Navy family

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He is a hero
so many stripes on his shoulders
and medals on his chest
salute
Commander, aviator, protector of the free,
danger, deployments, tours of duty,
then accolades, parades, promotions.
Back at home, we
crumbled
in silence, while he was gone.
No one noticed,
not even him.
memorial
days

When Mother Gets Angry

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When Mother gets angry, the children are not safe,

clinging to walls that collapse around them, crushing

childhood beneath her wrath.  She roars at us, and throws

our things about, for they mean nothing to Mother

when she is mad.  She’ll unleash torrents, and we will try

to hide, but Mother knows all the hiding places.

She will knock them down or flood them with her rage, until

we are gasping for air, begging Mother to forgive us.

And when she calms again, Mother is nearly silent.

She never apologizes, only watches us through cloudy eyes

as we try to pick up broken pieces of Mother’s fury.

We hold the children and shake, and try to explain, but

we can’t.  Haunted by the cruelty Mother has unleashed

on some, we whisper and hope, and glance up warily.

Do not make Mother angry.

 

 

Two Times across the Tappan Zee Bridge

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The first time was at dusk.  The Hudson River stretched

like an invitation in the gentlest glow, both banks’

forest green arms holding me, as I rose with the bridge.

And at the top, nightfall’s vision sang, and I held,

floated there, watching the city catch the river.

Her skyscrapers gathered and huddled and whispered

of the night to come, and began to switch on spots

of bright into the fading light.  And beside, tiny, immense

Liberty stood, knowing the city and flowing the river,

and lifted us all across the bridge.

 

When I returned, it was morning.  The light was harsher,

less forgiving.  The climb to the top of the bridge seemed

steeper, somehow, for us all.  And I saw signs, along

the railings, read them.  “Don’t give up. There is hope.

Call the hotline.”  Street signs. Bridge signs. Signs.

At the top: “Do not jump.”  On this, the North side, only

the river, the fall.  And the ghosts that had put all the signs

on the bridge.  I could still see them jumping.  And my car

would not float but wanted to stop and fling its doors

open for me.  But the sign said, “Do not jump.”

 

 

 

Lessons

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On the Sun’s day, she called for a walk,

so I obliged, and listened to the birds of Spring.

They sang to each other, but left me out of their songs.

My steps were slow, while walking, to know.

And back in the woods, so far that I was alone,

they began to come, each at a different place

on my path:  those that I fear most –

the snakes.  They wound right to me, looked through

my eyes, never stopping – though I could not

move.  They each wore different clothes, but none

feared me;  they approached.  Stopped.

Spoke their silence.  Froze me in the leafy moment.

Seven times, seven snakes, seven silences,

each of them with something to say.

 

 

Two More Award Nominations (Thank You!!!!)

I am overwhelmed with the support and encouragement I have gotten from this Word Press community. I have gotten two new award nominations:

The Shine On Blog Award

The Super Duper Sweet Blogging Award

I genuinely appreciate this recognition. It was difficult for me to share my writing at first, because I am such an introvert, but this community is so encouraging and supportive!

I have shared so many facts about myself already…..nobody wants to hear more!  I am happy, however, to share more blogs that you might want to go check out:

http://ackans.com/

breathofgreenair.wordpress.com

http://jdubqca.com/

http://melodylowes.com

http://luxcapacity.wordpress.com

http://yiwrite.com/

 

Thank you, everyone, for continuing to share ❤

 

The Girl in the Purple Dress (for June)

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Her name was June, but she left in May,

before the sunflowers could bloom and ask

for more days.  In the stone church, whispers

spoke of the claim: cancer, a brain tumor.

Stolen summer laid her cold, draped in flowers

taken in their bloom. They would die soon. 

I kept my head bowed, listened for June,

waited for the preaching, sobbing, and hymns to end.

In the front of the church, in a purple dress

with a black bow in her hair, June’s daughter sat;

I knew her well. She looked straight ahead and made

no sound, and that is why I kept my head down.

And when the cars were gone, and I was alone

I wept, and I wept to the church and through June.

The last months of her life, when the brain tumor

grasped and haunted her head, June had changed.

And her daughter, so many days, so many different

colored bows, would tell stories of the crazy things

her mom would do and stay. And it wasn’t June.

It wasn’t your Mom. I cry because we have lost

part of summer, but I weep for her girl in the purple dress,

and the June she remembered as she sat on those steps.

Silent with Wonder

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In the tenderness of morning, the fog

wraps the horses in promise and paints

the yellow blanket soft.  The horses

speak their quiet, feel their Spring,

dance their velvet noses in flowered field.

Silent are the pines, watching

through dew drop eyes, hanging

their needled peace in the foggy morning.

Early morning hoof prints mark time,

yellow daybreak, flowery fog of pineful watch,

and I am silent with wonder.

ones that walk away

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ones that walk away without saying good-bye (good-bye)

leave me shiver the rain (looking for shadows)

reasons like questions wrap me still (you left)

empty trains ride the know (without me)

the bench of the station, cold iron feel (alone)

blankness of silence, fog of your go (I wait)

no words you left, no solace or explain (mined hollow)

just gone, only gone, words secured with you (I fall)

disappeared and all, away, and spared nothing (not me)