The Poetry Side of Me

I was reading someone's blog recently and realized that maybe some of my newer readers aren't aware that I sometimes dabble in poetry. I'm adding a few of my previously written poems here today.
I should warn you that--for me--poetry is usually born out of strong emotion: hurt, pain, anger, or love. Some of these might be a little sad. One is silly and maybe a few are all full of lluuurrrrrvvveeee. You'll have to read to see, wontcha?
and to my faithful, long-time readers, I hope you don't mind reading a few of my poems again!
Love y'all,
LollyFab :)

Cuibreach le nil gra

Her words make chains that bind me

To the pain I always feel

When I hear what she says behind me.

Those words do nothing but steal


The peace I felt when she tucked me in.

The love I felt when she gave me him.

The bond I felt when she took a stance

And did my hair on the day I danced

The pride I felt when she said that day

That words are the court where I hold sway


But all that flies when she says those things

And the preacher speaks when the church bell rings

And out of his mouth comes these words of truth

About how little I am really worth.


Does any love flow from her heart to mine?

Will my questions be answered with the passing of time?

When I need wiping of tears or smoothing of hair

Can I ever be certain that she will be there?


I'll tell you the truth; and lie I will not

I really just want what it feels I ain't got.

Like a hug or a cuddle in an old rockin' chair

Or the tiniest piece of her heart I can share.



But her words build chains that bind me

To the pain I always feel

When I hear what she says behind me

And I fear that I never shall heal.

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and now a fun one which I wrote sitting at Krispy Kreme Donuts one evening.

Ode to the "KK"

for Fred and Susan

Rows of donuts

marching two by two.

Once hot, but plain;

now, they shine anew

with melty glaze

afixed atop the rounds

This store never empties

because their fans abound!!

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Somehow, Something

for keith

Even when you don't try to do so; somehow, you capture my attention.
Do you know that I recognize you before I see you? When I hear your footsteps on the carpeted floor behind my desk; I know it is you. I have to fight to keep myself from watching you pass by me. Sometimes, I lose the fight. (Just ask Mary Ann. She catches me all the time.)

You are so honestly yourself that I'm a little in awe of you. You loudly laugh your unique and very charming laugh without a thought of what others may think or the distraction you are causing me! Without fail, each time I hear it; I smile.

And I must admit that, sometimes, when you turn your brown eyes and wide smile my way; I find that, for a moment, anyway, I forget both my name and how to breathe.

You are not afraid to open doors for people with busy hands, or to read your Bible so that any person passing your cube may notice it. You do not hesitate to offer carrying a heavy box. You are respectful and thoughtful and I really like all of these things about you. You are one of those rare nice guys; one of those really decent human beings; and you are so obviously...and quietly...a real man.

There is just something about you, Keith, though I cannot tell you exactly what it is. And while I know that you are not for me, I thought you ought to know that when I look at you, I see something beautiful.
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After getting news that several members of the congregation I was then attending had left God and done it in a BIG way, this poem forced its way out of me:


Jonestown
You think you are sipping wine from crystal goblets; pinkies out, diamonds shining, at an elite soiree held by the Dean of Harvard where no one is wearing white because it is well past labor day, but, in reality, you are drinking Kool-Aid out of paper cups with crumpled rims and faded blue flowers stamped on the outside. You see prosperity, but you are impoverished and you just keep sipping Kool-Aid.


You think you are eating a five course meal prepared by the foremost vegan chef in the world, complete with salad, sprouts and soy milk, but in reality, you are eating the contents of the Folger's can stored underneath the stove that is filled with the bacon drippings from the last 5 months, followed by a super-sized Big Mac salad. You see oneness and community, but you are drinking Kool-Aid, alone and separated.

You think you are drinking the freshest, crispest, coolest and cleanest spring water, ladled out – just now – from the very source itself. but, in reality, you are drinking Kool-aid, and not just any flavor of Kool-Aid, either. You are drinking that disgusting, nasty grape flavor! BLECH!! You see purity and responsibility and enlightenment, but you are muddied and selfish and confused and you just keep drinking Kool-Aid.

