Kitten

 

Kittens with Milk

Perhaps as a
Little lady
I found compassion
With the kittens
 
On the farm- like
Baby Jesus, warmed
In the manger
By blankets of straw
 
Perhaps I found
Pearls of beaded
Cows milk on
Kittens’ whiskers
 
Unpasteurized like
My Grandmother and
I am her age, now
With softer skin
 
Her dried hands
Fed the kittens
With milk, poured into
Margarine containers-
 
Containers collected
In the memory of
Depression.
Waste not want not
 
I had the depression
And no one understood
So, I sat on a bales of straw
Counting kittens
 
I left the farm
To a place of
Higher learning
To play Shakespeare
 

Wasted and unwanted
My life sealed andLabeled: 
I can’t believe
It’s not married.
 
Later, I took kittens
To my grandmother
Beneath my over coat
A photo in my pocket
 
You like cats
Like I do, she said
Instead of; what no
Great grand children
 
Perhaps, as her ashes
Were tossed into the sky
Caught by the hand
Of adult Jesus
 
I found nourishment
In the emptiness of
Her hand denied to me
As she fed kittens with milk.

Nope

And what is your favorite colour

Nope, she answers; Nope.

 

She lives differently

And doesn’t answer to

 

You to your silliness

Boundaries up

 

We teach our children to respect no

To say no, and she begins

 

Nope: to questions like

Favorite colour

 

What do you want to be

When you grow up

 

Nope

And I accept

 

 

Mr. Daisy

He loves me?
He loves me…
Not.
 
Young children
Pull petals from
My daisies.
 
Squealing in
The garden of
My passion…
 
We all
Scatter like
Feathers
 
Grounded by
Journeys own
Deception.
 
Not if he
Loves me, he
Loves me, not:
 
But do you feel
Something for me…
Mr. Daisy?
 
So, naked, so
Much certain
Uncertainty-
 
That love is
Also, I love
Him not…
 

One of Those Moments

 

By The Bridge, Water

Weep

Weep, Weep

Little red bird

Little rose bud

Flowerless on a hedge 

Frozen tears

Little blue bird

Passing over time 

Clear skies on cloudy days

A paper cut

Little black bird 

Tips your red wings

Bleeding like my heart

A coo, A coup 

Little white dove 

Beneath the willow 

Crying out for silence

Sometimes, it slips

Clipped wings grow

As minds forget

We could ever fly

Yes, Thank Goodness

Air of Aphrodisia

Today, a starting pistol breaks open a keg of fire powder
That will terrorize this tongue once used for frigid sweetness.
 
An annual tradition set on a bet by a race of men, contaminated by
A scatter they introduce as “The Mrs.” whose name tags are lapel flowers;
 
Money soils hands that drop back into empty pockets. Gloves without fingers,
Touch fingertip to fingertip, before shooting into the garden.
 
For me, she takes point, down the flank of hedges into this deserted bush.
All betting continues, while only guns can be heard beyond the rustle of leaves.
 
Her choice, a void of inner-sanctuary, which renders the most unpicked flowers-
The potential for glory in their petals, nibbled by insects and exposed by rot spots.
 
She consents to our layering in the broken grass and although unplanned,
Submits to this resistance, a silent echo of fire, gunshot, and sweetness.
 
As I clear from her shoulders, crushed violets and whispers, I feel
A constant and consistent desire begin, I yearn for her, approval.
 
And by mid-afternoon a stale disintegration empties the garden, dumps us
On the steps and doorways, we ran through and bloomed against, as children.
 
The dawn’s promise of sugared cookies and sweet tea ignites, burns,
Now, only for her “yes,” tangled in this vined heat. Until night darkened.
 
I mute my own tongue, my lost bet, with a gin and tonic.
To stumble home calling out the cheers and rot and potential flame.
 
I open the door to my home, so blurred, I no longer recognize it.
Tell me, all is love, while I hope to clear the air of Aphrodisia.

Ally McBeal 350

I know the future isn’t found by picking up broken pieces of the past and trying to make them come back and work in the present.

It’s tough, that’s 50 years of hard work in the past, trying to make family work and dreams come true and a couple of generations of friends that I couldn’t bring with me; I do miss them and think of them often, maybe I’ll run into them, hug them or punch them in the face, but I know I don’t want that either.

I’ve seen that not work like I thought it would; I do try to stop myself when I feel I’m wasting energy or see that the stories I’m telling myself or others will not be bringing in the past back and isn’t helping anyone in the present.

Everything is different here in the present. It’s not what I thought all the work and living would feel like.

It’s hard because a lot of trauma processing is looking at the past, owning it, releasing it and facing it in the future when it pops up again, but that doesn’t work with everything, and it’s becoming more of a block than a bridge these days.

So, it’s time to see the future for the future, brand new again, like a child who has the whole world in front of her, but still an old lady with 50 years behind her.

I was also thinking about my 20’s when I was friends with people over 40 and the things I wanted them to hear and know, but I also didn’t want to remind them that there was a financial gap, or how different the world was back here, as opposed to what they were seeing and telling me.

I was so honored to fit into some of these friends’ circles, but often things that I needed to deal with they had experienced and very differently and the opportunity just never came up. I figured if I could keep up with these people, I didn’t need to dig into or face things that would have made being a 20-year-old, more normal.

I also see that I am the older lady among many young people, and I hope they are able to look at me at say, don’t forget, I’m 25 and still have questions about… still struggle with… You see this different because… I mean we don’t even know who Ally McBeal is…

Oh Trauma