it doesn’t matter anymore

 

it was a watercolor morning

the sky tangerine, punched with boysenberry

and yet you wept

your tears delicious were it not for unbearable pain

 

i look back now at countless years

wondering ten thousand times over

if perhaps storm clouds had cast shadows

where rain refused to fall

 

then perhaps i would still reach out

and feel your hand, warm and inviting

rather than the emptiness i felt when you left

and took your name with you

 

rarely now do i search my memory

wondering if it was tuesday in the rain

or if tangerines and boysenberries would fill my need

without their juices on your delicious lips

 

i suppose it never matters when looking back

that clouds linger overhead as clouds will do

as i wonder what you sounded like

what you felt like, and of your fragrance

 

it doesn’t matter anymore

deep secrets have all been whispered

bitter tears cried, and words spoken

to line heavens darkest clouds

 

it only matters that this is loneliness defined

and i have lived there

 

brokenness

 

she stooped lower than the ground would allow

hoping to find paper dolls lost before yesterday

when marionettes and puppet clowns strolled

on the boardwalk

 

she wept with no shame as her tears freely fell

and her broken heart felt shattered beyond repair

in places where bruises should never form

deep within her soul

 

curly hair and liquid smiles had long since died

replaced by scraped knees and scuffed shoes

on her way to cotton candy and licorice stick mornings

golden with sunrise

 

now the western sky of her life is aglow

with the setting sun of another day gone by

as she sits alone on a sea foam blanket softly floating

on the folding waves

 

her salt-filled tears mingle with the vast ocean

as she remembers the oneness of life

and that her crying feeds the immense waters 

as her tears fall one last time with the sinking sun

 

 

 

dancer

 

i closed my eyes and watched her dance;

her hair fanned out like a silk sensu

free and beautiful,

flipping and swirling with such ease

and folding back, brushed

by the silent fingers of the wind.

 

soft lips defined her face

delicate in their beauty

seductive in their innocence

able to command a word to march

or swallow grapes and orange slices

 

i watched her move;

my eyes only slightly closed

as she danced to the music of a weeping moon

and stepped across stars that never dimmed

 

the structured opus from a forest orchestra surged

as her hands waved to heaven

hoping someone lived there

wishing for faith, yet having its fullness

as she began to weep in her emptiness

 

i dared not open my eyes

rather i watched in awe of beauty

cloaked in the finest silk, tartan and tweed

as she listened to the music within

and watched as her feet translated it

 

her emptiness became my own

and her tears fell onto mine

as in the quiet of a solitude moment

we danced

to no music except that which plays eternal

we danced

we wept

 

for sin is a harsh master

 

 

departure

 

i touched her face

then kissed her lips

and stroked her tears

as i turned away

 

her hair was long

i brushed it aside

and we kissed again

as never before

 

i remember her tears

on my fingertips

and her lingering kiss on my lips

encasing her forced smile

 

i walked her to the waiting taxi

hoping she would change her mind

but somehow we both smiled

hating the smell of yellow cabs

 

and it was the hollow sound of the trunk

slammed with a final exclamation

that she would turn and leave

on her one-way trip to tomorrow

 

tomorrow…some distant elusive place

where we reflect upon fond memories

wondering if maybe today had failed

and if the taxi stopped short of tomorrow

 

 

clara

 

down at the fourth street pub and grill

most folks sat around the bar

while one played to her hearts content

wishing to someday become a star

 

clara tinkered on her beat-up steinway

with whiskey glasses neatly stacked

as her fingers found the waiting keys

she poured out her soul where talent lacked

 

alternating softly between sharps and flats

ebony and ivory and nothing between

tears steadily fell into her latest glass

dreams and visions not as they seemed

 

stains of soured whiskey touched the rim

where red lipstick dried like her empty kiss

she tickled the keys with a sad love song

but the smooth ivory bars were much too stiff

 

numb fingers stopped her cold on one song

she knew there was nothing more to say

so clara stood and quietly bowed to none

for to no one in particular she refused to play

 

clara left dejected and alone that night

whiskey glasses still stacked high

and no one missed her when she was gone

though she had really wanted to say goodbye

 

now only one respectful gentleman visits her

placing twelve white roses on her grave

as he recalls the girl who played the steinway

and the joyous moments of music she gave

 

 

encounter on pier 39

 

 she sat inaudibly alone on pier thirty-nine

 watching colorful sail boats go lazily by

 i didn’t know her name but she was a friend of mine

 and it hurt so badly to see her cry

 

 with my guitar in my left hand and wishes in my right

 i approached her quietly, careful not to intrude

 the waters were darker than the moonless night

 and i spoke softly to avoid being abruptly rude

 

“may I play a simple song for you?”

 i asked, carefully watching her beautiful blue eyes

 “i haven’t written it yet so we’ll see how i do.”

 and with that she started to softly cry.

 

“i wanted to jump into the water tonight.”

 she confessed when i started to strum

 i said, “i could tell your darkness had swallowed the light

 i suppose your desperation told me to come.”

 

 i laid my pride down and strummed out a song

 a simple story just to say i understood

 and that however she felt things had gone so wrong

 somehow she could still find some good

 

 my soul has throbbed like fire in the dark of night

 crunched and crushed like flattened trash in the street

 like a thin shelter from wind, covering my fright

 while tearing up pieces to cover my feet

 

 so i know your broken heart, my friend

 i’ve seen you through the eyes of a broken old man

 so please walk away ‘cause I know you can.”

 and with those words i took her outstretched hand.

 

 i never saw her again after that memorable night

 but the song was etched forever in my heart

 and somehow it seemed we soared to new heights

 and with the freedom of our song found a new start

 

 i still avoid the choppy waters of pier thirty-nine

 and find I must avoid the beautiful golden gate

 yet i wonder what became of this lonely friend

 who sat alone one night quietly tempting fate

 

 

rails

 

i walked the rails

made parallel by ties that bind

stretched out for miles ahead

and laying silent for miles behind

over trestles

under bridges

past tiny houses painted awkwardly

and gutless cars choked by yellow weeds

 

i walked alone

except for my memories

my forsaken dreams

and my silent counting of footsteps

on wooden steps

and soundless tears

falling where only nightmares dare to rest

 

my cadence was my own

small strides

the steps of a young boy

dying when he couldn’t

living when he shouldn’t

until now

 

walking the rails

made parallel by ties that bind

i finally understand

the life that walked away

was stolen

and trains seemed to travel only

one way

 

special filled the day

 

chocolate and roses filled the store front window

and little pieces of special filled the day

as morning unfolded from itself

like an omelet separated in the middle

 

mist and fog swirled as would a silent tornado

as she stood, hungry for trivial pieces of chocolate

and longing for fallen petals from long stem roses

blurred by smudges on the cold glass window

 

was it her own face looking back at her

or some stranger she had passed on the street

when the day was warm and cheerful

and ‘hello’ poured like sweet honey from her lips?