You think you are welcoming health at the gym; muscles bulging, hearts pumping, sweat glistening, but, in reality, you are sitting on a faded couch with the coils sticking out of it; a glass of Kool-aid sitting on the end table, one hand scratching your hairy, fat bellies under a threadbare wife-beater and the other one clutching a fried drumstick. The shrieks and cries of your 18 children are coming through the torn front screen-door of your mobile home. You see health, but you are eating LARD...and slowly dying...and you just keep gulping Kool-Aid.
I have some water. I'm begging you...Please...come drink some.

Luke 17:1-2
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Like Alice

It's hard to keep my chin up

There is no "Little Chopper" living here.

Each step is as through sea water.

And I do not feel Him near.



I know this is all my fault.

I've allowed it to come to this place.

Yet I don't want to keep struggling onward

With this fake smile painted onto my face.



This is not one of those cases, y'all

Where I don't believe that He is Him.

I know He is this Great Body of Water

That I just ain't swimmin' in.



I've allowed myself to wander, broadly.

I'm down here in this grave of a pit.

It's cold. It's dark. I want out of here.

But I just can't seem to climb out of it.



Why is this bed so much more comfortable?

Why does my head hurt this way?

Why does Pinocchio's nose grow?

Because his heart and mouth don't agree.



Can't you feel that I feel lost?

Can't you see the tears in my eyes?

Can't I be brave enough to tell you?

Can't your heart see through all my lies?



I need help. I need a way out of this pit.

The bottom seems miles from the top.

Like Alice, I'm falling, falling, falling

And I can't figure out how to stop.
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Repeating Unspoken Words

for my mom.

They are in the tiny, hand-made,

A-line dress with tangerine-colored strings

that tied at the back of my sun-burned neck.

Each stitch of the red, embroidered

flower on the front pocket

repeating unspoken words of love.



They are in the, now tarnished, Gemeinhardt flute

which often sat with me in the last chair.

Each payment of $23.00 earned at

her job at Judson Road Growers

repeating unspoken words of love.



They are in the Christmas tree cake needed for

biology class, remembered...almost too late.

That last bit of colored, home-made frosting,

squeezed out at two in the morning,

repeating unspoken words of love.



They are in the tears which fell from

the bottom of those really thick

blue glasses as I climbed into Daddy's

truck at 4 a.m. and headed toward downtown.

Each wipe of kleenex at her eyes

repeating unspoken words of love.



They are in Claude, the dog. His soft white fur,

dark black ears, and pink bow are a comfort

to me as he lies beside me each night.

Each gruffly spoken word that boxing day

(Here you go. He is for you)

repeating unspoken words of love.



They are in the two, maybe even three blankets

that she wrapped around me when she

found me asleep on the upstairs couch.

Each word of comfort, whispered softly

as I lie there nearing dreamland

repeating unspoken words of love.



They are in the hour long phone calls...

which, now, always end with

spoken words of love.

But she doesn't need to speak them.

...not really.

because I still hear her voice

repeating unspoken words of love.
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and the last one:


Harbinger

He sees me, and he is my friend.

I love the boy--the wild child--in him. His mischievous grin melts my heart. I feel it's pitter patter begin when I see his outstretched hand inviting the wild child inside of me to "come out and play."

He sees me, and he respects me.

He knows I have a brain and he appreciates the fact that I can think for myself. He is no Monsieur Gaston, smiling into a mirror whilst he throws my books into the rubbish bin and then pats me on my pretty little head.

He sees me, and he talks to me.

He speaks his heart out loud. He knows it is important to me and that I will listen. He listens to my heart because what I say is important to him. He is my friend.

He sees me, and he adores me.

I can see it in his face. Though he doesn't speak the words explicitly, his smiling gaze says "Do you see that woman over there? Isn't she fabulous? She is mine!!"

He sees me, and he protects me.

I belong to him and he knows it. He cherishes me with his hand on my back as we walk through the tumultuous crowd.

He sees me, and he leads me.

He knows I am his responsibility, so he provides me with security, guidance, and an easy path to walk which he has already safely trod.

He sees me, and he wants me.

There is nothing else in this world except him when his hands are on my hips or his fingers are threaded through my hair as he kisses me.

He sees me, and he is my friend...still.

He takes my hand in his hand and smiles affectionately at me, just before leaning over to kiss me on my cheek. On our front porch, we rock together, my husband and I, in our wooden rocking chairs, watching our grandkids play in the deepening darkness of an autumn evening.