“Why did you melt your waxen man Sister Helen? To-day is the third since you began.” “The time was long, yet the time ran, Little brother.” (O Mother, Mary Mother, Three days to-day, between Hell and Heaven!)
“But if you have done your work aright, Sister Helen, You’ll let me play, for you said I might.” “Be very still in your play to-night, Little brother.” (O Mother, Mary Mother, Third night, to-night, between Hell and Heaven!)
“You said it must melt ere vesper-bell, Sister Helen; If now it be molten, all is well.” “Even so,—nay, peace! you cannot tell, Little brother.” (O Mother, Mary Mother, O what is this, between Hell and Heaven?)
“Oh the waxen knave was plump to-day, Sister Helen; How like dead folk he has dropp’d away!” “Nay now, of the dead what can you say, Little brother?” (O Mother, Mary Mother, What of the dead, between Hell and Heaven?)
“See, see, the sunken pile of wood, Sister Helen, Shines through the thinn’d wax red as blood!” “Nay now, when look’d you yet on blood, Little brother?” (O Mother, Mary Mother, How pale she is, between Hell and Heaven!)
“Now close your eyes, for they’re sick and sore, Sister Helen, And I’ll play without the gallery door.” “Aye, let me rest,—I’ll lie on the floor, Little brother.” (O Mother, Mary Mother, What rest to-night, between Hell and Heaven?)
“Here high up in the balcony, Sister Helen, The moon flies face to face with me.” “Aye, look and say whatever you see, Little brother.” (O Mother, Mary Mother, What sight to-night, between Hell and Heaven?)
“Outside it’s merry in the wind’s wake, Sister Helen; In the shaken trees the chill stars shake.” “Hush, heard you a horse-tread as you spake, Little brother?” (O Mother, Mary Mother, What sound to-night, between Hell and Heaven?)
“I hear a horse-tread, and I see, Sister Helen, Three horsemen that ride terribly.” “Little brother, whence come the three, Little brother?” (O Mother, Mary Mother, Whence should they come, between Hell and Heaven?)
“They come by the hill-verge from Boyne Bar, Sister Helen, And one draws nigh, but two are afar.” “Look, look, do you know them who they are, Little brother?” (O Mother, Mary Mother, Who should they be, between Hell and Heaven?)
“Oh, it’s Keith of Eastholm rides so fast, Sister Helen, For I know the white mane on the blast.” “The hour has come, has come at last, Little brother!” (O Mother, Mary Mother, Her hour at last, between Hell and Heaven!)
“He has made a sign and called Halloo! Sister Helen, And he says that he would speak with you.” “Oh tell him I fear the frozen dew, Little brother.” (O Mother, Mary Mother, Why laughs she thus, between Hell and Heaven?)
“The wind is loud, but I hear him cry, Sister Helen, That Keith of Ewern’s like to die.” “And he and thou, and thou and I, Little brother.” (O Mother, Mary Mother, And they and we, between Hell and Heaven!)
“Three days ago, on his marriage-morn, Sister Helen, He sicken’d, and lies since then forlorn.” “For bridegroom’s side is the bride a thorn, Little brother?” (O Mother, Mary Mother, Cold bridal cheer, between Hell and Heaven!)
“Three days and nights he has lain abed, Sister Helen, And he prays in torment to be dead.” “The thing may chance, if he have pray’d, Little brother!” (O Mother, Mary Mother, If he have pray’d, between Hell and Heaven!)
“But he has not ceas’d to cry to-day, Sister Helen, That you should take your curse away.” “My prayer was heard,—he need but pray, Little brother!” (O Mother, Mary Mother, Shall God not hear, between Hell and Heaven?)
“But he says, till you take back your ban, Sister Helen, His soul would pass, yet never can.” “Nay then, shall I slay a living man, Little brother?” (O Mother, Mary Mother, A living soul, between Hell and Heaven!)
“But he calls for ever on your name, Sister Helen, And says that he melts before a flame.” “My heart for his pleasure far’d the same, Little brother.” (O Mother, Mary Mother, Fire at the heart, between Hell and Heaven!)
“Here’s Keith of Westholm riding fast, Sister Helen, For I know the white plume on the blast.” “The hour, the sweet hour I forecast, Little brother!” (O Mother, Mary Mother, Is the hour sweet, between Hell and Heaven?)
“He stops to speak, and he stills his horse, Sister Helen; But his words are drown’d in the wind’s course.” “Nay hear, nay hear, you must hear perforce, Little brother!” (O Mother, Mary Mother, What word now heard, between Hell and Heaven?)
“Oh he says that Keith of Ewern’s cry, Sister Helen, Is ever to see you ere he die.” “In all that his soul sees, there am I Little brother!” (O Mother, Mary Mother, The soul’s one sight, between Hell and Heaven!)
“He sends a ring and a broken coin, Sister Helen, And bids you mind the banks of Boyne.” “What else he broke will he ever join, Little brother?” (O Mother, Mary Mother, No, never join’d, between Hell and Heaven!)
“He yields you these and craves full fain, Sister Helen, You pardon him in his mortal pain.” “What else he took will he give again, Little brother?” (O Mother, Mary Mother, Not twice to give, between Hell and Heaven!)
“He calls your name in an agony, Sister Helen, That even dead Love must weep to see.” “Hate, born of Love, is blind as he, Little brother!” (O Mother, Mary Mother, Love turn’d to hate, between Hell and Heaven!)
“Oh it’s Keith of Keith now that rides fast, Sister Helen, For I know the white hair on the blast.” “The short short hour will soon be past, Little brother!” (O Mother, Mary Mother, Will soon be past, between Hell and Heaven!)
“He looks at me and he tries to speak, Sister Helen, But oh! his voice is sad and weak!” “What here should the mighty Baron seek, Little brother?” (O Mother, Mary Mother, Is this the end, between Hell and Heaven?)