 

morning is cold when the sun is still on its way.

the sound of street sweepers and newspaper deliverers

is the only music rising up from the aching boulevard

and the groan of empty burns in her belly

 

tears linger for only a moment as she fights them back

wanting to show herself strong after all these years.

she will lose the battle, she knows

and the store front window will be as empty as her life

 

no chocolate nor roses filled the store front window

and no little pieces of special filled the day

as morning unfolded from itself

and she stood in front of the dusty glass

feeling more empty than the boarded up building

her life, like the broker’s sign, was empty and available

wishing for yesterday and the days before

when innocence was made of chocolate and roses

 

i remembered her when

chocolate was shared from my lips

to hers

and roses were held to her as a way to honor her beauty. 

 

her mirror became a storefront window

and the roses in her life wilted. 

life sometimes does that if we are not mindful...

and yet, still...

 

i remember when special filled the day

 

 

peace in the meadow

 

 

i walked to the meadow

where dandelions blew in the wind

making silent music

as though god had waved his baton…

the maestro of all living things

 

i wept while watching the robe of jesus

blow gently in the breeze

as he stretched out his arms

blessed the little children

and commanded,

 

“let the little children come to me,

 and do not forbid them;

 for of such is the kingdom of god.”

 

yet as i watched the dandelions scatter

wildly in every direction

i knew that such was the heart of man

and i wept for my own heart,

scattered and unsettled

 

i cried while walking into the meadow green

yet capped like snow

with the soft white of dandelions

while silent music played loudly

as from  a golden harp

and i sat, praying

at the feet of jesus

and there i felt his hand

gently stroking the top of my head

as his tears fell freely

 

i heard him say,

“blessed are you who hunger now,

for you shall be filled.

blessed are you who weep now,

for you shall laugh.”

i took his promise

in the form of a dandelion

and in one breath i blew the seeds

of life back into the ground

 

 

aging

 

we know more now than we knew then

we were younger

smiles came easy

and memories were made

like spun cotton candy

and one pony carousels

 

there were fewer reasons to cry

more seasons to fly

and the red in red roses

seemed never to fade away

 

it was easy to laugh and run into the forest

golden with morning

to lay for hours watching clouds

and read poetry, never turning the page

because the words we swallowed were our own

 

your lips were soft and mine memorized them

and sometimes it seemed that we knew more

…and how i wish we had

because then we would have made love

in forbidden places

and left the taste of chocolate on our lips

 

now we are older

and memories are fading faster than the lifting fog

we cry easier and more often for no reason

and smiles only crawl across our faces

because the carousel stopped long ago

 

will you remember me when i walk slowly?

will you be there to remind me who i am?

i will stand beside you always

though i may forget your eye color

and why you look at me with tear-filled eyes

the sky will always be ours to share…

trees will cause us to stop

and try to remember

when we walked onto the moss covered floor

hugging trees and one another

 

and the star-filled sky

laying like a blanket over sausalito

will cause our hearts to stir

and remember the color of desire

when we laughed and kissed

with lips softened by passion

 

when memories melted,

flowing like a meandering stream

to places of our hearts

reserved for one day, one day

when these celebrations are all we have

 

 

i watched her…she was a jewish girl dancing in a meadow of daisies.  i admired her as if i was boaz watching ruth gleaning in the fields.  i wished to redeem her and yet i knew redemption was not mine to offer.  i wished to plant words in the fertile soil where daisies grew in abundance.  words i planted and this is what was harvested in due time…

 

liana’s song

 

with cotton clouds above her

and yellow daisies at her feet

she danced to a silent song

of freedom

 

hands outstretched

and palms to the heavens

her black hair flowed

like summer showers

as she watched the waving daisies

swaying to the same song

while sheets of music poured

from the purple mountains

 

words of praise filled her heart

in her own presence she moved

a fluid dancer in the field of daisies

singing

‘you have turned my mourning into dancing

you have shown me the beauty of daisies…’

 

she stood,

tears welling in her eyes

a field of daisies, her blanket of comfort

she whispered,

‘in the midst of daisies i hold  sunflowers in my heart

      

 

life's lessons

 

while traveling alone down life’s desolate road

i met several strangers who lightened my load

 

there was the wasted singer without a tune

who was hopelessly lost and facing his doom

 

as he strummed his guitar it strained with his song

about the rights of workers and wars that are wrong

 

the poet with flowers never left his room

like an infant still curled in the warmth of the womb

 

his words were like colors, pastels in the day

‘til the colors all faded into pale shades of gray

 

the merchant with money peddled his pride

then sold his own soul for the price of a bride

 

his wares were imported and sold in the night

to kids on street corners in bags of pure white

 

there was the sailor left stranded while holding his beer

in the midst of wine masters serving bottles of fear

 

all the soldiers had died but i met with their names

on white tombstones proclaiming their loss as our gain

 

heroes became presidents strung out on a wall

they had forgotten young warriors who died at their call

 

i met with the lawyers who kneeled in the court

holding lives in the balance like a sickening sport

 

that gavel still pounds somewhere in my mind

while i try hard to forget that justice is blind

 

i met with a prophet armed only with words

cloaked with a sign saying ‘do not disturb’

 

and i listened intently as he poured out the blame

then blessed the sayings in his god’s holy name

 

every preacher was certain only his was the way

to life everlasting come the last judgment day

 

gravediggers dug deeply when burying their souls

then left it for pirates still searching for gold

 

 i met a young maiden who had always been pure

yet she took me to places i had not been before

 

she cried as i left her alone on her bed

curled up in a promise and a dream for her head

 

i went to the farmers to learn how to grow

but found we can reap only that which we sow

 

 i watched a skilled tradesman so good in his craft

a carpenter who built where the jester had laughed

 

in my sojourn i saw beauty when i returned home

in the face of a child who had no need to roam

 

for children are pure and free from this strife

until one day they travel this journey called life

 

looking back on mendocino

 

i remember mendocino, with

old farm houses and barns

 

harbored in the belly of the bay

where the little town swallowed fog and fishing boats

 

and in san francisco when i was younger

i saw blue and red and purple houses on stanyan street

 

i slowly strolled

through the time-stilled shops on fisherman’s wharf

 

then gulped laughter

when laughter was part of my life

 

i followed it with ghiradelli chocolate

and wisps of the wayward wind

 

when i was younger

i walked along the pacific shores

 

crying easily because i was alone

and streetlights at midnight never reveal secrets

 

i found sand dollars and a special starfish

 

when i was younger i had hope

and believed that there really was a tomorrow

 

now i am old

i have lost my sand dollars and my special starfish

 

now i am old

i have lost hope

 

i have only a tiny bowl of yesterday

 from which to pull memories

 

wishing to never lose them

knowing someday i will

 

for now i am old

and all my smiles have been swallowed

 

and yesterday’s memories

so long ago forgotten.

