the poetry nugget

The slate gray sky, the air heavy with damp and chill, raindrops fall like a washcloth gently squeezed, they bounce from the crown of my felt hat, and gather in the brim until shaken into the thick soup of their origins.

The doctor cut the umbilical cord, my mother snipped the thin red thread and left me in the hospital. A scar, zipper stitched; the jagged mirror, no hints; the stunted tree, no leaves. The question echoes, the secret in a distant f ragment of her heart. photo courtesy of Polyvore

photo by author On the drive back, I trace the edges of Gilpin- for all the tears, all the anger, all the hands held, all we have shared. As a warm cup of coffee leaves a rim, within that circle is my heart.

                                     to all my poetry followers, thank you so much!                                                                         have a happy holiday and the best 2016!                                           ...

Dispar, disparis, adj : disparate ********** Of all the senses, smell holds the most memories. Sitting next to a mother and her son, my nose remembers many kitchens, grease cooling in the frying pan and kerosene warming the air. I ask probing questions about their lives, to evaluate the depth of the problems and the fit with our meager services. Suggestions based on the words themselves and the intangibles, learned in a score plus five, sitting next to a mother and her son. ********** My kindness and generosity, sapped, by boys and girls, who lost their minds, Friday afternoon, the last period of the day. I warned them: their ears did not hear, their eyes did not see. Monday, there will be hell to pay. ********** The poetry rises to the back of my throat. I can taste the words, as they tease their way to the end of my tongue. Pen scratches on paper until they rest on the page.

Feeling lost in this city of 100 spires,  my memories vague,  pale pre-pixelated images pass quickly, I grasp a few. My first view is the wide Vlata river and the Charles Bridge, its postcard symbol. The hourly apparition of the twelve apostles; the steep climb to the highnest hill, my aerie; the synagogue where Kafka's Golem resides; in the sunlight, the Cathedral reveals the translucent colors of stained glass; at night, opaque and dark.                                 The streets, silent, all doors, locked. Not long ago, in the spring of 1968, young men and women gathered here, with hope for freedom. ..

The bus takes us to Jadovno, the site of a World War II camp. The outline of the structures remain, despite the years of neglect. The Austrian guide with cold blue Aryan eyes says it was a work camp. There are deep ravines close, some filled with concrete; we sense something more sinister. Usually we chat and joke, but today, we are quiet and walk carefully, not to disturb the spirits here.

I sit in the bar of our hotel in Ljubljana, the local boys chant “Pistol Pete Maravich," a popular NBA player with Yugoslavian roots. That's all their English, which is more than my Slovene. I sip a lemon-lime drink and chat with my friend Cindy. I lost contact with her, the mail returned, “forwarding address expired”, Pistol Pete died before his time, and Yugoslavia no longer exists.

left as a newborn in the hospital, I learned early love is conditional. the snap of a voice, like a rubber band at close range, the rawness of anger, like a sharp edged razor, the sting of impending loss, the tape plays in my head. no matter my age, the loop repeats, there is no safe place for damaged goods.

Umbrarum* Today at the cemetery, worn stones, smudged engravings, in harmony with the fall of leaves, yellow and brown, the grass surrenders the last of its dun, all is muted as the summer declines. Darkness stretches to its full length. Spirits shake off the dirt and speak in a language only heard by those who dare to press their ears to the veil. *Latin, of the Shades

angels at the beginning and the end... and spirits inbetween...                                             

RVAFW                                                       a favor for a friend Dee Haddad                                                      all photos by author

I was posting it to my fashion blog, Anthrofashionist, for quite a while.  So check it out to see where I started and how far I've come...  photo by author  

One afternoon, a shadowy figure whispered,  just loud enough, "skinny white bitch". She walks where others do not go. She knows the cuts & drug corners of the city, searches for a house without numbers, crossing concrete slabs sliced apart, where broken toys & tufts of weeds survive. A knock, the door opens to the smell of kerosene & the monotone of the tv. She sits with mother & son at the kitchen table. First, the easy questions, then the ones hard to ask, even harder to answer. She backhands a curious cockroach from her notes, written in cryptic shorthand, till the pages full. The afternoon shadows lengthen, she says good-bye to this family. Her task: to meld the facts with her intuitions, the question: salvageable or lost to the streets? The "skinny white bitch" drives into the twilight.

photo by author Her life filled with self recriminations for choices made, opportunities lost. Each day grinds away, more time lost, no closer to where she wants to be. Something thrums deep within, the wings of a bird against her cage of ribs, it wants to fly away, to create something, not even imagined. But it may be too late, for this wondrous unknown to become a reality.

                            all photos by author            

I fight to keep my tears in, for I would cry too much. I take up this banner alone, I have nothing to lose. My comrades do, they step to the side, with hope. We have experienced much, more behind us than ahead. The young ones do not realize that they will be us in time. But without respect, acknowledgement, what legacy do we leave them? They will walk in our shallow footsteps  and curse our names.                                                    Photos by author                               ...