The last time I saw . . .
the fellas was Sunday.
Hey There!
Come on up.
How are you?
You hurt your back?
OK, I won’t hug you too tight then.
And you? You’re doing OK?
Come on in.
It’s been a while.
Yeah, I’m fine, just working and . . .
You too?
Right.
It’s been almost a year.
He fretted about the first birdhouse he built, and put on top of that 7 foot post in the yard, because no birds were using it. Well, the other week when I was sitting outside, two small birds were flying in and out of his bird house. So I know he’s happy now.
You know, we were just lovers for 2 years.
He would just call and say “You want some company?”
I didn’t really know him, so I just thought I was going to have some in-house loving for a while, but things morphed into a 5-year struggle.
I tried talking to him but . . . it was my life too.
Yeah, I know you talked almost every day.
I’m sure his mother’s breakdowns had an affect on him.
You didn’t know about his mother?
Wow.
He was just too far gone.
Obviously I’m still processing the whole experience.
Oh sure.
It’s getting late.
I’m so glad you came by.
Yeah, we all miss him.
Be safe.
I’ll be in touch.
(I don’t really miss him . . . do I?)
Saundra
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
What I Meant to Say
I once said to the Comcast Cable customer service representative: “I know it’s not your fault, but your company’s treatment of its customers is really appalling.” What I wanted to say was, “You prick. You actually enjoy pretending to care and don’t really care at all. I’ll bet you send your wife’s phone calls to voicemail. I’ll bet you stand too close to the person in front of you in line at the grocery store checkout. I’m pretty certain that you cut people off on the freeway and don’t give up your seat to older people on the bus. You’re probably that IT guy at work who pretends to listen to me while he’s thumbing through his Blackberry. Or my doctor who doesn’t look up from the chart and is out of the room in five minutes flat. I’ll bet I’ve met you a hundred times in the last month alone.” But instead I said “please and thank you” and hung up the phone.
Martha
Martha
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Untitled
In my mind's eye, I'm at my peak
Free of convention and ready to speak
I'm mouthy, direct, ready to connect
I give love and take pleasure
Sizing up and taking measure
I'm a dancing fool, a foolish dreamer
But never a schemer
In my mind's eye
smartz
Free of convention and ready to speak
I'm mouthy, direct, ready to connect
I give love and take pleasure
Sizing up and taking measure
I'm a dancing fool, a foolish dreamer
But never a schemer
In my mind's eye
smartz
Thursday, May 14, 2009
The Poetry In My Day, Today
Saundra
The poetry in my day awaits me
The bus ride is rough and tumble
and full of anticipation, My My
The poetry in my day awaits me
The walk through the park setting is soothing
and full of warmth from the Sun, My God
The poetry in my day awaits me
The Tulip tree that greets me is tall and strong
and full of wisdom, My Tree
The poetry in my day awaits me
The place of mine for the day is still here
and full of possibilities, My Work
The poetry in my day awaits me
The chance is mine to make it what I will
and fill my day My Way
The poetry in my day awaits me
The bus ride is rough and tumble
and full of anticipation, My My
The poetry in my day awaits me
The walk through the park setting is soothing
and full of warmth from the Sun, My God
The poetry in my day awaits me
The Tulip tree that greets me is tall and strong
and full of wisdom, My Tree
The poetry in my day awaits me
The place of mine for the day is still here
and full of possibilities, My Work
The poetry in my day awaits me
The chance is mine to make it what I will
and fill my day My Way
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Wanting
I am a wanting woman,
lying in my loving bed.
White light streams through the curtains
and filters the goldens and creams and roses of my room.
The pillows, sheets and covers make me alive.
They tell me of my wantingness.
It is serene and silent here.
I lazily dream, half awake,
of kisses on my neck and legs wrapped with mine.
Soft breathing and hands loving my body.
Pulsing, warm, sweet, slow passion.
Wanting.
lying in my loving bed.
White light streams through the curtains
and filters the goldens and creams and roses of my room.
The pillows, sheets and covers make me alive.
They tell me of my wantingness.
It is serene and silent here.
I lazily dream, half awake,
of kisses on my neck and legs wrapped with mine.
Soft breathing and hands loving my body.
Pulsing, warm, sweet, slow passion.
Wanting.
Mother's Day
With her only child living out of town, Rose had breakfast on that May morning with her friend Lita, another orphaned mother. As they sat eating their raisin toast and eggs in the crowded boisterous coffee shop, they were suddenly aware that a team of paramedics had arrived and was quietly lifting a very elderly woman from her chair and onto a gurney. The old woman was rigidly awake but unresponsive to the medics’ questions, oddly removed from the harsh reality of her own predicament. Her husband and children silently followed her out to the ambulance in the parking lot, trying to avoid the prying eyes and curious faces of onlookers.