 

i still see the fishing boats

off the shores of mendocino

 

i still hear the fog horns

and bellyaching sea lions

 

i still see the waving wildflowers

and gray-wood weather-beaten barns

 

mendocino was old when i first saw her

and now we have aged together

 

watched over by the light of point cabrillo

turning throughout the night

 

watching for jesus to walk on the water

to heal the sick and give sight to the blind

 

when the waters calmed, i heard peace

i looked and it was jesus, looking into my eyes

 

what were you doing on stanyan street? he asked.

i don’t go down there on friday nights

 

 

lost minutes

 

 so many nights i watched the clock

 the minute hand agonizing its way from one to two to three

 until it stood straight up, splitting the one and two of twelve

 at the top of an otherwise empty dial

 

 questions born in the daylight hours and aching bones

 kept me awake while the second hand silently mocked me

 on its journey from twelve to twelve

  

 each clockwise jump of the minute hand erased a hope

 of what might have been if minutes could be saved and spent

 like pennies in a chocolate store in mid-april mendocino

 

 it didn't matter...at 1:47 am time stopped

 

 and darkness crawled onto roman numerals

 seeping between the cracks like a greedy politician

 

 

madrid in springtime

 

i have never seen madrid in the springtime

i have never seen madrid at all

 

does the sun rise differently in madrid

than in san francisco

on those rare city days when there is no fog

nor wind to chase the clouds away

 

i have seen morning in san francisco

where lovers stroll hand in hand

down meandering paths

parting with the majesty of coit tower

 

somehow

it reminded me of what madrid must be like

in the springtime

 

lovers carry multi-colored blankets

tucked under their arms

and wear smiles and sunglasses

on days like this

 

the water changes color with the day

as the bay is filled with sailboats

hoisting colorful sails to the blue sky background

whipping around in circles

and going nowhere until the sun begins to set

 

tiberon sits quietly like an oil painting

in the near distance

with colors bright and plentiful

defining the boundaries of the quaint little town

where they lap into the pacific

and rinse off like rounded stones of gray and brown

madrid would be seen through the lens of a camera

should i ever visit

in the springtime

while remembering san francisco

 

for now

i will look across the bay

and wonder if madrid in the springtime

is a place for lovers

 

would you join me someday

when i rub the sleepy dreams from my eyes

and raise my sails to the wind

hoping to catch a glimpse of madrid

in the spring time

 

i have never seen madrid in the springtime

i have never seen madrid at all

 

 

morning escaped like an echo

 

morning escaped like an echo

winding through whispering pine trees

crawling with bent fingers over frozen ponds

searching for the minute of birth

 

fogged windowpanes slowed the reflection

as ghost-like fog and mist stopped

dead against the cold moisture-laden glass

where morning died an honorable death

 

mourning died in the burrowed soil

while storm clouds threatened to weep

onto stones planted around her

as she lay in a place safe from yesterday

 

haunting music still plays in my head

my fingers on guitar strings too late

and shallow words too soft for her ears

a heart too broken to know how to heal

 

morning escaped like an echo

winding through whispering pine trees

mourning died in the burrowed soil

while storm clouds threatened to weep

 

 

morning was sadder than april

 

he looked at his clock and calendar at the same time

then glanced back at march before it ended

and ahead to april before it had begun.

 

there were no flowers spraying color or fragrance…

no breeze to push the clouds along

and no promise of hope beyond the horizon.

 

it was morning and morning was sadder than all of april

 —nowhere to turn, nowhere to hide—

just time—minutes really—before he had to go.

 

there were no birds in the sky on a day such as this…

third monday—march too far gone—

yet april too far away.

 

morning was sadder than all of april

and he had chosen to watch as march surrendered it’s place

to the delegation of memories.

 

morning pushed hard on the clouds,

moving quieter than the silence of daybreak,

waiting like a vagrant at a bus depot and with less hope for kindness.

 

there were no flowers spraying color or fragrance across the countryside…

and no promise of hope beyond the horizon.

morning was sadder than all of april and only fragments of march remaine

 

 

naked mattress          

 

 

 the naked mattress seemed more abandoned

 than on nights gone by

 when european percale sheets

 lifted like a kite from the corners

 as though they had somewhere to go

 and struggled passionately to get there.

 

 the sagging mattress appeared cold—

 now that she looked at it

 from the way he had always seen it—

 bare and abused by bodies that left tears and sweat.

 

 as she lay crying, face buried in her hands,

 her tear-stained lips kissed the only flesh she knew.

 her heart abandoned just like the barren mattress,

 she was suddenly aware of the putrid smell

 lingering from more nights than she cared to know

 and more men than she dared remember.

 

 she saw no form in the wrinkled sheets

 and the corners that had betrayed her

 —corners that once defined the pattern—

 now laid limp on the dusty hardwood floor

 like the man she had exhausted with her passion.

 

 on his back he seemed desolate

 with no blanket to warm his outstretched body

 and no sheets to protect his misplaced dignity.

 

 she cried, wondering who he was and why he stayed

 when he could have abandoned her in the night

 and left her life more stained than the naked mattress.

 

nightlight

 

an amber colored nightlight casts a glow

from behind the wicker clothes basket

like a miniature sunrise

born behind an imposing mountain

 

it doesn’t illuminate much

just a little piece of an off-white wall

—spackled like tiny crevices on a stone cold moon—  

and the backside of the clothes hamper

which nobody sees anyway

 

tangerine shadows crawl slowly

like an old plymouth choking on it’s last vapors

bleeding into the wall with the introduction of light

until the faded color wilts toward extinction

much like an endangered species

 

when morning’s light finally arrives

as it has always done—so far—

the nightlight will no longer be indispensable

…a small switch flipped

…the radiance swallowed

 

while the sun peeks over the mountaintop

casting an amber glow on the garden

like a tiny nightlight

hiding behind a wicker clothes hamper

painting the wall orange juice with pulp

 

full circle…no beginning, no end

the color of morning is a celebration

that another day has arrived

and a tiny nightlight waits

for the moment it will blush again

 

 

no coins

 

no coins left in his pocket

 nickels had come and gone

even pennies were gone

     and wishes were still free

rain left him soaked to the bone

 

he wanted to love her

but the song was no longer playin

her words were mumbled truths

and god only knew she was prayin

 

his fingertips dug for breadcrumbs

his heart searched for words

he’s sold his soul for he quiet of silence

and traded his mind for

 

 

i can’t knock anymore

 

the path from here to yesterday                                    

has too often been traveled

in search of answers and street signs

 

darkened corners harbor memories

that reach out like a stranger

in want of a cigarette

and in need of a bath

 

dusty smelly corridors

permeated with cheap wine

are more narrow than the minds

of those whiskered men who walk them

 

and nobody is home

when i knock on the door

 

the streets of last night

are covered with papers

sports pages and obituaries

honoring heroes dead and alive

 

homeless men homeless women

pluck them from their gutters

to wear as jackets and fashion as hats

 

somewhere in the distance

a little boy cries

as a grown man has beaten his foe

 

and nobody is home

when i knock on the door

 

nobody is home

 

i can’t knock anymore

 

 

november doesn’t hurt anymore

 

i used to wind back winter memories

as hurriedly as i would turn back the hands

on some cheap throw-away alarm clock.