“Oh his son still cries, if you forgive, Sister Helen, The body dies but the soul shall live.” “Fire shall forgive me as I forgive, Little brother!” (O Mother, Mary Mother, As she forgives, between Hell and Heaven!)
“Oh he prays you, as his heart would rive, Sister Helen, To save his dear son’s soul alive.” “Fire cannot slay it, it shall thrive, Little brother!” (O Mother, Mary Mother, Alas, alas, between Hell and Heaven!)
“He cries to you, kneeling in the road, Sister Helen, To go with him for the love of God!” “The way is long to his son’s abode, Little brother.” (O Mother, Mary Mother, The way is long, between Hell and Heaven!)
“A lady’s here, by a dark steed brought, Sister Helen, So darkly clad, I saw her not.” “See her now or never see aught, Little brother!” (O Mother, Mary Mother, What more to see, between Hell and Heaven?)
“Her hood falls back, and the moon shines fair, Sister Helen, On the Lady of Ewern’s golden hair.” “Blest hour of my power and her despair, Little brother!” (O Mother, Mary Mother, Hour blest and bann’d, between Hell and Heaven!)
“Pale, pale her cheeks, that in pride did glow, Sister Helen, ’Neath the bridal-wreath three days ago.” “One morn for pride and three days for woe, Little brother!” (O Mother, Mary Mother, Three days, three nights, between Hell and Heaven!)
“Her clasp’d hands stretch from her bending head, Sister Helen; With the loud wind’s wail her sobs are wed.” “What wedding-strains hath her bridal-bed, Little brother?” (O Mother, Mary Mother, What strain but death’s, between Hell and Heaven?)
“She may not speak, she sinks in a swoon, Sister Helen,— She lifts her lips and gasps on the moon.” “Oh! might I but hear her soul’s blithe tune, Little brother!” (O Mother, Mary Mother, Her woe’s dumb cry, between Hell and Heaven!)
“They’ve caught her to Westholm’s saddle-bow, Sister Helen, And her moonlit hair gleams white in its flow.” “Let it turn whiter than winter snow, Little brother!” (O Mother, Mary Mother, Woe-wither’d gold, between Hell and Heaven!)
“O Sister Helen, you heard the bell, Sister Helen! More loud than the vesper-chime it fell.” “No vesper-chime, but a dying knell, Little brother!” (O Mother, Mary Mother, His dying knell, between Hell and Heaven!)
“Alas! but I fear the heavy sound, Sister Helen; Is it in the sky or in the ground?” “Say, have they turn’d their horses round, Little brother?” (O Mother, Mary Mother, What would she more, between Hell and Heaven?)
“They have rais’d the old man from his knee, Sister Helen, And they ride in silence hastily.” “More fast the naked soul doth flee, Little brother!” (O Mother, Mary Mother, The naked soul, between Hell and Heaven!)
“Flank to flank are the three steeds gone, Sister Helen, But the lady’s dark steed goes alone.” “And lonely her bridegroom’s soul hath flown, Little brother.” (O Mother, Mary Mother, The lonely ghost, between Hell and Heaven!)
“Oh the wind is sad in the iron chill, Sister Helen, And weary sad they look by the hill.” “But he and I are sadder still, Little brother!” (O Mother, Mary Mother, Most sad of all, between Hell and Heaven!)
“See, see, the wax has dropp’d from its place, Sister Helen, And the flames are winning up apace!” “Yet here they burn but for a space, Little brother! ” (O Mother, Mary Mother, Here for a space, between Hell and Heaven!)
“Ah! what white thing at the door has cross’d, Sister Helen? Ah! what is this that sighs in the frost?” “A soul that’s lost as mine is lost, Little brother!” (O Mother, Mary Mother, Lost, lost, all lost, between Hell and Heaven!)
MARY, MARY, QUITE CONTRARY: A Dreadful Tale about a Dead Anglo Mother, A Dreadful, Avenging Syrian Aunt, A Stolen Baby Sister, and a Hateful, Unfaithful, Defaulting Father.
Mary, Mary, quite contrary How does your garden grow? With people, people who hardly know Your vices, your intrigue, your lies, and so, You’ve ruined lives, and now I will show
How demonizing you are, with just your thinking About your “slemly” self, just linking [Nice in Arabic] That self to your own, and not us--no one else You belong in no company, your old-time thinking. Adopting my sister, without any inkling Of what it takes to challenge the motherless And seeing we ended up, also, being fatherless.
Travesties galore made this woman happy You won hearts, but you seemed quite daffy. Childhood, telling us we’d never be as good As your Syrian daughters - such a strange brood! This kind of “teaching” by a Syrian mom was kinda lewd.
She verily and surely became our ISIS She thought who could ever, ever be like us She raved for hours so very against us To that red-headed family so she could easily best us! Humiliating us at every stop We really, really got a lot From her, the decadent Queen of ISIS No, she’d never, ever be like us!
Twenty years to a guileless young person Is a forever herstory an eternity… A lesson, an identity… Carried on secretly, destroying our Syrian identity. She stole that connection, filling it with confusion She with cruel humor would **** our loving illusion Stopped it in its growth, Forever unseating that family oath. To care - without any rejection. It was She that was The Great Defection.
Mary, Mary how does your hatred grow Picked on those who had no Syrian power But you didn’t see yourself becoming lower To the ends of the earth, heartless black flower.
In her mind she’d be our Mother But as this poet, I did not know it Things would be better if we like sheep Worshipped Mary, into the deep Quite similar to the rest of her Keep Then mayhap we’d enjoy their fully undeserved sleep.
Taught my dear baby sister like her to hate Would I had the power to shut up her pate Her mouth was evil to the core I never, never could stand more. Her hatred entered me, made me sore.
