

Then, the time came when I
Could not understand you.
I was angry and thought
You only meant to hurt me
But you were dying.
By the time I saw that,
There was nothing I could do
Except love you and decide that,
If I was needed,
I could get up in the night,
Come into your room,
And sit with you
So Dad could sleep
And you would not have to
Cry alone in the dark.

What Does "Calm" Mean?

After seeing, once again, how long it has been since I have posted anything on my blog, I thought I had better get something in here just so anyone reading this will know that it IS a long term, ongoing project and I WILL be back. I'm just snowed under with school work at the moment and trying frantically to remember everything else I also have to tend to as well. It will probably be another week to ten days before I get back here as I have a twenty-five page paper to get written and turned in by the end of next week! (SCREAM!!!)

It will be worth all of the effort and craziness once I am through the master's course, but in the midst of it all is a swirling craze of due dates and research pressures, outlines and writer's block - although that is not usually a problem for me.

It is also one of the grayest, drizzliest days in the world and I long for the encouragement of just a little sunshine and warmth before winter sets in and such things become mere dreams of glories past. Even the bluejays are depressed by the weather and the yard is silent. The cats are even restless, which makes me wonder just what sort of a weather front may be heading in our direction here in New England.

I think I will let my mind's eye wander to a beautiful summer day, standing on a pristine beach off of the Atlantic Ocean somewhere. I close my eyes and breathe in the salt air and listen to the waves crashing on the beach although they are not as big as they get during storms. I feel the warm sand on my feet and hear the cry of gulls in the distance as the sea wind chills the skin on my face, arms and legs. The sun is glinting off of my hair, keeping the chill breezes from becoming too effective. I think I will turn to my left and walk down the beach toward that little spot at the curve of the shore there, along the horizon. Along the way I will collect a spectacular array of seashells not normally found along the New England coast because this is my daydream and I can find tropical shells in New England waters if I want to. I will hold each of them to my ear to hear my heartbeat and the flow of my blood calling to me as if from the ocean itself, a cry for a return of a daughter to the mother sea that gave her and her species its birth.

The only draw back to my "little vacation" here is that a quick rub from a pussycat on my legs brings me rather sharply back into the gray and the rain again. Although, it is really very nice to be loved by a furry warm little being so special in her own right, and I do not mind the interruption so much under these circumstances. Fur persons' wishes for positive attention should be heeded with alacrity at all possible moments.

Well, it's back to the books and articles so I may give myself every possible chance of producing a successful paper for my class. I will assume that you all wish me luck and success in my endeavors rather than otherwise, as that would really make the day gray!