 

pending holidays marched in cadence through my mind

like burdensome social events,

catered, crowded, and distant.

 

rain tempted me.

snow teased me.

i tasted both and each left me cold and thirsty.

 

i hitchhiked through childhood

when i should have walked.

 

i cried through terror-filled nights

and hid in the shadows of day.

 

then you touched me

and folded your words over me warmly

like a soft down-filled blanket.

 

you spoke kindly

through the love-filled months of summer

and when the doors of october closed

you set back the clock for an hour,

turned, and taught me about love

…in november.

 

now, because of your love

november doesn’t hurt anymore.

 

 

october brushed by

 

 in the midst of an october sunrise

 bearing splashes of colors beyond description

 like a thick acrylic paint mixture

 crimson with cadmium yellow

 thrown…scattered like seed…by the hand of god

 morning unfolds like a delicate rose

 

 light crawls like aching fingers

 touching soft lips that moisten the sands,

 retreating, sliding like two bodies too close

 to be parted, moving slowly, one advancing-

 retreating, wave at a time.

 

 the water returns—

 –to the water

 the sand to the sand

 and yet the light to darkness

 

 i’m sinking beneath the surface of my soul

 void of color, gray on gray on gray

 as a jacket of black smothers me

 suffocating me

 gripping my heart

 until i see evil being squeezed out

 jealousy is green, greed is yellow

 hatred is black and deceit is red

 until at last

 god has taken the ugliness of my heart

 squeezed my evil

 and fashioned a brand new color

 for tomorrow’s rainbow

 

 all get one

 just one

 and you will remember yours

 

 

today I need a guitar 

 

today i need a guitar

to hold in my hands

one with a simple tune that sounds like life

when the melody was not yet certain

and the words  of my song not born

 

today i need to know that life

like guitar strings

is born when pulling at one end

and pushing at the other

 

there is a beach waiting

a sky that seems impatient

garbage cans overflowing

and amber colored lights hovering

like french umbrellas over prostitutes

 

today i need today

filled with hope and dreams

before it’s too late

to hold my guitar

or the memory of your smile

 

 

he can’t let go

 

the wooden rail

that leads from up to down

has led him to this place

his final journey into the basement of his life

 

no turning around

no climbing back to the top

 

there’s no one home

but he knew that before making his way down

one step at a time

and now, he can’t let go

 

life gripped him as tightly as he gripped the rail

 

he would sit now until he died

watching his fingers turn darker

than the wood he gripped

he can’t let go

omelet

 

i wanted to make an omelet, denver,

with colors that would make morning weep

like breakfast kicking from inside

the belly of an impoverished child

 

green and red peppers

alternating stop and go on a busy boulevard

or roses with plush leaves

watered by tears and let dry by memories

of parched land and dusty dirt roads

 

poetry doesn't matter much anymore

when words don't save a thirsty child

and graves are dug to apease the living

while the heart of man is darkened

and colors are left to bleed

like cloth from madras

 

ethiopia is hungry, somalia thirsty

india feeds and weeps

while the rains fall and hold buckets of hope

within the grasp of children who die

waiting

wishing for an egg more scrambled

than those cracked in denver

 

 

open only on monday

 

words wrap around my tongue

like a cellophane wrapper wrinkled and crushed

while copper pennies group together

after being spent too many times in too many places

 

i never cared for the smell of root beer or licorice

in the corner candy store where i filled my pockets

with round striped peppermint slash chocolate pieces

that nobody else wanted anyway

 

that’s how the excuses started

and validation was easy when dealing with penny candy

on a saturday when nobody was in school anyhow

and the grocer overcharged for bread

 

monday was coming, it always did

and emptied pockets were comforting and warm

when repentance was behind me for another day

of solitude and peace and promises that i would never do it again

i did

 

and now i can only hear you on mondays

and even then its only in my head

where your words wrap around my hungry tongue

like a cellophane wrapper wrinkled and crushed

 

i hear your smile calling to me

while copper pennies group together

after being spent too many times in too many places

just like the memories i used to open

only on monday

 

 

payson 

 

it was just a little town

to the north

from other little towns

then to the west

where people lived

and died

for more years than even an old man could remember

 

it hadn’t rained

and her thin cloth jacket smelled of dust

probably from yesterday

or some recent wednesday

 

she brought stories

to help pay for the food she needed

and with her hands

she drew circles

to show me the moon

 

her life was more chapped than her lips

and her hair—in need of a brush—

had scattered in more directions

than chubby clouds on wind swept day

 

it was just a little town

yet there were people

who had forgotten how to smile

in the busyness of their empty days

 

hasn’t rained for a spell

she told me

knowing i was an outsider

 

guess i better wash my hair again

 

 

photographic suicide

 

 it was black and white in a world void of color

 —yet the story it told was endless—

 all he owned to prove he really lived.

 

 it didn’t matter to anyone else

 that gray trees stood against a gray sky

 a shade lighter than the gray grass.

 

 the photograph was paper, easily torn,

 like his darkened heart,

 discarded, once used.

 

 he could hear his mother cry out

 —and the sobbing of his sister—

 in the simple scene of emptiness and pain.

 

 it didn’t rain,

 yet the clouds that danced in stillness

 were pallid gray.

 

 it doesn’t matter anymore that he ripped his life in half

 when he destroyed his only boyhood photograph.

 

 it was black and white in a world void of color.

 

 

purple bowl in the window

 

 he didn’t like city buses spouting black smoke,

 park benches overtaken by pigeons,

 or towns with straight, one-way streets.

 

 he didn’t care for department stores featuring girls

 with plastic smiles

 or big-nosed politicians smoking short, fat cigars.

 

 he was raised in the south

 and chewed words longer than originally intended.

 

he didn’t like lemons

 or the purple bowl in the window of the hardware store.

 

monday through friday was sufficient

 and then the weekend came—

 complete with the quiet of silence.