Screaming at us to keep us out Stupid Daddy joined her in this falling out She, successful -as any lout. By God I thot I must be evil Their strange behavior was not legal. Would that she’d accept me, that dangerous eagle. I lost my sense of self and ‘came very sad Would that I could be like she so glad. ‘Tis fifty years now, and I can’t stop crying. No one ever heard this “mother” sighing.
Hell, Mary, full of Face Recognizing only your Syrian race Did anyone else matter? Just your primitive face? Everyone one was hurt, except you and your nace There’ll be no one, ever, that could take your place. Laughing to destroy our wanted Arab destiny Which you did, and did, successfully, with your fantasy.
Mary, Mary, quite contrary How does your garden grow? Like plants, you lined us up all in a row One good, two bad - you did the choosing And what did you leave? Only us, who did the losing. You didn’t water those two plants. Treated us two as if we were ants. Watered sissa so she would grow Your dreaded deeds no one would know Judgement is left only to God. But you and Dad should’ve returned to your sod. Your behavior to the motherless seems very odd. My sister and I two tossed peas in a pod.
Deserting us suddenly knowing only this hateful group There’s nothing to which she wouldn’t stoop Her sick obsession to hurt the powerless Speaks of a very worst yes, cruel foulness.
We lived at a convent school very protected Visiting weekends this aspiring ****, Two sisters know she made a very strong mark She was not our blood, we couldn’t take part Of this constant coldness on her part.
And another Aunt with two daughters, good They were always with us, always stood The opposite of this wicked would-be aunt This family, Americanized and very sane Never did play the ancient Ottoman game These Aunts were our world - our windowpane.
Two aunts - endowing us with a Syrian heritage, One, the bad one, with too much leverage The good one to teach a cheerful Syrian beverage With balance, love, and the length of days Not like the other, the one who dismays.
We represented that bad woman’s target What it came from. Could it be her precious Margaret? No, not at all her peaceful daughter But the other, gladly joined in on the slaughter Making serious and even much more, fodder.
We had no tools to breach this hate I guess that it would have to be our fate. To live our lives just disenchanted. Our hearts broke, as if forever lancets. With Syrians there’d be no more dances
Taking my sweet sis turning her against us She did truly give strong heed to finally fence us. What ever could we find for our defenses?
Dad, real Dad, inebriated dad, Fell in with them: became this negative father Sought their pity--likening me as a foreign daughter He was in love with them, weakly turning But in turn, the two of us, spurning Back to his Syrian fold back, not farther Unwittingly, unrepentedly, uncaringly, joining the laughter Discarding his American daughters to a mental slaughter.
At his picnic - family there - he called us foreigners Foreigners we were, surely, when with them They couldn’t ever believe in us, Dad influenced them, peeved at us. Made us feel like little fools. No, we never had the tools To fight this ignorance - Change these mules?
Punishing, punishing us as wedded women Accused of all that they gossiped about What did they say? And this truant dad a lout Speaking of us in downing tones I’d feel far better had they broken my bones.
Closing his relationships to his Two lesser liked non-Arab sisters Would there would be a better mister He considered us two a mere sinful blister.
We ran away from this horrible drunk He hated his daughters and he stunk And then we suffered the worst of any they would dunk Uncomfortable at their Arab-speaking home We stopped visiting long before their moan We were “no good” said our Syrian family Would that we knew that we’d be anti-Family.
They had something to hate and did they do it We had no idea we were just a joke Their words, their disgust, far more than a poke. Their anti-American provincial views Made little sense - such perverted mews All we loved, we would really lose. There was never any right to choose.
That Family didn’t speak, avoided us At sissa's Syrian wedding. It was all mined That scene returns to me all of them lined Winding its way into my unbidden mind, They were so, so truly unkind We always would be to them the “Other” Yes, us, us, us, without a mother!
We lost three mothers, our real one gone Also our good step-mother quickly on Add Mary to that three, glad she is gone Perhaps Dad guilty of the first two deaths I shan’t continue - you’d lose your breaths.
But Hail that Lady, she would change our world Sending us suddenly into a whirl. How to change the young with screaming? She’d not change but destroy our dreaming Waking horribly from our Syrian dream We just didn’t fit their shady crème de la crème.
Everyone was fooled by this greedy witch She and her daughters I’d deem as ***** What was in them, caused their making? Taking away, taking, taking, taking. Good cousins now, have seen an awakening My work of writing revealed Mary’s faking.
Hail Mary full of Face Only using her charms to erace The sisters she wished not to embrace With threads of lies an unrevealing face Syrians’ acceptance of her goldarn place No one ever will she replace In every way she used her mace A clever poison to keep her place Successfully, she’d snidely hid her dreams Wearing a mask to hide her themes.
She’d always hated us through and through We didn’t know it till she did what she’d do Her masque did work, from dusk to dawn. Hatred of us was what she would spawn She would definitely **** our spirits Would that I could reveal all her lyrics.
Our Syrian sissa’s wedding put us in place That even there we could have little space. No other family events could we be included. Engagements, baptisms, we would be excluded Their intentions now were completely nuded. deluded!
You stole our little baby entering the world Through our Mom’s Death You stole my Dad’s affection He also her straw man, worshiping Mary‘s fiction Her stand could only be that of affliction.
Hail Mary full of Face Face that faced nothing exçept winning the Ace Did no one ever tell you - you were a case? Using your screams to stuff our mind And even more shrieking to clog our mind No other Syrian family could be so unkind.
Always filling us with her delicious food Only to turn against us, trussing our good mood. I’d like to regurgitate all that poisonous food Anything about her became totally lewd. She bragged of her daughters - were they really that good? When we were children, told us we’d never be like them We never wanted to be like those hurting us. Took our Dad’s affection, he also deserting us We never but finally saw that they were into hurting us.
