Interrupting chemo’s cruelty
I wield the silver blades which
until now, had simply trimmed bangs,
snipped itchy tags out of shirt collars.
A fine paintbrush of mom’s black hair
in one hand; the other shaken
by tiny vibrations,
each strand liberated
as the scissors close over them
by my will.
Finished, our gazes lock
in the bathroom mirror.
This poem was inspired by the Tweetspeak Book Club featuring Megan Willome’s new title,”The Joy of Poetry.” Writing for life is so much better in community~Will you be our poetry buddy?
The bread and herbed oil arrive
on the table just after the water and wine.
With bare hands we tear the bread
and dip it into a golden sea,
savoring the taste,
anointing the words we give
to each other and receive.
The morning we laid Nanny to rest,
snowflakes settled around us
like the ashen fallout
of Feast day fireworks.
Their only purpose, our need
of a white covering,
a shroud over the casket,
footsteps on blanketed ground
This day, a cross of ashes on my forehead.
In memory of our grandmother Carma Rinaldi, 6/18/1910-2/11/2010
i take my place
among the trees
toes deep, gathering
arms wide, sheltering
when the west wind
rustling leaves, draws
nymphs from their sleep
i am caught in between
swaying limbs, dancing
to a sacred song of
then slowly, silencing
like the trees
my body holds secrets
connecting me from history
deep in this wood
the ancient trees exist
wise in their lordship
over the river
i rest midbridge and look to the sky
water flecks my skin, either
spits from the shivering canopy
or from a shower
penetrating the lush cover.
when a tree falls here
the others catch it,
holding it’s new position,
uprooted from the ground
or splintered somewhere in between
midbridge, i am resting
today it rained
sky so low the gray
brushed my skin,
back to the sky
the air, heavy wet
lost it’s grip,
stippled my windshield
was it gunshot or thunder,
curses or prayers last night
directing my dreams
on the city street
i slip one finger
through the belt loop
of his jeans.
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As twilight succumbed to night’s inkish cloak,
A melodic penumbra enticed me.
It beckoned me nigh, the instruments broke
Through a distance that tends to define me.
Abreast of the band pulsed the undulant
Crowd as the bass ground my hips to its groove
The saxophone wailed a lick of consent
To the trombone that had nothing to prove.
The drummer kept pace, our rhythms entrained
As the energy wound us together
The shadows, we pushed, the players, they strained
Over the improvisational tether.
Hands lifted high, momentum increased
To the infinite night our desires released.