Ode to my Honda Civic

I remember the first time we met
trapped in the back of the lot
a color I didn't want
Somehow I knew it was love
The dental floss I found on the passenger seat told me you were well cared for
I vowed to do the same

I'm sorry for all the times I scratched your paint
scraping you against the garage door
bolts of other cars leaving their permanent indentation on your rear bumper
I wish I could go back in time and be more careful

You were always so good to me
A place to rest, to hide, to think
Carrying me to the four corners of the country
Listening to me sing, cry and pray
Getting me through snow storms - even when I spun you around
You protected me from my carelessness and impulsive behavior

You were there on the most important night of my life
traveling bravely through pounding rain
brand new car seat strapped in the back
soon to be filled with a screaming little boy
(he never liked you - must have been a bad first impression)

Things started to change after that
You were always enough for me
but not enough for our growing family
Passengers squeezed against the stiff plastic
I knew in my heart
the time had come to move on
love someone new

I remember the night I cleaned out your insides
Saying goodbye to an old friend
Who knew more about who I truly am than most humans
I thought you would be in safe hands

And then
The phone call
Who would have ever thought it would hit me the way it did?
Anger, regret, a feeling of loss
Is it strange to mourn a car?
I had to forgive
Let go
Realize that perhaps you were only meant for me

I drive a minivan now
Making new memories with my sons
But I often think back of our time together
of your too hot steering wheel
peppy dependability
and the seat that fit
just right.

Halloween Haiku

Running through the patch

Shrill screams heard among orange globes

My son's first pumpkin

at the request of my sister...

here's a poem we composed many many years ago and then repeated until our mother yelled at us:

While at the railway station
Looking for some information
To go on my vacation
To some unknown location
I saw a strangulation
That caused such a sensation
That I died of suffocation

11:07 pm

The cold distance
separates reality from fantasy
takes you away from Responsibilities
Requirements Repression
The day to day drivel that drives you to the brink
So you enter in
slowly at first
and it feels good
you take another step
the hairs on the back of your neck prickle at the clicking sounds
fingertips madly expressing thoughts feelings worries
to someone who cares
to someone who will lick your wounds
and make you feel new again
like the fresh skin of a snake
how can you resist?

You think of her
briefly
and wonder why she cannot fill this void
wonder why you have to enter into a world forbidden
to find what you seek
But you do not wonder where it will lead
or what terror it brings into the heart of another
You simply enter in
cold and unfulfilled
palms sweaty
searching for an answer
searching for the words that will make the pain go away

And you leave
Content
your chest stuck out proudly
the muscles in your jaw relaxed
the storm of your mind subdued

But at what cost?

The Car Ride

He's so close
The heat between us - misty
Our breath - - circulates
He peels his thigh from mine
(I hadn't noticed
until now)
Then slowly
let's it
fall
The world is this touch
I swallow the moment
and suck my lip

On the way home
He rides in the front

Untitled (another poem from the archives)

I am becoming my father
bent over the toilet
hacking out the roof of my mouth
I hear the noise that makes me
cringe in my chair
only now it is coming
from me
like a bum
into the gutter,
I spit.

Looking in the mirror
I push my glasses up with
one finger
and swallow deeply
I am becoming… something…
I watch as zits dance on my forehead in
mockery of a youth that’s
slipped out the back door wearing
pink socks
I am left
holding onto the cold bathroom sink
throat full of
phlegm

R.G.

*** We've started Shakespeare in class and I was reminded of a poem I wrote in college. I was acting in a production of Macbeth and had begun to think in iambic pentameter.

I’ve never seen such skin that I have want to touch
Or eyes I would surrender with a heart of pure
The silkiness of you is all my dreams do see
Still my eyes are only fit from pleading sore

Oh – that my tongue could hold the words that you do wish for.
My blood reveal the temperature of yours
My hands would know the thirst that you do quench for
The thirst that only eyes can now endure