 

 he could hear the void in his heart

 like a glass of undisturbed water…

 or the sound of the sun rising in the east.

 

 barren and hushed—

 the purple bowl in the window reminded him of his life—

 yet he could not hear the melody of the carnival.

 

 sometimes he dreamed of squeezing yellow lemons

 into the purple bowl but that would be fruitless;

 

 the bowl was hollow, the lemons bitter…just like tomorrow.

 

 

purple dress

 

evelyn wore a purple dress on sunday,

and florescent yellow tennis shoes

with pink knee socks pulled up high.

pink always made her feel like a woman;

knee socks kept her legs warm.

 

‘most everybody called her mary

but she knew she was evelyn.

the preacher smiled when she walked by,

but never until his sermon was over,

then he smiled at everyone.

 

her bible was thick and black

but folks only saw a silver and red box

with bold white words, ‘holy bible’

written across the lid bigger than a dollar bill.

 

some folks said she was crazy,

others said she was christian,

they knew because her bible told them so.

she never took her bible from the box,

the pages were new and unturned.

 

today evelyn wore a sweater, bright yellow,

over her sunday dress, purple.

it almost matched her tennis shoes, except for the mud.

 

in the cold morning air

she clutched her boxed bible tightly

protecting her heart from the cold, cruel world,

where everyone called her mary—

except the preacher, when he walked by—

and he never spoke, only nodded…

but in an approving way

that made her feel more like evelyn than mary.

 

she always sat in the same place at church,

third pew from the back,

left hand side of the sanctuary.

(when facing the pulpit, the preacher saw her right)

there were always whispers

when evelyn walked into the big room, the place of refuge…

she had heard the secrets for most of her seventy years.

now the whispers were from the grandchildren

of the girls—now old women—

who, as children, stalked her on the playground

just to sassily mumble, mary, mary, quite contrary.

later magdeline, harlot and other words followed.

she was a third generation harassee

or would have been if that was a word… maybe next year.

 

mary carried a tiny coin purse

with glittering sequins and a metal clasp.

no one had ever seen her open it,

still wrapped in plastic and as clean as the day she bought it.

the sequins were shiny and new,

waving their colors in the plastic bag—

a flag of sorts, red, white and blue—or maybe purple, yellow and pink.

 

her fingers were bent like an illegal u-turn

and only the tiny coin purse and holy bible

kept her fingers from collapsing into her palm in full surrender.

she called it a miracle—that she could unfurl her fingers—

the preacher said it was nothing more than exercise.

 

evelyn lost the one she loved in a time of war

—america is always fighting with someone—

she found him hanging in their garage,

grinding wheel still turning and drills to be sharpened.

his battle was over, his war ceased.

she was twenty-three when herbert quit.

 

people stared when evelyn walked by.

everybody knew about herbert

and how he chose amnesty from the war

in a rather awkward way on that friday in his garage.

he left a one word note: bye.

 

in her closet were four purple dresses,

three pairs of florescent yellow tennis shoes,

and six pairs of pink knee socks,

one pair for every day of the week.

she always stayed home on friday, just in case.

 

evelyn wore a purple dress on monday,

florescent yellow tennis shoes

with pink knee socks pulled up high.

pink always made her feel like a woman;

wearing knee socks she felt special.

 

on monday she wore a green hat

and watched the children go off to school

like she had done more than sixty years ago,

to the whispers  of the girls who stalked her on the playground

just to sassily mumble mary, mary, quite contrary.

later magdeline, harlot and other words followed.

 

evelyn wondered what went wrong, each monday.

she found herbert hanging in the garage

when there was work to be done

and now she had to deal with his funeral on thursday.

she would have to wear her glasses.

 

mary wore a purple dress on tuesday,

florescent yellow tennis shoes

with pink knee socks pulled up high.

pink always made her feel like a woman

and knee socks hid the stubble on her legs.

 

on tuesday she wore her wedding ring

the grocers were flirtatious

and a girl has to be careful in the produce department

she heard the whispers of the grocers who stalked her in the aisles

just to sassily mumble, mary, mary, quite contrary.

later magdeline, harlot and other words followed.

 

she never let the boy carry out her groceries.

food is a very personal thing

and people could learn a lot by what she ate.

just more fodder for gossip.

it was nobody’s business.

 

on wednesday evelyn wore a purple dress

florescent yellow tennis shoes

with pink knee socks pulled up high.

pink always made her feel like a woman

and knee socks hid her bruises.

 

she wore long white gloves on wednesday,

waiting for the day she could weed her garden.

the gardeners came on wednesday,

same men each week for twenty years.

someday she would help pull weeds

and spray tomatoes with deadly pesticides.

 

the gardeners spoke no english

but it didn’t really matter

she never spoke to strangers anyway.

 

 

mary wore a wrinkled purple dress on thursday,

florescent yellow tennis shoes

with pink knee socks pulled up high.

pink always made her feel like a woman

and knee socks made her happy.

 

on thursday mary wore her glasses.

she could hardly see without them

but most days she chose near blindness

over watching the tv news on channel four.

the pretty blonde always whispered

as she read her cue card…mary, mary, quite contrary.

later magdeline, harlot and other words followed.

 

she could see the world more clearly without her glasses.

she thought maybe they were too tight on her nose…

or maybe the ears.

her glasses were suffocating her

but she only wore them on thursday,

the day herbert was buried.

 

on friday, mary was naked

just like herbert when she found him,

hanging by the neck in their tidy garage.

she turned on the grinding wheel and made a pot of coffee

—black with two level spoons of sugar—

while she read the morning comics.

 

on friday there was no whispering, 

there was no laughter.

she sat alone in a world of her own

until the voice within her said,

“evelyn, tomorrow is saturday,”

so she put her coffee down and ironed her purple dress.

 

although mary hated to iron, it was necessary.

she hated wrinkles more than she hated to iron

and the world has enough wrinkles as it is.

 

on saturday evelyn wore a perfect purple dress

florescent yellow tennis shoes

with pink knee socks pulled up high.

pink always made her feel like a woman

and knee socks smelled fresh from the clothesline.

 

mary wore a gold chain necklace on saturday.

herbert’s ring was suspended around her neck;

her nimble fingers touched the shiny links

and she saw how pretty it looked with her purple dress.

the gold brought out the yellow in her tennis shoes

and the chain reinforced the bondage in her head.

 

evelyn  looked forward to sunday

when she could wear her purple dress

and say hello to the preacher

when he walked by, after his sermon.

he would see her holy bible box and smile.

 

mary wore a purple dress on sunday,

florescent yellow tennis shoes

with pink knee socks pulled up high.

pink always made her feel like a woman

and knee socks protected her modesty.

 

‘most everybody called her evelyn

but she knew she was mary.

the preacher never smiled when he walked by,

especially once his sermon was over.

he had better things to do.

