judi-romaine - Hello Poetry

THE MEMORY OF STUFF A brown tweed dress from Saks I saved months to buy. A telephone operator toy set I begged my parents to get me for Christmas. A note from my mom when I still lived at home with instructions on staying at the house alone while she worked. A box of special Christmas cookies I made and sold for $5 back in 1961. A rented Vespa in Italy, hard on my *** as we headed to Sorrento from Pisa. A sailors hat worn when I was ten, one summer at the lake, when I rowed a boy around. Do they have my feelings of fondness and become something more? Do they wait to be used? Do they remember longingly our relationships? Are they happy to be remembered? Do they sit waiting for one more jaunt into the world? When we die, do they weep silently for us?

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Dec 8, 2023

Dec 8, 2023 at 12:43 PM UTC

THE MEMORY OF STUFF

THE MEMORY OF STUFF A brown tweed dress from Saks I saved months to buy. A telephone operator toy set I begged my parents to get me for Christmas. A note from my mom when I still lived at home with instructions on staying at the house alone while she worked. A box of special Christmas cookies I made and sold for $5 back in 1961. A rented Vespa in Italy, hard on my *** as we headed to Sorrento from Pisa. A sailors hat worn when I was ten, one summer at the lake, when I rowed a boy around. Do they have my feelings of fondness and become something more? Do they wait to be used? Do they remember longingly our relationships? Are they happy to be remembered? Do they sit waiting for one more jaunt into the world? When we die, do they weep silently for us?

13

My Sister Gay - December 6, 1959 She was the older Always the best I was the second And always less She didn’t want me But I dragged along, Trying to protect her as my special one. I made due with second As she won every game But I tagged along Hoping to do the same. At 16 she shouted and cried each day And I left the house to avoid the display I shuffled the leaves in the cold windy fall And wished she would go away, any way at all. At 17 she grew wilder and I watched her dissolve Wondering what puzzle she brought, wanting it solved Then on a cold December day she did go, Leaving me shivering in the holiday snow. Sixty years passed, I’ve been brave and daring And now after all, I find my lost caring, Forgiving myself for wanting her gone Yet thanking her for years of silent urging me on.

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Dec 6, 2023

Dec 6, 2023 at 3:18 PM UTC

GAY

My Sister Gay - December 6, 1959 She was the older Always the best I was the second And always less She didn’t want me But I dragged along, Trying to protect her as my special one. I made due with second As she won every game But I tagged along Hoping to do the same. At 16 she shouted and cried each day And I left the house to avoid the display I shuffled the leaves in the cold windy fall And wished she would go away, any way at all. At 17 she grew wilder and I watched her dissolve Wondering what puzzle she brought, wanting it solved Then on a cold December day she did go, Leaving me shivering in the holiday snow. Sixty years passed, I’ve been brave and daring And now after all, I find my lost caring, Forgiving myself for wanting her gone Yet thanking her for years of silent urging me on.

25

Is leaving our friend? Is loss our perpetual neighbor who drops by too often? What is this strange world we all inhabit, our only home, our mysterious mother? Living in a glass box looking out at the huge thing called all of it, moving through each day mesmerized by the merest of daily events, hoping for the best, refusing to see the sign saying ‘the road ends here.’ What can we make of this vivid, inimitable, unpredictable universe we leapt into? What is our job here? Are we to make friends with every loss along with every awe filled moment of shattering beauty? Why not say we each are walking a road home, to a God we chose or into a distant light of the unknown?

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Aug 25, 2022

Aug 25, 2022 at 6:50 PM UTC

LEAVING - A POEM FOR DUANE

Is leaving our friend? Is loss our perpetual neighbor who drops by too often? What is this strange world we all inhabit, our only home, our mysterious mother? Living in a glass box looking out at the huge thing called all of it, moving through each day mesmerized by the merest of daily events, hoping for the best, refusing to see the sign saying ‘the road ends here.’ What can we make of this vivid, inimitable, unpredictable universe we leapt into? What is our job here? Are we to make friends with every loss along with every awe filled moment of shattering beauty? Why not say we each are walking a road home, to a God we chose or into a distant light of the unknown?

10

I came for the skies of illusions with mirrors I stayed for days of laughter and tears I left with the lights of a great unknown I leave for a place we are all at home

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Aug 25, 2022

Aug 25, 2022 at 6:48 PM UTC

I CAME FOR THE SKIES

I came for the skies of illusions with mirrors I stayed for days of laughter and tears I left with the lights of a great unknown I leave for a place we are all at home

4

I’m a person who writes poems when someone dies Who gets up every morning at dawn to see the skies, who paints a watercolor every night, And over politics will pick a fight. Who is the pale person who looks out at me? who walks like my mother and rarely shows glee? Who trips on the steps and cracks in the road As though the years are a heavy load? Who avoids mountain passes that give me a fright, And is often afraid to go out in the night? That’s not me That’s not me That’s not me I pull a trailer across ten states, And sit alone under stars til late. I donate monthly for a wild horse And in hitting a squirrel, go through days of remorse. I pick up old people in the freezing cold Whenever I spot them stumbling down the road. How to include the different views Is an enigma and leaves me without a clue But it’s not a problem if we know it to be That our lives have the meanings we make for free.