An Afternoon at Sea

We climbed back into the kayak, minds swimming with visions of colorful fish, faces wet with sea water. The waves were beating against the rocks in slow surges, making it difficult to achieve a steady entrance. As we pushed off, I let out a quiet sigh. While the beauty of the ocean calls to me with its many sights and smells, its vast unknown and mysterious power makes me uneasy. Unlike my husband, I am not a calm sailor. He was in the back of the kayak, telling me to focus on the horizon straight ahead so that I would not get queasy. My stomach was surprisingly calm, but I followed his direction just in case.
I felt the muscles in my arms burning as we began our journey back to civilization. We had been snorkeling at the base of Captain Cook’s monument on the Big Island of Hawaii. It is an area only accessible by boat. In our search for the elusive monument labeled so prominently on the map, we came across a small parking lot where a woman and her brother rent kayaks. I was nervous at first but knew in my gut that this was an experience not to be missed. We paid the woman for the rental and had to change into our bathing suits in the car because there were no restrooms on the premises. Then we kayaked over to the monument, breathing in the salty air and staying clear of the tremendous cliff that loomed to our right.
When we reached our destination, the kayak gently slammed into the rocks and we scrambled to get out with the incoming wave. There were boats all along the shore and people swimming all around us, their snorkels poking out of the water. My husband and I slipped on our fins, and I ungracefully slid into the water. I spit into my mask, swirled some water around the viewing area and stretched it onto my head, placing the attached snorkel into my mouth.
As I dipped my head into the ocean, I knew immediately that the trip was worth it. Multicolored fish swam along side us in orderly schools, and spiny sea urchins spotted the ocean floor like koosh balls. Coral grew in jagged clumps, creating a city underwater. There were places where you had to swim carefully or your body would brush against the sharp structures, which would not only damage the coral but also cause a painful scrape that could take weeks to heal. We were so close to shore that you could feel the waves pushing you toward land. Water kept seeping into my mouthpiece and I had to spit it out, the salty flavor lingering in the back of my throat. My husband raced ahead, pointing out interesting sea creatures or the occasional man made structure. The fish welcomed these strangers into their habitat as they welcomed us. I felt as if I could reach out and stroke their slippery backs.
Our rental was only for one hour, and we eventually returned to the shore and began our return. The memory of mysterious ocean dwellers was fresh in my mind as we gracefully glided back in the kayak. The warm sun dried my skin and I was thankful for the opportunity to spend my afternoon with the sea.

Waiting for Summer

Empty
A beach side restaurant in winter
cold sand blowing against the taped windows
reeds rustling, dry and crackly.
Deserted
Amusement park rides on the boardwalk
their light frames creaking in the wind
seats waiting patiently for the coming swarm.
Waiting,
as I wait.
Not for the crowd of loud teenagers with burnt shoulders and noses,
not for the giggling families gathered together for a sandy picnic,
not for the old couple holding hands over glasses of sweet tea,
but for Life.
A single life
To walk along my deserted beach
To sit in my empty restaurant
To fill the streets of my desolate town
Waiting
for
Summer

Definition Poem

Anxiety [ang-SIGH-i-T] 1. Walking into a room full of strangers. 2. The sound of my heart in my throat and that annoying voice in my head. 3. A dry mouth. 4. The skin around fingernails picked raw. 5. The unknown. 6. Small talk.

Letter to Andrew Borden

** The following poem is based on the the life of legendary murder suspect Lizzie Borden, who was accused of brutally killing her father and step-mother with a hatchet.

It's a girl!
It's a girl!
It's a girl.
I disappointed you from the start
When all I ever wanted was the love of your heart
You named me Andrew, finally a male heir
A life full of denial - regret for what wasn't there
Your true love left you at an early age
The one you replaced her with filled me with rage
Why were we never good enough for you?
Why did you need somebody new?

The money
The money
The money
It was never enough
You tried to buy back your pride
In our tiny house you would hide
Do you realize
What it really cost?
The pain that I carried inside?

She lived in our house despite the hate
A love divided, the cruelty of fate
You told us you'd leave us what we deserved
I knew in my heart justice would be served
I waited with Emma for the day to come
You tried to buy us off with a measly sum
That was the straw that started it all
And the house of Borden began to fall

The money
The money
The money
It was never enough
You tried to buy back your pride
In our tiny house you would hide
Do you realize
What it really cost?
The pain that I carried inside?

The plan began with a poisoned pot
Death wish from the beginning? Or maybe not
Then who is to say what happened next
Events that would leave the nation perplexed
Was it really me with the blood on my dress?
Was it really me?
I will never confess
My days lived out, quiet and coy
And you with no face, still dreaming of a boy

One Day

One day
I will drive my RV across the country
on fuel made from grease
with solar panels on the roof
and I will meet someone new every day

One day
I will live off the land
windmills in our backyard
and a giant garden
days spent with my fingers in the earth
nights in culinary experimentation

One day
I will sit under a big willow tree
writing words in a purple notebook
while the wind blows hair in my face
and I will not worry that it is gray
or that my wrinkled eyes squint to see the page

One day
I will hold my grandchildren tight
and they will understand
that biology is not what connects us
but something deeper and more divine

One day
the tiny details that matter
will shift
from what seems important
to what
IS

Upstate, NY

I always like autumn
best
you can eat homegrown squash
from the farmer's market
and apples off the tree
and the last tomatoes
picked from the garden
before a frost
and walk through the woods
wearing a light jacket
no mosquitoes
only the sound
of crunching leaves
and the smell
of change
and visit the pumpkin patch
on a sunny afternoon
stepping over the vines
to find the best one
showcased
on Halloween night
when you hope
you won't have to wear a coat
over your costume
and the snow
will wait another week


***This poem is modeled after Nikki Giovanni's "Knoxville, Tennessee"

the power of worm poop

I have decided to create a new blog dedicated to poetry and creative writing. The title comes from my childhood, from the summer our above ground pool collapsed and I developed a love for worms. I systematically removed them from the hostile environment of the fallen pool liner and into the soft warm sandbox. By the end of the summer my sandbox was full of plants. Utterly in awe of their capabilities, I learned a true appreciation for such slimy creatures.
It's about being a little strange, seeing what happens, and appreciating the simple things.