There was nothing much to say about the event, but Rose was fixated on the scene. Embarrassed by her reaction, she quickly said goodbye to Lita and drove home where she did her laundry and fell asleep in her recliner.
That afternoon Rose decided to do something that she and her son would likely have enjoyed doing together on Mother’s Day. After running a few errands, she drove to the local cineplex and bought a ticket for the 3:00 showing of the latest Star Trek movie. Although this was not her first choice of films, she thought it would be entertaining enough for a vacant Sunday afternoon. Her timing was off and she arrived too early at the theatre, so she sat in the half-dark, bored, with only scattered thoughts and her Sunday lonelies to occupy her mind.
A trio of young overweight women lounged in the seats in front of her, comparing their new pedicures and sending text messages to absent others. One of the young women, sporting a tight purple tank top and khaki capris, draped her substantial legs over the seat in front of her, lifting them one at a time, proudly admiring their smooth, tanned and hairless surfaces.
A man, well into his eighties, entered the theater below and Rose watched as he slowly shuffled across the floor to the stairs in search of a seat. Balancing a cane in one hand and a soda in the other, he struggled up to Rose’s row and over the feet of three teenagers to sit next to her. Grunting and groaning, he fell into his seat and took a good deal of time to settle in. Rose had the feeling that he wanted to chat, but she was not inclined to talk to anyone, and continued to stare straight ahead into the empty screen. The old man sneezed twice, paused and exclaimed loudly, “Well, God Bless Me!” apparently irritated at his neighbors’ poor manners.
After seven commercials and six indistinguishable trailers, the movie was just beginning when a young Black man struggled through the other side of the row and quickly sat down beside Rose. Exuberant, he commented and joked to her through the first ten minutes of the film. At last giving up on getting any feedback from her, he too settled down to quietly watch the movie.
The film itself was a predictably overwhelming concoction of dazzling special effects and explosive sound. Underneath, however, was a classic Star Trek tale. In a pivotal scene of the time-traveling plot, an aged Mr. Spock appears in the same scene with his younger self. The young unsuspecting Spock happens upon the old Spock from behind and confused, calls out, “Father?” The older Spock turns and faces his incredulous younger self, and like a father, he imparts his wisdom and guidance to the young Spock before they part ways.
Just as the credits started to roll, the young man next to Rose leapt up and departed as abruptly as he had arrived. The three young women in the row ahead simultaneously turned on their phones and searched for missed messages in the still dark theater. Rose waited patiently for the old man next to her to pull himself up from his seat and inch down the row. Clutching the railing with his right hand and leaning on his cane with his left, he slowly descended the stairs, farting all the way to the bottom with Rose trapped closely behind him. As soon as she could, she sped around him and hurried to her car.
Sitting, dithering, in the driver’s seat, Rose was reluctant to put an end to her weekend by going home. At last she found a purpose -- one more errand she could run -- and drove several miles to a health store in search of some vitamins her doctor had prescribed. After a frustrating half hour poring over labels, she decided on her purchase and took the pills to the cashier. There, leaning on the counter, was the old man from the movie theater. Their eyes met and Rose said, “Hello, I think we were sitting next to each other at the movies this afternoon.” He looked her over and said, “Really? I didn’t notice you,” picked up his packages, and left the store. Refusing to acknowledge this rejection, Rose decided to walk across the parking lot to a market to buy some food for her dinner. Walking into the store, she was astounded as she ran into the young woman with the purple tank top from the theater. Feeling like she was going way out on a limb, and not understanding her motivation, Rose approached the young woman and related that she remembered her from the theater, and also told her about the old man. Of course, the young woman was dismayed by the approach, but she managed to recover and kindly wished Rose a Happy Mother’s Day.
Rose sat in her car in the sun, puzzling over the events of the day. Did the old woman’s illness, the young man’s exuberance, and the reappearance of the other two people from the theater have any meaning, or was it the universe’s little joke, telling her how meaningless everything really was? She thought about the young Spock encountering his older, wiser self and mistaking him for his father. She wondered about the woman she would be in twenty years. What would that woman tell Rose now? Would she, like a mother, be able to give Rose the guidance and reassurance she sought? Rose sat in her car in the sun, imagining a loving, nurturing, humorous, wise woman, at peace with herself. She started up the car and drove home, confused and comforted.
Martha
There was nothing much to say about the event, but Rose was fixated on the scene. Embarrassed by her reaction, she quickly said goodbye to Lita and drove home where she did her laundry and fell asleep in her recliner.