She has attacked us screaming, screaming on end Never an explanation, never to end She took money, stole sister too, not a lend. With this cruel treatment, we were not able to fend. I’ve never heard such venom in any human voice It seared through both my ears, such an odious noise Those first twenty years were so very splendid But later with her actions - all was ended With her allotted time this is how she would spend it.
Sister, affections stolen, obeying by fear Couldn’t counter - with a mere Stand up to this fraud of a Mother Dear.
Our baby sis had became her clay She would remake her through many a day. She owes us much, this lying thief No family tree would know, not even a leaf She stole and changed our beautiful blood Returned nothing except a bad bad flood Of making our names into family mud.
She then gave out inimical messages The taunting that came from her mealy mouth From Damascus, that lousy mouse. Couldn’t discuss, but only scream What ever, ever, did she mean? This Family into which father bought. Their apathetic “reasoning” I was never taught.
Her daughters conscripted to the Mary core Following her words, her iron ore Inflated us with much heavy criticism To fill our sissa with a lack of witticism
Lying, lying she always, always hated us For twenty years, she consistently slated us For slaughter, just like little lambs Motherless, she took our little lamb She won, didn’t she, in her sham? Mary & dad really fated us with their sick flim flam!
She’d tackle anyone, anything in her path And she did, with her oh so dreadful wrath. What powered this extremely devilish mind? She had never, ever, been really kind.
Our sodden father turned to her She was Goddess, he deemed Something While we were nothing, nothing, NOTHING! It didn’t happen till twenty years after From kindliness to hypocrisy One would not believe. Our real selves never to retrieve.
A sweet child, sissa, full of love Knew they were cold and she let us know After those years, sadly though Turned into another hateful ***** Forced to be like them, else be ditched.
Dad, dad, the precious Syrian lad Embraced the family gatherings that they had Youngest of the Ikmuks - he was mad Allowed them the desecration of our pad They could say anything--made it their fad.
He wouldn’t speak to them of their travesty Worshipped them, and ever drastically Wanted to be Them, lest he be On the Outs from the Family Tree Ousted, married out of the Tribe Hardly now, when this happened, few are alive. He refused to tell them we both should be here. He would never, ever, play it fair. “Dad, if you go, I’ll never be the same.” He would never, never take the blame. Of his paltry stabs at being a human Go stuff him in a jar with more rotten cumin.
Never defended us, never, never Always took their part like a mismatched lever. Usually a Dad with a daughter would stay beside her But then, he gave Mary a far wider rider.
Gatherings went on, by the family Mare. All our lives had been spent with them before But Iron Lady with Iron Ore Came through later and before. She would win, so well connected to her vile kin Change, girl, change, you’re just an Anglo fem. Don’t, please, don’t pay much attention to them. Sudden hate - my thoughts now were dashed. I changed - they took all I had and then they smashed.
They brought us into their sickly Ottoman lives But all of them acted as if we had the hives They, centuries‘ habit, it was the mid-1950’s why so bold? They were too much, too much very, to behold We were stricken, treated as in days of old We would never be part of their unhealthy mold [Mould?]
Regular at Church. What kind of God could she worship? You know who should have been told? The Syrian Bishop! The She-Devil not even relishing the Church script Eternally, she would always, rip, rip, and then grip! Instead looked to those after Church who would serve her! She did just this with a total fervor. No Communion, no worship, but her only feats To seek and add to gossip in the streets Afterward. When-Where everyone meets.
Se enjoyed the Devil of Power over those she knew Verily, she should have been thrown in the loo. Few new. Only the rejected two.
Mary, Mary full of Mace You never did achieve much grace Wish you could have finally Fallen on your ignorant Face There’s really not going to be any space To explain your bad translation of a very good race. The Syrian families I always know very well Would never have made this kind of hell.
The Syrian race is good, except for this “mother” I speak from my place as the dreaded ”Other” You are and were a terrible, mother You’re a crude example of this Middle Eastern race. Very few of them did see through your face.
In that family I barely gleaned this toxicity But, never, ever, did I witness much felicity. They llaughed and laughed about any Other Played well their acts as if they cared They knew Syrian-like we would not fare We, Dad, all sisters three - fell for her snare.
What think you, God, of these poor children How il-ly this Family thoroughly tilled them Two non-Arab daughters’ given bad repute Their shocking beliefs really made us mute All that came from her demented mind All that encountered Mary’s “kind” She destroyed our conception of self This hypocrisy would make one melt.
She infiltrated us, her daughters, and my Sissa That we were not as good as she - but she lost her mister Had Uncle [our blood] lived, this would never have occurred. But Auntie [not our blood] surely had demurred. Her hooked-nose criticizing, and simple daughters, Psychologically--against us-- they joined in on these slaughters. Kindness for two decades to rent, later they spent Hell on the motherless, but hiding that intent Taught her daughters: “Don’t be involved with them” We really do know some of what she did, or said, This is the kind of meal that she constantly fed Her masque nearly hiding her evil bent. Too bad she wasn’t forced back into her Syrian tent.
Mary, Mary quite contrary, How does your world work? You won, you won, you ignorant, piece of work You demanded respect from all of us, treacherous, She got it, didn’t know it, then she brought down the two of us
Sneaky, low-life, hypocrite witch We always thought we had a niche But lost kids like us did never snitch We wouldn’t, didn’t open up about that *****.
We had a twenty-year comfort zone with her Deserted at last by her flying fur Stolen, deserted at last by Dad--that foul mister Stolen, deserted, lastly by our pretty baby sister.
This left us changed by this She-Devil Would that there’d be a way to counter her evil We couldn’t - she was always far too strong An ISIS for us - this would last too long.
