Call Waiting

    Image by Sarlota Ban

There is no one on the line

no one to talk to

no one to listen

when I call your name

There are no more wires

no strings

attaching source to end point

sender to receiver

me to you

What can I do  

with these antiquated emotions?

Box them up,

in a plain brown wrapper

sealed with packing tape

to be placed safely in the back

of a rented, storage unit?

Or do I save them

to an external sorage device

forever safe

able to be accessed

at some future date?

Or do I write them out, longhand…

in cursive

on heavy, scented parchment

then roll it up

and slip into a bottle

to be stoppered

and thrown to the sea?

When I call your name

there is no one to talk to

no one to listen

After a VERY long dry spell I am glad to be back and linking this to Magpie Tales, the weekly, creative writing prompt.

Setting Off

I journey

with the sun

and rest

in the moon.

My voyage begins

without fanfare;

no one

to see me off or

wish me well,

no one to blow kisses

or wish me,

“Godspeed!”

No one knows

of my plans.

I journey

with the sun

and rest

in the moon.

HiStory

“Johnny was smart, you know,”

Grandma said

a thousand times

as she looked into me

with her worn, knowing blue eyes.

“I know Grandma,” I always answered,

but I couldn’t really remember him anymore.

I was only three-and-a-half

when he died.

He wasn’t yet two.

Enough for a memory,

but not enough.

I remember bright, orange hair,

blue eyes, big smile with drool,

and, “Oof black!”

his declaration

as he pounded his thumbs

on the high chair tray.

I remember

watching him while Mommy

hangs wash on the line,

and running to her calling,

“Mommy, Mommy,

Johnny’s turning blue again!”

Then Mommy drops the clean, wet clothes

on the grass and runs to call the hospital.

We rush to the car, and drive fast.

They have the oxygen tent ready

when we get there.

We run past the ladies with the forms.

It is a small hospital.

They know us.

I don’t think this memory is mine,

but the memory I created

to go with the story

told to me so often.

I remember

sitting and drawing

while Mommy goes with Johnny

as they try to fill his blood

with oxygen.

After the first time

I don’t cry anymore

when she leaves me alone.

This must be my memory, because

no one else is there to tell it to me.

And I remember

going to school,

when kids ask if I have

any brothers or sisters,

or if I am an only child.

And I remember

never knowing how to answer.

Over at dVerse Grace asked us to share a part of our family history.  I ended up writing about my brother, Johnny, who was born with Down Syndrome, and died 22 months later from several congenital heart defects that often accompany it.  I thought my mom said he had three separate ones, but I can only remember Atrioventricular Septal Defect (AVSD) and Tetralogy of Fallot.  Both my parents have died, so I really have no one left to ask.

The Oldest Human Need

How far removed are you from loneliness?       

Would it be two relationships or three,

or is it one that holds your homeliness;

just one, thin soul to form the boundary?

Like spinning yarn our family and friends

become entwined, their lives enriching ours,

but when a strand unravels from, or rends

the whole we find ourselves with empty hours.

What insulates you from the vast alone

that tears through thoughts like clawing arctic wind,

its piercing cold, its heartless, raking  moan

that shakes and isolates the thickest skinned?

We don’t all need a child or a mate,

just someone who will wonder if we’re late.

One of the oldest human needs is having someone to wonder where you are when you don't come home at night.  -Margaret Mead  

Here is a sonnet, of sorts, for the final day of 30 days of poetry for the month of April. Woo Hoo!  

Too Tired to Punctuate

This morning

as usual

I stumbled

down the stairs

for coffee

like a heat-seeking missile

if heat-seeking missiles

were slow and wobbly

so not really

like a heat-seeking missile

at all

more like

a caffeine-seeking zombie

if zombies

sought caffeine

rather than brains

not yet fully conscious

not yet able to form

sensible metaphors or similes

it took until the seventh stair

the squeaky one

the one that should get the grease

but no that’s wheels

to register

that it didn’t matter

the squeak wouldn’t wake you

sleeping across town

in someone else’s bed


This is for day #2 of PAD (Poem a Day) or NaPoWriMo (National Poetry Writing Month).  

Waxing Gibbous

     Photo by Mary Bach

The moon murmurs

 to you alone

when need eclipses fear,

drawing you  out

over dark stony beaches

through back alleys

and under bridges,

where small flames,

barely aware of their heat,

flick shadows

across your face.

And here you stand

at the border,

between light and dark

pulled by both,

but belonging to neither.  

This is for G-man's FF-55.  Click on the link and check it out.  The prompt for a poem about the moon came from Brendan at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.  Check out that site for some excellent poetry and a link to a brilliant poem by Sylvia Plath (and interesting background information by Brendan).  I'm not listing there though, since I'd a bit late, and I didn't quite follow the rules and use the word list provided.  But you should still have a look!

Disassociation

I'm waiting;

once again, the last to be chosen

Why do I stay,

with old whispers and lukewarm coffee

as my only consolation

The pale, grey sky is nearly absent

What will hold me to the ground

if the sky lifts completely

and gravity fails?

I'm barely making contact now

This is in response to the photo writing prompt offered at Magpie Tales.  Go there to see lots of wonderful writing.  Photo is taken from Google images, unknown photographer.