That afternoon Rose decided to do something that she and her son would likely have enjoyed doing together on Mother’s Day. After running a few errands, she drove to the local cineplex and bought a ticket for the 3:00 showing of the latest Star Trek movie. Although this was not her first choice of films, she thought it would be entertaining enough for a vacant Sunday afternoon. Her timing was off and she arrived too early at the theatre, so she sat in the half-dark, bored, with only scattered thoughts and her Sunday lonelies to occupy her mind.
A trio of young overweight women lounged in the seats in front of her, comparing their new pedicures and sending text messages to absent others. One of the young women, sporting a tight purple tank top and khaki capris, draped her substantial legs over the seat in front of her, lifting them one at a time, proudly admiring their smooth, tanned and hairless surfaces.
A man, well into his eighties, entered the theater below and Rose watched as he slowly shuffled across the floor to the stairs in search of a seat. Balancing a cane in one hand and a soda in the other, he struggled up to Rose’s row and over the feet of three teenagers to sit next to her. Grunting and groaning, he fell into his seat and took a good deal of time to settle in. Rose had the feeling that he wanted to chat, but she was not inclined to talk to anyone, and continued to stare straight ahead into the empty screen. The old man sneezed twice, paused and exclaimed loudly, “Well, God Bless Me!” apparently irritated at his neighbors’ poor manners.
After seven commercials and six indistinguishable trailers, the movie was just beginning when a young Black man struggled through the other side of the row and quickly sat down beside Rose. Exuberant, he commented and joked to her through the first ten minutes of the film. At last giving up on getting any feedback from her, he too settled down to quietly watch the movie.
The film itself was a predictably overwhelming concoction of dazzling special effects and explosive sound. Underneath, however, was a classic Star Trek tale. In a pivotal scene of the time-traveling plot, an aged Mr. Spock appears in the same scene with his younger self. The young unsuspecting Spock happens upon the old Spock from behind and confused, calls out, “Father?” The older Spock turns and faces his incredulous younger self, and like a father, he imparts his wisdom and guidance to the young Spock before they part ways.
Just as the credits started to roll, the young man next to Rose leapt up and departed as abruptly as he had arrived. The three young women in the row ahead simultaneously turned on their phones and searched for missed messages in the still dark theater. Rose waited patiently for the old man next to her to pull himself up from his seat and inch down the row. Clutching the railing with his right hand and leaning on his cane with his left, he slowly descended the stairs, farting all the way to the bottom with Rose trapped closely behind him. As soon as she could, she sped around him and hurried to her car.
Sitting, dithering, in the driver’s seat, Rose was reluctant to put an end to her weekend by going home. At last she found a purpose -- one more errand she could run -- and drove several miles to a health store in search of some vitamins her doctor had prescribed. After a frustrating half hour poring over labels, she decided on her purchase and took the pills to the cashier. There, leaning on the counter, was the old man from the movie theater. Their eyes met and Rose said, “Hello, I think we were sitting next to each other at the movies this afternoon.” He looked her over and said, “Really? I didn’t notice you,” picked up his packages, and left the store. Refusing to acknowledge this rejection, Rose decided to walk across the parking lot to a market to buy some food for her dinner. Walking into the store, she was astounded as she ran into the young woman with the purple tank top from the theater. Feeling like she was going way out on a limb, and not understanding her motivation, Rose approached the young woman and related that she remembered her from the theater, and also told her about the old man. Of course, the young woman was dismayed by the approach, but she managed to recover and kindly wished Rose a Happy Mother’s Day.
Rose sat in her car in the sun, puzzling over the events of the day. Did the old woman’s illness, the young man’s exuberance, and the reappearance of the other two people from the theater have any meaning, or was it the universe’s little joke, telling her how meaningless everything really was? She thought about the young Spock encountering his older, wiser self and mistaking him for his father. She wondered about the woman she would be in twenty years. What would that woman tell Rose now? Would she, like a mother, be able to give Rose the guidance and reassurance she sought? Rose sat in her car in the sun, imagining a loving, nurturing, humorous, wise woman, at peace with herself. She started up the car and drove home, confused and comforted.
Martha
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
The Poetry In My Day
Saundra
Sitting, listening, taking it all in.
My serenity.
My space.
My windows let the outside in.
It's beautiful.
It's comforting.
It's me.
The birds sing morning, noon, and night.
Their soft songs in the air as they flit in and out of the Yard Bird House.
Sitting, listening, taking it all in.
My sanctuary.
My peace.
My windows let the outside in.
It's me.
Sitting, listening, taking it all in.
My serenity.
My space.
My windows let the outside in.
It's beautiful.
It's comforting.
It's me.
The birds sing morning, noon, and night.
Their soft songs in the air as they flit in and out of the Yard Bird House.
Sitting, listening, taking it all in.
My sanctuary.
My peace.
My windows let the outside in.
It's me.
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