After these years, I could not grow Was I a real woman? - I didn’t know! Being a mother couldn’t show That this Family created a list of woe.
When Sissa had babies & a mom to help We did this alone - all this we felt. Her faulted hatred never did melt. I didn’t know how to take a stance Nor could I find out how to advance. We had to oppose Aunt Mary’s dance.
That Sissa could not bo
This poem represents many years of my life. It is all true. Carol Rae Bradford, M.Ed., Author, "Mayflower Arab: A Memoir" Thank you for accepting my poetry. April 16, 2015
Now Johnny knew Mary since they were little tykes, Running in the field, riding their bikes, Like other little kids, they stayed out all day, Doing their chores, later they'll play, Johnny and Mary went to school, Tried real hard, act real cool, Johnny noticed Mary started to grow real fine, Nice firm *******, big behin', Johnny thought he'd take him a chance, He asked Mary to the high shool dance, Mary said fine, pick me up at eight, Dress real sharp, now don't be late, Johnny started thinkin' this could be his night, Throw her a line, maybe she'll bite, Johnny and Mary started to dance real slow, Something in Johnny's pants, startin' to grow, Johnny asked Mary to spend some time, Back at my place, we can sit and unwind, Johnny took Mary straight back to his pad, This will be the best night, he's ever had, Poured a little wine and dimmed the light, Made sure everything, looked just right, Went over to the stereo and put on a song, Then he gave her a kiss, slow and long, Their lips met and their tongues did a dance, As Johnny reached down and undid his pants, He removed hers too and went to town, Got on his knees, he was going down, Mary started to wiggle, moan and squirm, As Johnny's tool got nice and firm, A few more licks, a feel and a pet, Mary's hole was nice and wet, Stuck in the tip, a little poke, Then all the way, he was startin' to stroke, As Johnny got busy and started to ream, All the neighbors could hear Mary scream, Johnny got tense and was about to explode, Into Mary he shot his load, A few days later Mary felt real ill, Then she remembered, she forgot her pill, Mary gave birth to a fine looking son, Mary's father started to clean his gun, Johnny married Mary at City Hall, He didn't want her dad to cut off his *****, Johnny got a job so he could provide support, He didn't want Mary draggin' him to court, A few years down the road things didn't seem right, Johnny and Mary were starting to fight, There was a whole lotta fussin' and they began to shout, Mary told Johnny she wanted him out, Mary got a lawyer, just passed the bar, Now Mary's driving Johnny's brand new car.
That is the story of Johnny and Mary...Later...* 07-03-09.
Mary, plain name. Mary, mother of God Mary, Queen of the Strip Mall Mary, daughter of a King and a ***** Divinity in her blood, conqueror of lands, Monarch of her body, kingdom of junkies. Nails inlaid with pearls, mink lashes and onyx eyes Indigo polyester wraps her 36, 30, 41, saltwater taffy legs, ****, and ***. Mary wasn’t a tall boy, Mary is a funnel cloud queen Obsidian brazilian in velcro, soda can curls. Mary has no titles, Mary is a *******, Mary is an exile. Queen of cream stucco and neon and parking lots. Mary has disciples, all named Judas. She has Roy Cohn, the judge’s son, and Louis XIV on their knees in prayer. She has **** Cheney, Little Richard, and Freud their knees in the bathroom behind the Tesco. Mary doesn’t confess, doesn’t beg, doesn’t buy. Mary the conqueror, Alexander reincarnate, she survives. Body bathed in ultraviolet, cocoa butter, vaseline, and newport menthols. Mary talks to God in the mirrors at the salvation army. Mary is scared of dying, she knows she is no ones martyr. Mary never kneels, left the Bible in the motel nightstand. A graceful end, a unceremonious departure. Trade rose petals for needles and styrofoam slurpee cups. Mary’s mistresses, lovers, and wives, gave her a few lead rounds, Left her in the strip mall mausoleum. Mary, queen of the carnal, saint of suburban perversions. Mary never asked God for forgiveness or a fix.
Mary Mary quite contrary Once the girl that never cried You were Mary Beaton And pretty Mary Seaton And simple Mary Hamilton they all saw die.
Mary Mary so you cry To see the flames take breast and thigh But heart takes hold for a thousand souls Who hear their blasphemy no more.
Mary Mary take his hands And put them on your swollen waist Make him love you Make him touch you Feel the phantom babe within.
Mary Mary haunted face The chapel so bereft of grace curse Our Lady for her place as she quickens see the kick and your barren womb below.
Mary Mary echoes call the ghost of hopes that haunt the hall Your darkened chamber lonely cast reluctant lord to break the fast two bodies strangers one unchaste.
Mary Mary sickened lie the blood between your legs belies the death that grows within your womb around you languished hopes are strewn.
Mary Mary So you die with painful breath and blinded eye The ****** takes your place at hand with fecund fertile ******* she stands to suckle the nation you could not nurse for surely, you bore your mother's curse.
Jack and Jill, Went up the hill, To fetch a pail of water, Nobody knows what they did up there, They came back with a baby daughter. They named the daughter Mary. Mary had chubby cheeks, Dimple chin,no teeth within, Rosy lips, Curly hair, very fair, Eyes were blue,lovely too. One day Mary went to play on the slide, Georgie Porgi pudding and a pie, Kissed Mary and made her cry, When Jack and Jill came out to see Mary play, Georgie Porgi ran away. Mary had a friend called Johny, He was handsome and Bonny, Mary Mary, Yes papa, Loving Johnny, No papa, Open your heart, Ha! Ha! Ha!. But, Johnny said, "Lavenders blue,Mary, Mary, Lavenders green, When I am King Mary, Mary, You shall be queen." Papa Jack and mama Jill asked, Mary ,Mary quite contrary, We have a querry, How does your heart grow, With wedding bells and many heart throbs, Not now, Mary sobs. One day, Johnny proposed, Mary, Mary, I'm crazy, All for the love of you. It won't be a stylish wedding, I can't afford a Lamborghini, But, if a stylish scooter for two, Will do. Soon, Mary had a little boy, a little boy, It's skin was white as snow It followed her to work one day, He made her friends laugh and say, laugh and say, "Mary, what a bonny lass you have.
