I have a bracelet
Given to me by a friend
Bought in a foreign country

The beads are wooden
The beads are colorful
The string is woven
Throughout and around
The beads

Like our friendship
The outs
And ins

the sweltering muse
ringing like crackling
shimmering hue
of pearls lost
of beaded consciousness

to look me in the eyes
pearl-less and cast
aside under the parent
orb of silver moon,

a violin careening,
weeping like the thrill
of dragon scales,
magnificent and noble
yet isolated in the rubble

harder to find a hand
about the fog and mildew
crumbling pieces of tragic
memories, reminiscence
of all the hours I wait

dwelling without haste
among the lone tree tops
see you on the dark night
with owls swaying in the blue expanse

again, once again
it's going to be tough on me
pearls withstanding beauty
and clarity,
scattered into the clutches
of oblivion

falling asleep in restless dreams
the day they scattered
bring back joy and happiness
when I find the will
to settle my shaking hands

to refine the beaded necklace

the words
are beads and gems
and hooks and strings

scattered in a box
somewhere in
the softness behind my breastbone

my palms are up to catch the key
whenever it chooses to land

a pandora poised
to make ornaments
from all she uncovers,
all she unleashes

Fay was waiting for me
at the top of Meadow Row

I was on my way home
from school
-I'd walked home
as I’d spent my fare money
on doughnuts that morning-

she looked agitated
her blonde hair
was in two ponytails
her eyes looked red
as if she'd been crying

thought I’d missed your bus
she said

no I walked
I said
what's up?

she took my hand
and we walked down
Meadow Row
walking past
the bomb sites
and the ruins
of other houses  

I’ve lost my rosary
she said
I can't find it

what's a rosary?
I asked

a crucifix with beads
I showed you
the other week

O that bead thing
so what's the problem?
can't you buy another?

it was my grandmother's
old one

well buy her another one
I said

I can't she died
last year

well she won't
need it then
will she
I said

she stopped
but Daddy will want
to know why I lost it
and then he'll go off
the deep end  
and I know
he'll punish me
and it wasn't my fault

she began to cry
and I didn't know
what to say or do

where do you keep it?
I asked

in my coat pocket
so it's handy
if I want to use it

and it's not there now?

she shook her head
and put her hand
in the pocket
of her coat

is that the coat
you always wear?
she nodded

what about Sundays?

she looked at me

today's Monday
maybe you left it
in your coat you
wear on Sundays
I said

she looked at me
with reddened eyes
of course I forgot
it must be in
my Sunday coat
from yesterday

let's go find out
I said

but what if Daddy's there?

so what?
I said

he doesn't like me
being with you
because you're not
a Catholic

I’ll wait outside
on the balcony
if he is
I said

so we walked up
Meadow row
and crossed over
Rockingham Street
and up the *****
and into the Square
and along to the flats
and up the concrete staircase
to her parent's flat
which was above
where I lived

she knocked and her mother
let her in
and I stood on the balcony
looking into the Square

after 5 minutes or so
she opened the door
smiling and said

it was in my Sunday coat
all the time
and she kissed my cheek

I knew then
I’d not wash
that area of my face
the whole week.

love is like a broken thread
beads of water rolling off
a once beautiful band ruined
ripped to nothing like before
never a chance to hold back
to rewind the past written
carved into every droplet
falling off our cheekbones

She's one of those girls
He said
One who wears a lot of beads
Beads that stretch to her elbow

And with one look
The look of guilt
Shame
Knowing

He knew
He knew the look on my face
He knew I was like the girl with beads

Panic washed over his ghostly face
Hurt clouded his eyes
Pulling up my sweater sleeve
He saw nothing

A sigh of relief escaped his lips
But he did not realize
..He lifted the wrong sweater sleeve

s.j.d

Writing a poem is like making a necklace,
Bead by bead, pattern on pattern,
Complex or simple, colorful or monochromatic,
The good ones take talent, but chance luck can help.
This one for that friend, that one for this day,
Good words like fancy baubles,
Well placed they make the string,
Wrong placed and they ruin it.
Some come easy, some are long thought out

Grandma.
musical aromas,
beads and prayers.
Grandma.