 

she lifted the lid from the box that held her bible,

touched the leather cover with her palm,

remembered the day herbert bought it

and told her she might need it real soon.

she didn’t have a purple dress when she was twenty-three.

she didn’t have a gold chain for her neck,

a green hat, bright yellow sweater or glasses.

 

mary closed the lid that covered her holy bible

and looked through the wire mesh thick glass window.

she could hear the whispers from a mile away.

some folks said she was crazy,

others said she was christian.

 

today mary wore a sweater, bright yellow,

over her sunday dress, purple.

it almost matched her tennis shoes—except for the mud—

and she clutched her boxed bible tightly,

protecting her heart from the cold, cruel people

who whispered rumors about the crazy old woman in ward b.

 

 

questions

 

sometimes, when midnight approaches
and the city, except for me, is asleep

i pace from one room to another
walking in silence to nowhere

i remember carolina nights
drinking dr. pepper and sweat
and that you had a southern accent when you laughed

when you died i wept for days
suffocated by memories of your smile

tonight under diamond-like stars
i see you walking in the shadows

i turn back to november
the chill of yesterday's wind
reminding me that you are gone

i can't remember if i told you i love you
the last time our eyes met

i do love you
i think you knew that

yet suicide was your answer
to questions i was afraid to ask

 

reality of tuesday

 

i sat alone on tuesday

looking out  at the leaning fence posts

wishing for rain

to bring a melody of songs that died years ago

 

i watched my own reflection

in decaying wood and twisted bale wire

searching for a smile through my tears

yet feeling only the empty in my belly

 

weeds wrapped around the thirsty posts

strangling only lifelessness

born on a desolate country road

where night slipped to the ground like a heavy shadow

 

i prayed to have a mind with the power

the freedom and jubilation of a smile

and eyes to see beyond the horizon

and not only the twisted wire and strangling weeds

 

as i sat alone on tuesday i knew the heartbreak of emptiness

the loneliness of morning

as it peeled away the black darkness of midnight

leaving only the pain of knowing 

 

this time, tuesday would not pass

 

 

removal of the tree

 

the tree is gone

today they took it away to die alone in a deserted orchard

lemon trees once produced yellow balls there

until one day the land was crushed

 

by a big yellow machine not related to the lemons

it’s heavy blade raped the soil with each full scoop

like a fat man turned loose at a free banquet

 

the coyotes cried before leaving, they never liked lemons anyway

but home was home and they wanted to stay amid the lemon trees

until the yellow machine came and took the last tree away

 

then they shook their heads in sorrow

and wept with howling, crying from their near-empty bellies for the loss

knowing their young would never see the home they left

 

the tree is gone

with one last painful look back the coyotes know it is true

heavy black smoke rose from the big yellow machine

as it burped and bellowed a baritone song

 

and the land they always wanted to keep soft was transformed

to a hard smooth floor more bitter than lemons

 

 

rest with me

 

on a wooden porch looking out to sea
won't you sit for awhile and rest with me

when the evening falls and the sky grows gray
we'll wait until dark then together we'll say...

rest with me...always and forever, rest with me...

 

when the clouds roll in and the sun has gone

and the nights are short and the days are long

 

when the ocean waves have stopped rolling in

we’ll hold hands together and say again

 

rest with me...always and forever, rest with me...

 

on the wooden porch our old rocking chairs

give great comfort as we sit and stare

 

at the feather beds forming in the sky

that give us a purpose, a reason why

 

rest with me...always and forever, rest with me...

i love you...always and forever, rest with me...

i see angels in the sky, rest with me…

 

sad eyes

 

 

i hadn’t seen such sad eyes since san francisco

the night the rainstorm caused them to tear

wind blowing hard

brushing mascara in places she never would have

 

that night her eyes were different

looking away in search of a safe haven

a place where pain could lay under her hair like a pillow

and fear was kept from the room by the scent of stale perfume

 

only an effort on my part allowed our eyes to meet

and then only after trailing them

like hungry sparrows trail helpless butterflies

catching them in mid flight, holding, swallowing

 

never were another’s eyes held so tightly by mine

as the night she died

i knew they were sadder than when she took the bus to monterey

at least she had her own seat and hadn’t forgotten how to smile

 

the red dress wasn’t suitable and the coffin was too big

but they still had a place to lay her down

she always said she would never fit  in this world

turns out she was wrong

 

 

salvation army

 

she wore purple because she liked it.

hanging stiffly on the store rack,

yellow goodwill tag with smudged blue ink,

was it a three or five?

she argued for three—willing to pay five—she did.

her breasts had followed the alphabet

from a to b to c to d

and settled back on c

after some of the air had escaped her life

and left her haggling over purple dresses.

somehow salvation was unreachable

and the army refused to go home,

but she had purple swatches to mend the holes

and fingertips that blended too well

with gunnysack purple and bruised memories.

 

she remembered life in yellows and oranges,

bright colors that complimented the sun.

but that was when she dreamed while still awake

and wished without a penny.

purple happens to life.  and it did.

 

 

san francisco, sixty-eight

 

 she wore springtime in her hair, san francisco, sixty-eight

 while the world collapsed around her, gettin’ high ‘neath the golden gate

 

 fortune cookies served in china town were bittersweet and never true

 but springtime filled the city air, in a city built for two

 

 when he looked into her hungry eyes, he saw a future they couldn’t share

 a foreign war was calling, she knew he’d leave his body there

 

 so they kissed beneath the golden gate and made love beneath the stars

 where the presidio saw the water and brave soldiers plotted wars

 

 and now a lifetime later, she plants bougainvillea in the ground

 remembering san francisco, sixty-eight, and the trumpet’s cruelest sound

 

 

sandusky cemetery

 

 white markers lined the confederate graveyard

 ~a cemetery of sorts~

 where the roots of death burrowed deeper than stubborn magnolias

 

 and the voices of brave soldiers were long since silenced

 though the wind still carried the screams, last words,

 prayers and cursing like a hallelujah chorus on horseback.

 

 young men, mostly still and forever nameless,

 whose bodies had fallen to the ground

 were then planted into it, like a seed, dormant, infertile and wasted.

 

 the cemetery in one night swallowed an army

 larger than the town filled with bellwort and trout lily

 as two little girls grew up more quickly than their years begged of them.

 

 nursing men, still boys, whose arms and legs

 were buried well ahead of their time,

 placing them in bags simply marked ‘miscellaneous’.

 

 wooden markers set aside one boy from the next

 but winter came and firewood was needed

 and markers were white like the winter snow,

 

 and white markers survived the winter

 no better than dead soldiers

 and white markers never specified heaven or hell.