I love to play with my grandchildren and made up this nursery rhyme poem for them.
Mary had a little lamb, two lobsters and a Christmas ham, a three-pound tub of chicken wings, seven bratwurst tied with strings, thirteen loaves of garlic bread, a schnitzel bigger than her head, four rare steaks, a dozen eggs, caviar and turkey's legs, strips of bacon, mushroom stew, chunks of bread and cheese fondue, and two whole jars of sauerkraut, (to clean all of her insides out).
Finishing the pasta salad, Mary soon looked drawn and pallid. "I don't feel well," poor Mary said. "I think I need to rest my head." Then from her stomach came a moan, a straining, churning, twisted groan. Mary gasped; her eyes grew wide. She'd only seconds to decide. What could she do? Where could she go? Her stomach was about to blow! So, reaching for the nearest bucket, she retched, and then began to chuck it.
All the courses that she'd swallowed, and the apertifs they'd followed, all the steaks and all the fish, each and every single dish came flying back from in her belly, filling up the bucket smelly with a foul and toxic brew, and no one knew quite what to do, so this went on for ten whole minutes till Mary had expelled her innards. When she was done, her eyes were red, and sweat was pouring from her head.
"Are you alright, sweet Mary dear?" her mother asked. She didn't hear. For Mary was already off - the waiters saw her try to scoff the whole entire pudding bar. Now, this had pushed her mum too far. "Alright!" her mother cried, "I'm through! I've done the best that I can do. I'm sick and tired of all you eat. I will not pay for all this meat. I'm going home. Go get some help —" Then Mary's mum let out a yelp!
She glanced down at her legs and saw sweet Mary there begin to gnaw! She struck the lass, but with great haste, alas, the girl had reached her waist. As Mary's ma was there devoured by her offspring, overpowered, she cried one thing ere final slaughter: "It smells like lamb in here, my daughter." Mary licked her lips and grinned. She belched out loud and then broke wind. She felt her tummy start to rumble - and calmly ordered apple crumble.
Don't judge me, I was really high when I wrote this.
It was July 10, 1995 with Summer being in high swing with humidity, and temperatures rising in the high 90’s across the country. However, distances far away, Jeff Masters and Mary Sanders had intense *** urges of their own. Jeff was living in Malibu in the state of California. Mary was living on the East Coast in New York City. They both being far apart, and living alone. The one thing that was on their minds was in search for a love connection with *** hitting the Richter scale. Jeff wanted love feeling like an Earthquake in the bedroom. Mary on the other hand was in steamy heat and used water as her *** dance. But Jeff and Mary found themselves on a dating service, and that is how they found each other. The question comes up in who was going to pursue who? Jeff quickly made a flight reservation, and flew to New York City. He wanted to meet Mary, and perhaps create a love connection. When Jeff arrived at Mary’s door, and she opened. Once inside, Jeff ripped took off his clothes, and he ripped off Mary’s clothes. They both were now naked, and Jeff carried Mary into the bedroom and gently placed her down on the bed. His ***** was hard as a rock, and was ready for the session of love. Jeff quickly got on top of Mary, and was going for the sooth of love intimate.
Jeff kissed all over Mary’s body, and licked in places giving Mary moans of delight. Both their heart and voices were pulsating in precise. Then it became the motion of in and out of Mary’s *****. The moments got even more intense being pound for pound. The Bed Frame was banging as Mary kept begging. Mary felt as if she had been taken to the Moon and back. It was a night to remember that Jeff and Mary will never forget. They both got what they needed in heat. It was like they were Astronauts being the lift off and the return back to Earth. Ecstasy rated supreme, but only Jeff and Mary know what that means. Love in and, but not out. Jeff and Mary are now a couple moving about.
Mary and Joseph were tight-ship. Mary was a real-one, and no clout-chaser
One night Angel Gabriel overstreeted with word that Cap-G made Mary chabby with soup-baby Mary was shook and big-mad but Joseph was baby-goggles for Cap-G’s quinlan fetus
so Mary was “okrrrrrrrrr”
A minute later Mary and Joe had to roll deep, adulting to Bethlehem with tribute to Augustus, the main character, but no mo-mo swerved em’ ghetto and asan Mary was Cap-G’s baby-mama!
Later these bchaps rfts biters brang Cap-J some bag and herb to extra flex for Cap-G while angels lay in the cut with lowkey bop.
Mary and Joseph were married and in love. Mary was an average girl not into notoriety . One night Angel Gabriel appeared and said that God made Mary pregnant with his child Mary was shaken-up and and angry but Joseph Was excited for them to have God’s beautiful child
so Mary was had no choice but to say “OK”
Months later Mary and Joe had to travel far together, As citizens, to Bethlehem to pay taxes to Augustus (Caesar). Emperor of rome, but a lack of motels caused them to Stay in a manger and there Mary had God’s child.
Later these rich star followers brought Jesus some money and herb as gifts to impress God while angels gathered and sang to comfort the child.
It’s the tail end of fashion week in Paris, the busiest week of the year for fashion buyers.
When I meet Clodagh Shorten, owner of Samui, the game-changing boutique that put Cork on the fashion map, she’s already been here four days and is on her tenth buying appointment — there’ll be at least another five before she leaves in a couple of days time.
These appointments, private bookings with designers, allow her to get up close and personal with the clothes that have just been showcased on catwalks.