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Aug 25, 2022

Aug 25, 2022 at 6:46 PM UTC

THAT’S NOT ME

I’m a person who writes poems when someone dies Who gets up every morning at dawn to see the skies, who paints a watercolor every night, And over politics will pick a fight. Who is the pale person who looks out at me? who walks like my mother and rarely shows glee? Who trips on the steps and cracks in the road As though the years are a heavy load? Who avoids mountain passes that give me a fright, And is often afraid to go out in the night? That’s not me That’s not me That’s not me I pull a trailer across ten states, And sit alone under stars til late. I donate monthly for a wild horse And in hitting a squirrel, go through days of remorse. I pick up old people in the freezing cold Whenever I spot them stumbling down the road. How to include the different views Is an enigma and leaves me without a clue But it’s not a problem if we know it to be That our lives have the meanings we make for free.

23

I am not afraid I am fearless I am not flawed I am whole I am not sick I am well I am not uncomfortable I am comfort -- and the world is mine

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Aug 25, 2022

Aug 25, 2022 at 6:13 PM UTC

I AM NOT MY MOTHER

I am not afraid I am fearless I am not flawed I am whole I am not sick I am well I am not uncomfortable I am comfort -- and the world is mine

8

Thousands of years of humankind Have led us to this place. Alone and unprotected, We shiver out in space I yearn to go to the desert With arms that keep us safe. A world for all the children With smiles upon each face.

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Aug 25, 2022

Aug 25, 2022 at 6:10 PM UTC

WE THE CHILDREN

Thousands of years of humankind Have led us to this place. Alone and unprotected, We shiver out in space I yearn to go to the desert With arms that keep us safe. A world for all the children With smiles upon each face.

8

Poem The Gray Man Here comes a man Bent over and gray Should I be afraid Of his desperate ways? He passes my spot And smiles with a wave, not heavy with life Like a gray man to save. Life is a struggle Life is a quest. Some of us best it, many oppressed. What is the key to making the trip With nothing at birth, no sort of a script? Maybe the answer is simple to find a smile we need, til the end of the line

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Oct 26, 2021

Oct 26, 2021 at 9:33 AM UTC

THE GREY MAN

Poem The Gray Man Here comes a man Bent over and gray Should I be afraid Of his desperate ways? He passes my spot And smiles with a wave, not heavy with life Like a gray man to save. Life is a struggle Life is a quest. Some of us best it, many oppressed. What is the key to making the trip With nothing at birth, no sort of a script? Maybe the answer is simple to find a smile we need, til the end of the line

18

Time …is the child’s years, drawing out days to weeks and weeks into months, as though summer may never end. Then autumn begins the cycle again, drawn out endlessly by our innocence. …is the desperate moment where time is suspended, the mind holding back the floodgate of pain and loss, keeping the future at bey for an eternal second or two. …is an elder’s years, where one month tumbles over another like books from the past, falling to earth, unopened in their speedy descent, memories slipping secretly away, stealing the stories as though someone else coveted them. Where are all of the moments, the days of joy and sadness, the threads that make up our lives? When we are gone, do they linger briefly in nostalgia for a life? Or do they turn to dust with our bodies, settling in deserts and mountain tops, keeping vigilance for us?

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Jul 19, 2021

Jul 19, 2021 at 3:00 PM UTC

TIME

Time …is the child’s years, drawing out days to weeks and weeks into months, as though summer may never end. Then autumn begins the cycle again, drawn out endlessly by our innocence. …is the desperate moment where time is suspended, the mind holding back the floodgate of pain and loss, keeping the future at bey for an eternal second or two. …is an elder’s years, where one month tumbles over another like books from the past, falling to earth, unopened in their speedy descent, memories slipping secretly away, stealing the stories as though someone else coveted them. Where are all of the moments, the days of joy and sadness, the threads that make up our lives? When we are gone, do they linger briefly in nostalgia for a life? Or do they turn to dust with our bodies, settling in deserts and mountain tops, keeping vigilance for us?

5

What was that like? The first day of school The last time speaking to my mother The first time I lost someone The last time my daughter needed me The first road trip The last road trip The first boyfriend The last one The first moment of awe The last of pain What is that like? Our lives are made up of memories, Of flashes, moment after moment. No real yesterday or tomorrow. Just our stories. Our memories. Our lives.

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Jun 1, 2021

Jun 1, 2021 at 6:13 PM UTC

What Was It Like?

What was that like? The first day of school The last time speaking to my mother The first time I lost someone The last time my daughter needed me The first road trip The last road trip The first boyfriend The last one The first moment of awe The last of pain What is that like? Our lives are made up of memories, Of flashes, moment after moment. No real yesterday or tomorrow. Just our stories. Our memories. Our lives.

18