 

 *note:       sandusky confederate cemetery is in Sandusky, ohio…this poem

 is written about the battle of franklin on november 30, 1864.  it took place in

 franklin, tennessee.

 

seedless

 

people said it was much too soon

roses had not yet wilted from the first frost

fruit hung like planets on apple trees

abandoned pumpkins were still ghoulishly orange

 

everything lived except her

 

sometimes november strangles lonely souls

when the ground opens up too easily as if by invitation

and no one stands by the gate to keep innocence out

 

there was no warning that she couldn’t turn back

except on the plastic bottles she dropped by her bedside

 

years have passed since yesterday

laughter visits on occasion like a wayward stranger

in want of a meal and a place to lay his body down

 

but there is no safe haven where memories dare to tread

 

wilted roses kneel at the gravesite

a memorial to a beautiful life so quickly passed

thorns explode, guarding her as a sentry protecting royalty

 

but the earth remains soft and fallow

 

seedless

except for the soul she planted there

 

 

seven steps

 

there were seven steps
coming down from the wooden porch
to the sidewalk
that wound between the massive trees

they creaked a little

though no more than the wheels

turning in my head

while going nowhere

 

i was younger then

and counting steps didn’t matter

until she died

and laid like a rag doll in her padded bed

 

i don’t remember what she wore

just that her hair was soft

and she wore a smile

like i had never seen before

 

her last ride was solemn

and only those who knew her

cried loudly with no tears

the others waited

 

there are seven steps

going up to the wooden porch

from the sidewalk

that winds between the massive trees

 

they still creak

louder now than before

i remember that day

when the steps ached like my heart

 

 

pas de bourrée

 

who’s that dancing in my head

leaping and bouncing through the vacated spaces of my mind?

tap dancing in ballerina shoes

in an awkward pas de bourrée  across the hollow hardwood floor

while with constant pounding of his heavy hammer

a workman beats disappearing nails into forgiving lumber

 

 

who’s that talking in my head?

saying dreadful things i shouldn’t hear about my languid life

as auburn crickets chirp loudly

rubbing their forewings together while expecting better times

and a woodpecker taps on a tree trunk, knocking for insects

scurrying in crevices past once-thick bark

 

who’s that cluttering my mind

with needless facts about fictional men and roads that don’t exist

while the annoying drip of a burnished brass faucet

dribbles loudly on the pristine white rose that never grew

and the keys of an ergonomic keyboard

curved like the palm of her hand are abused with an unhappy fist?

 

can i silence the scream of desperation

and listen to voices other than those raging unbridled in my head

in the battleground where carnage lays bountiful

and the colliding sounds of life explode like grapes under my feet?

one of me answered this way and the other that

but it didn’t matter, a single blast finally brought silence to my world

 

omelet

 

i wanted to make an omelet, denver,

with colors that would make morning weep

like breakfast kicking from inside

the belly of an impoverished child

 

green and red peppers

alternating stop and go on a busy boulevard

or roses with plush leaves

watered by tears and let dry by memories

of parched land and dusty dirt roads

 

poetry doesn't matter much anymore

when words don't save a thirsty child

and graves are dug to apease the living

while the heart of man is darkened

and colors are left to bleed

like cloth from madras

 

ethiopia is hungry, somalia thirsty

india feeds and weeps

while the rains fall and hold buckets of hope

within the grasp of children who die

waiting

wishing for an egg more scrambled

than those cracked in denver

 

open only on monday

 

words wrap around my tongue

like a cellophane wrapper wrinkled and crushed

while copper pennies group together

after being spent too many times in too many places

 

i never cared for the smell of root beer or licorice

in the corner candy store where i filled my pockets

with round striped peppermint slash chocolate pieces

that nobody else wanted anyway

 

that’s how the excuses started

and validation was easy when dealing with penny candy

on a saturday when nobody was in school anyhow

and the grocer overcharged for bread

 

monday was coming, it always did

and emptied pockets were comforting and warm

when repentance was behind me for another day

of solitude and peace and promises that i would never do it again

i did

 

and now i can only hear you on mondays

and even then its only in my head

where your words wrap around my hungry tongue

like a cellophane wrapper wrinkled and crushed

 

i hear your smile calling to me

while copper pennies group together

after being spent too many times in too many places

just like the memories i used to open

only on monday

 

 

payson

 

it was just a little town

to the north then to the west;

where people lived and died for more years

than even an old man could remember.

 

it hadn’t rained

and her thin cloth jacket smelled of dust

—probably from yesterday—

or some recent wednesday.

 

she brought lively stories

to help pay for the food she needed…

and with her hands she drew circles

to show me the moon.

 

her life was more chapped than her lips

and her hair, in need of a brush,

had scattered in more directions

than the clouds on a stormy day.

 

it was just a little town

and still there were people

who had forgotten how to smile

in the busyness of their empty days.

 

“ain’t rained for a spell.”

she told me,

knowing i was an outsider.

“guess I’d better wash my hair again.”

 

purple bowl in the window

 

 

he didn’t like city buses spouting black smoke,

park benches overtaken by pigeons, 

or towns with straight, one-way streets.

 

he didn’t care for department stores featuring girls

with plastic smiles

or big-nosed politicians smoking short, fat cigars.

 

he was raised in the south

and chewed words longer than originally intended.

 

he didn’t like lemons

or the purple bowl in the window of the hardware store.

 

monday through friday was sufficient

—and then the weekend came—

complete with the quiet of silence.

 

he could hear the void in his heart 

like a glass of undisturbed water…

or the sound of the sun rising in the east.

 

barren and hushed—

the purple bowl in the window reminded him of his life—

yet he could not hear the melody of the carnival.

 

sometimes he dreamed of squeezing yellow lemons

into the purple bowl but that would be fruitless;

the bowl was hollow, the lemons bitter…just like tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

TW: SUICIDE & MENTAL ILLNESS

This started out as a short poem but evolved into

a short story. 

I dare say that everyone will find themselves represented in this story.

 

It is much lengthier than I intended but in order

to tell the story I needed every word.

 

paranoia in the purple dress

 

 

evelyn wore a purple dress on sunday,

and florescent yellow tennis shoes

with pink knee socks pulled up high.

pink always made her feel like a woman;

knee socks kept her legs warm.

 

‘most everybody called her mary

but she knew she was evelyn.

 

the preacher smiled

when she walked by him

 

but never until his sermon was over,

then he smiled at everyone.

 

her bible was thick and black

but folks only saw a silver and red box

with bold white words, ‘holy bible’

written across the lid bigger than a dollar bill.

 

some folks said she was crazy,

others said she was christian,

they knew because her bible told them so.

 

she rarely took her bible from the box,

the pages were crisp, new and unturned.

 

today evelyn wore a sweater, bright yellow,

over her sunday dress, purple.

it almost matched her tennis shoes, except for the mud.