She’s deciding which pieces will best suit her customers.
Today, we meet at Schumacher, the stunning German label known for its easy chic look.
A beautiful white space, with lush cream velvet sofas, bare walls and white rails (nothing here to distract from the main event — the clothes), this room, prime space in Paris, is rented by the designer year-round just so they have the right venue to sell at Fashion Week.
It gives some indication of the power Fashion Week wields.
Clodagh is here with her right-hand woman, Samui manager Mary-Claire O’Sullivan.
There are two rails — the keepers and the ‘ones that got away’.
They’ve already seen this collection in London.
Today they are here to fine-tune.
This is unusual, Mary-Claire explains — at most appointments, they are seeing the clothes for the very first time.
“This is a big spend,” they tell me, and they’ll stay as long as they need “to get it right”.
Piecing together a collection is something akin to a jigsaw puzzle.
All the items are photographed — later they will be analysed back in the apartment they rent during Fashion Week.
The mix has to be right.
So the coats, a sleeveless waistcoat, are moved to the rail on the right.
They won’t make it to Cork.
Coats were already picked up this morning at another appointment.
Like I said, a jigsaw puzzle.
Two models are on hand to try on clothes when requested — I hear ‘can I just see this on one more time’ a lot.
There’s no haggling over prices in these sales negotiations — it’s all too civilised.
The price is set, as is the instore mark-up. These lauded designs must cost the same the world over.
Clodagh and Mary-Claire share a language and a wavelength. They can finish each other’s sentences and, while I don’t so much as sniff a hint of tension, they tell me they can disagree on buys.
“Clodagh doesn’t want a yes woman,” Mary-Claire says simply.
From Schumacher, Clodagh leads the way through the Parisian cobbled streets, phone held aloft, Google Maps to direct her.
Her wheelie bag is constantly behind her — inside there’s the laptop for orders and a camera for instant access to photographs of collections.
Her calculator is another permanent fixture in the showroom.
Today, Clodagh is dressed in an Australian label coming soon to Samui, Ellery. The lush black fabric sways and moves with her body; an outfit like that makes you really appreciate her eye for fashion. It’s sensational.
For this 5.30pm appointment we are heading to see another new label for Samui — Paskal (Clodagh will wear a piece from this line tomorrow).
The Ukrainian designer is looked after by an agency so in this showroom there are pieces by a handful of brands.
Again, the setup is the same — private appointments, models on hand.
Clodagh and Mary-Claire have to be more careful here — this is a new label and it’s more fashion forward so black is prioritised.
Not every client at Samui will wear this line. Every purchase, I realise, is a gamble.
“We’ve made mistakes, of course we have,” says Mary-Claire though you get the feeling that could be a rare event.
Pieces bought by these two women rarely end up in Samui’s sales rack.
They know their customer, plain and simple.
There is so much trust there, some clients are simply sent collections each season, allowing Clodagh to make the call for them.
So much of their day is spent discussing various clients (never by name in my presence) — what they might like, the best size.
It is effectively the ultimate personal shopping experience.
The number of items and sizes are limited, so customers know they are truly getting one-off pieces.
As we leave, kisses over, the agency head tells them, “you’re our favourites” and you just know it’s not empty fashion talk.
People genuinely love Clodagh and Mary-Claire. And they respect what they do.
Samui is open 16 years now. Clodagh mastered her trade at Monica John before stepping out on her own. Mary-Claire joined her eight years ago.
It has been one of the few boutiques in Cork to not just survive the downturn but to positively thrive.
As the economy spluttered around her, Clodagh very masterfully decided to go high end.
First came Moncler — the top people here had to come and view Samui to see if it was the right match for their esteemed label.
It was — and, increasingly, doors began to open.
Carven, Marni, Rick Owens — people really began to sit up and take notice of Samui.
Now labels are often vying for space on the shop floor. Still though, it takes work to secure the big new names.
Clodagh spends a lot of time on planes, networking, meeting the key players. And it’s not as simple as a visit to Fashion Week twice a year either.
These days pre-collections are key too: these pieces will be on the shop floor for longer.
So Clodagh and Mary-Claire travel in January to Paris for pre- collections, Milan in February for Moncler, Paris in March. The same cycle begins again in June for A/W pre-collections, with S/S Fashion Week in September.
Clodagh is always pushing, always striving for new.
She was devastated to say farewell to Transit, the brand with her from the very beginning. It was simply time for a change she tells me.
They love seeking out new labels, nurturing them, sharing them with their customers.
The next morning we meet at 9am for Dries van Noten.
Clodagh stocks around 50 different labels, most exclusive to Cork. This Belgian designer is one of them.
Here again is a very fashion forward line.
There’s a minimum €20,000 spend here, and that’s the amount Clodagh and Mary-Claire can play with.
This is a much busier showroom, a slick operation. Buyers are everywhere, the models weaving between them.
They are assigned a seller and a table, laptop at the ready to secure the sale.
Sophie, today’s seller, walks them through the long rails and talks to them about the collection, the fabrics, the colour, the catwalk, the vision.
Clodagh and Mary-Claire repeat the process a second time alone, a third time again with Sophie.
There are little standing breaks for coffee — refreshments and lunch are provided by the designer.
Clodagh and Mary-Claire know to carry snacks everywhere. The buying process can be a long one; Dries could be an all-day event.
The price point is much higher here so, again, each piece has to be carefully thought out. Checked and checked again.
These A/W deliveries will land in store in July.
Watching them make their Samui edit on that March morning, I just know the Dries selection will be a show-stopper this Autumn.
I leave them to sign on the dotted line, wishing them success for the rest of their gruelling schedule as I head for Charles de Gaulle.
“People don’t realise what goes into this,” says Clodagh. And she’s right.
None of us can possibly grasp what it must have taken for one woman to put Cork on the fashion radar.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
Mary’s Mother is from Georgia, her Father from Pennsylvania. A steelers flag hangs on Mary’s front porch, and every Sunday night in the fall means eating chicken wings while adorned in black and gold.
Mary’s Father has an office. Inside of it lay a few rusting guitars, but the walls of the room are what truly catch your eye. The paint itself, a dull muted gray is immaterial when compared to the dozens of plaques that enhance it. Each frame carries a different piece of Groundhog’s Day memorabilia, many house pictures of Punxsutawney Phil, one is a certificate declaring Mary’s Father an “official Groundhog ambassador”, another an autographed photo from a Groundhog handler.
Mary’s Father claims that Groundhog’s day is America’s second greatest holiday.
Mary’s parents were married at Gobbler's ****. Punxsutawney Phil attended the wedding. Mary and her little sister stayed home from school every Groundhog’s day in elementary school, and in middle school they attended but came to school in matching Groundhog hats.
Mary’s kitchen counter has a small black speaker. Each Sunday morning, Mary’s Father blasts the Polka Party Radio Show hours into the afternoon. The whole family knows all of the polka songs by heart. Each Sunday morning they came together to listen to the “Waltz of The Angels”, a Polka special dedicated to various passed loved ones. Even the turntable in Mary’s dining room only plays Pennsylvania Polka vinyls.
Mary’s incredibly familiar with Hershey Park. She and her sister have brought home various souvenirs from Pennsylvania’s notorious “Chocolate Town”.
Mary’s family knows Gettysburg like the back of their hand.
I’ve known Mary for over a decade. I never knew her mother was from Georgia. “The Southerner’s Handbook” sits in Mary’s living room, the only true mark of Mary’s Mother’s life before she surrendered her maiden name.
I think it is a beautiful thing to give up your culture for somebody else. I think it is a beautiful thing to sing Pennsylvania Dutch folk music with your Husband on late weekend nights because you know it makes your children happy.
Hail Mary our Mother so gentle and true For nine months you carried "God with Us" in you Hail Mary our Mother so quiet and strong Give us the courage to join you in song Hail Mary our Mother free from sin and full of grace Lead us to your son, help us see and recognize His face Hail Mary our Mother of mercy and sorrow Pray for us Mary in our todays and tomorrows Hail Mary our Mother Holy Queen enthroned above Teach us faith, and wisdom, teach us love Hail Mary our Mother so tender and mild Give us the vision to see with the eyes of a child Hail Mary our Mother shining light, guiding star Bring back your children wherever they are Hail Mary our Mother pure and chaste Quicken our hearts that we would make haste Hail Mary our Mother look on us with compassion and favor And one day lead us home to your son our Savior.
I asked the question but may never know But let’s give it a go I ask the question again, how does Mary Poppins angle her umbrella? It seems precise Maybe Magic is the advice It seems the winds are always in Mary Poppins favor But too some of use with ordinary conventional umbrella’s that’s hard to savor Mary Poppins seems to just glide through the air and her umbrella stays in tact Actually, could be more than fact With these so called conventional umbrella’s, people would be lucky if our umbrella’s didn’t turn inside out and became stems of its former self But Mary Poppins umbrella is not like everybody else When a breeze comes along, the ordinary conventional umbrellas simply bend What was an umbrella always comes to an end They just can’t seem to take the wind I guess Mary Poppins can Magic controls the umbrella on when But we really don’t know how Mary Poppins umbrella stays straight However, it’s Mary Poppins story of fate Yet that is something only Mary Poppins can appreciate As for us ordinary people can associate It’s definitely a magical thing The Mary Poppins name having a bling She’s like a Queen who masters her own sling.
Mother Mary, Mother Mary, Whisper in my ear. Give me something tangible to touch – Something audible to hear.
Send me a sign, so I know I am alive. I want to know it’s not in vain The I let the world inscribe Such a mark upon my soul. Give me a sign to make me whole. Help me find peace through the chaos. Just let me know you’re in control.
Mother Mary, Mother Mary, Whisper in my ear. I know each breath could be my last – Yet, my death I do not fear.
I’ve been shackled by my questions And I’ve watched them as they’ve grown. I searched endlessly for answers – When all along I should have known That the answers I seek are not ones that can be found. So I pray that you’ll whisper. I pray I’ll hear the sound. I pray that death holds more than what we bury in the ground.
It’s been nearly twenty years, and somehow I still have faith. But I fear the truths I know are lies; I fear that virtue is a waste. Still, I wait for your whisper,
Mother Mary, Mother Mary. Despite how much I’ve suffered; this burden I still carry. Because I trust this world holds reason. I trust my struggle wasn’t worthless.
Mother Mary, Mother Mary, I pray I suffer for a purpose.
"Bad Luck: In a Wakeful Contradiction" is now available on Amazon in paperback!
Okay Jeff what have you brought in today. Today Mary I’m going to show you the super juicer. That’s a big one Jeff. It sure is Mary, total satisfaction guaranteed. What does it do Jeff. Take this banana Mary, place it in the juicer. What about the melons Jeff. They’re a handful Mary, watch this. My god Jeff, what a device. See how it came there Mary. Right Jeff, what can it do with pears. Well Mary, I place the cream on the pears, what do you get. Ecstasy Jeff, that hits the spot. Now Mary, you may think this is just a juicer, but try it in this position. My god Jeff. Did it hit the spot Mary. Did it ever. What would you pay for a juicer like this Mary. I would pay the earth Jeff. Also Mary, there are three different speeds. My god Jeff, horizontal, semi squat, and comatose. Can you afford not to buy this Mary. I can’t Jeff, it’s mine. Mary, Mary come back, you can’t take it home with you