 

part ii

 

in the cold morning air

evelyn clutched her boxed bible tightly

protecting her heart from the cold, cruel world,

where everyone called her mary—

except the preacher, when he walked by—

and he never spoke, only nodded…

but in an approving way

that made her feel more like evelyn than mary.

 

she always sat in the same place at church,

third pew from the back,

left hand side of the sanctuary.

(when facing the pulpit)

the preacher saw her on his right

 

there were always whispers

when evelyn walked into the big room, the sanctuary,

the place of refuge…

 

she had heard the secrets for most of her seventy-five years.

 

now the whispers were from the grandchildren

of the girls-now old women-

who, as children, stalked her on the playground

just to sassily mumble, mary, mary, quite contrary.

 

 

later magdeline, harlot and other words followed.

 

she was a third generation harassee

or would have been if that was a word… maybe next year.

 

mary carried a tiny coin purse

with glittering sequins and a metal clasp.

no one had ever seen her open it,

still wrapped in plastic and as clean as the day she bought it.

the sequins were shiny and new

 

her fingers were bent like an illegal u-turn

and only the tiny coin purse and bible

kept her fingers from collapsing into her palm in full surrender.

she called it a miracle-that she could unfurl her fingers-

the preacher said it was nothing more than exercise.

 

part iii

 

evelyn lost the one she loved in a time of war

-america is always fighting with someone-

she found him hanging in their garage,

grinding wheel still turning and drills to be sharpened.

his battle was over, his war ceased.

she was twenty-three when herbert quit.

 

people stared when evelyn walked by.

everybody knew about herbert

and how he chose absolution from the war

in a rather awkward way on that monday in his garage.

he left a three-letter one-word note:

 

bye.

 

in her closet were four purple dresses,

three pairs of florescent yellow tennis shoes,

and six pairs of pink knee socks,

one pair for every day of the week.

 

and of course, ‘unmentionables’ which shall remain unmentionable

 

she always stayed home on one unselected day

 

evelyn wore a purple dress on monday,

florescent yellow tennis shoes

with pink knee socks pulled up high.

pink always made her feel like a woman;

when w earing knee socks she felt special.

 

on monday she also wore a green hat

and watched the children go off to school

like she had done more than fifty-three years ago,

to the whispers of the girls who stalked her on the playground

just to sassily mumble mary, mary, quite contrary.

later magdeline, harlot and other words followed.

 

part iv

 

evelyn wondered what went wrong, each monday.

that’s when she found herbert hanging in the garage

when there was work to be done

and now she had to deal with his funeral on thursday.

she would have to wear her glasses.

 

evelyn wore a purple dress on tuesday,

florescent yellow tennis shoes

with pink knee socks pulled up high.

pink always made her feel like a woman

and knee socks hid the stubble on her legs.

 

on tuesday she wore her wedding ring

the grocers were flirtatious

and a girl has to be careful in the produce department

she heard the whispers of the grocers who stalked her in the aisles

just to sassily mumble, mary, mary, quite contrary.

later magdeline, harlot and other words followed.

 

she never let the boy carry out her groceries.

food is a very personal thing

and people could learn a lot by what she ate.

just more fodder for gossip.

it was nobody’s business.

 

part v

 

on wednesday evelyn wore a purple dress

florescent yellow tennis shoes

with pink knee socks pulled up high.

pink always made her feel like a woman

and knee socks hid her bruises.

 

she wore long white gloves on wednesday,

waiting for the day she could weed her garden.

the gardeners came on wednesday,

same men each week for twenty years.

someday she would help pull weeds

and spray tomatoes with deadly pesticides.

 

She thought about asking

How to use the hose nozzle but

the gardeners spoke no english

but it didn’t really matter

she never spoke to strangers anyway.

 

part vi

 

mary wore a wrinkled purple dress on thursday,

florescent yellow tennis shoes

with pink knee socks pulled up high.

pink always made her feel like a woman

and knee socks made her happy.

 

on thursday mary wore her glasses.

she could hardly see without them

but most days she chose near blindness

over watching the tv news on channel four.

 

the pretty blonde always whispered

as she read her cue card…mary, mary, quite contrary.

later magdeline, harlot and other words followed.

 

also, she knew from his look,

the weatherman despised her

 

she could see the world more clearly without her glasses.

she thought maybe they were too tight on her nose…

or maybe the ears.

her glasses were suffocating her

but she only wore them on thursday,

the day herbert was buried.

 

part vii

 

on friday, mary was naked

just like herbert when she found him,

hanging by the neck in their tidy garage.

she turned on the grinding wheel and made a pot of coffee

—black with two level spoons of sugar—

while she read the morning comics.

 

on friday there was no whispering, 

there was no laughter.

she sat alone in a world of her own

until the voice within her said,

“evelyn, tomorrow is saturday,”

so she put her coffee down and ironed her purple dress.

 

although mary hated to iron, it was necessary.

she hated wrinkles more than she hated to iron

and the world has enough wrinkles as it is.

 

Part viii

 

on saturday evelyn wore a perfect purple dress

florescent yellow tennis shoes

with pink knee socks pulled up high.

pink always made her feel like a woman

and knee socks smelled fresh from the clothesline.

 

she wore a gold chain necklace on saturday.

herbert’s ring was suspended around her neck;

her nimble fingers touched the shiny links

and she saw how pretty it looked with her purple dress.

the gold brought out the yellow in her tennis shoes

and the chain reinforced the bondage in her head.

 

evelyn looked forward to sunday

when she could wear her purple dress

and say hello to the preacher

when he walked by, after his sermon.

he would see her bible box and smile.

 

part Ix

 

mary wore a purple dress on sunday,

florescent yellow tennis shoes

with pink knee socks pulled up high.

pink always made her feel like a woman

and knee socks protected her modesty.

 

‘most everybody called her evelyn

but she knew she was mary.

the preacher never smiled when he walked by,

especially once his sermon was over.

he had better things to do.

 

she lifted the lid from the box that held her bible,

touched the leather cover with her palm,

remembered the day herbert bought it

and told her she might need it real soon.

she didn’t have a purple dress when she was twenty-three.

she didn’t have a gold chain for her neck,

a green hat, bright yellow sweater or glasses.

 

 

 

part x

 

mary closed the lid that covered her bible

and looked through the wire mesh thick glass window.

she could hear the whispers from no one who stood staring

some folks said she was crazy,

others said she was christian.

 

today mary wore a sweater, bright yellow,

over her sunday dress, purple.

it almost matched her tennis shoes—except for the mud—

and she clutched her boxed bible tightly,

protecting her heart from the cold, cruel people

who whispered rumors in the empty halls

rumors about mary evelyn

 

the crazy old woman in ward 23b.

.