I Wish For You by Debbie

I Wish For You

Happiness
I wish for you
A long and healthy life
But if it doesn't happen that
You live a happy and full life anyway
Making the best of whatever life brings to you
Life doesn't always give you what you want
But in spite of that happiness
Is there for the taking
I wish for you
Happiness

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Night Light by Debbie

Depression Absence of Light Perpetual  Night

Ruth Again

Who can say why I post what I do?  I was going to post a new one I am working on, but I have been discouraged and it needs more work; I don't even know if it's worth pursuing.  Here is one I'd like to resurrect.  I wrote it about a year and a half ago when my granddaughter had just turned 16.  Much has changed in her life and my life since, but I dragged this out and I feel safe working on it.  So, since I didn't write it for any classes or anything, I don't think I've put it on here before.  Here it is:

Granddaughter at Sixteen 

 

A peal of laughter seeps through the wall, whirls

dust into a golden galaxy in the window's light.

Inside, her room is a kaleidoscope of crumpled clothing

and incense, psychedelic sketches hanging askew,

a patchwork of red textbooks and pink paperbacks.

The black cat startles from a dream in his bed of fuzzy

blankets and stretches awake as she strokes his back,

until sparks leap like stars that blink on a field

of gauzy blue curtains. My granddaughter doesn't know

where she comes from or where she is going

any more than the cat understands the world he entered.

She pliés and plucks a bright rag from the floor,

slips it over her slender neck, and it falls,

polished silk, to sheath her lithe frame.

Her flexible backbone twists her upright,

she glissades to the kitchen, cell to her ear,

a rosy shell, all creamy-skinned ease.

She bows before the refrigerator and rises

with a bowl of chile and sharp cheddar,

spoons it into her soft insides

through the perfect coil of her mouth,

and still her skin is scented with honey,

her breath a confection.

Tendrils of my DNA spiral in her cells, filaments

of ancestors incandesce her flesh, and sometimes

she half-laughs, a gesture, her mother's and mine,

that climbs down the family tree into the future.

She moves to the den with grace, her arms sweep the air

as if pruning the past, praising what is yet to come.

She opens Pandora on the Dell,

turns the volume to a high, throbbing beat.

One raised eyebrow expresses her boredom

with our company, and leaving the music to pulse,

she spin-steps back to her room,

shutting the door firmly behind her.

Ruth beats a dead horse

I was going to post something new, but I decided for one last opinion about one of these I'm planning to submit.  Anna, I think you were the only one who said we should know the baby's overdue sooner, though I think some didn't quite get why I wanted to hold on longer.  I don't think this really answers it, but...

First, what was to be my final version:

Holding On

July, the leaves are dense with chlorophyll,

a green I want to grasp, and plums in hand

are sweet. My husband and I keep vigil.

We watch my swollen belly, firm and round

a melon ripening while the fetus grows,

my sugared blood sustaining our shared bond.

My partner and I are forty and we know

the season soon will turn, descend to fall.

Now I want to feel the jutting elbows

and bony knees, vernix covered, caul

encased and safe--away from the knock

at the worldly door--inside, behind snug walls.

The last time I'll be pregnant, I balk.

I'm five days overdue and culpable.

I've suspended earthly time, I sleepwalk...

A one way voyage through the birth canal--

our cleavage, breath from breath, will be final.

...................................................

And then, just transposing second to last stanza to first, which messes up terza rima form, (but I could work on trying to restore it if anyone thinks it's really, really worth it):

Holding On

 

The last time I'll be pregnant, I balk.

I'm five days overdue and culpable.

I've suspended earthly time, I sleepwalk...

July, the leaves are dense with chlorophyll,

a green I want to grasp, and plums in hand

are sweet. My husband and I keep vigil.

We watch my swollen belly, firm and round

a melon ripening while the fetus grows,

my sugared blood sustaining our shared bond.

My partner and I are forty and we know

the season soon will turn, descend to fall.

Now I want to feel the jutting elbows

and bony knees, vernix covered, caul

encased and safe--away from the knock

at the worldly door--inside, behind snug walls.

A one way voyage through the birth canal--

our cleavage, breath from breath, will be final.
 ........................................

Okay, this is added a little later. I'm sorry, I said only one post a week after last week, but these are going to be submitted this week and I have one last question.  I have two alternative third stanzas for this one, in italics.  Is one better, and why?

Adios, Salad Days

Corn tortillas spread with creamy green avocado,

the seductive Aztec fruit--and smooth leaf

shoots, succulent verdolaga, crowned

with rounds of red tomato flesh.

The first bite revels on our tongues like

the spent juice of youth. It floats down

our throats to our hearts, which split

open like ripe love apples.

Eat slowly. Before we know,

it's gone, like the few years

we have left.

Eat slowly. Before we know,

it's almost gone. The shreds (or since you didn't like shreds, smudges or crumbs)

are like the few years

we have left.

Wipe away the seeds

with a white rag,

a shroud.

The Light

My Light

Cold, hard shards of glass

Pierce my empty heart

My eyes, tears of loneliness

Whenever we’re apart

Being my sun and my moon

You brighten my dark sky

Darkness I feel without you

Impossible to deny

Longing for you strong arms

And your gentle touch

Darkness without you frightens me

Memories of you I tightly clutch

You brighten my days

And light my lonely nights

Your presence next to me

Fills my heart with delight

Dreaming of you in the dark night

Seems so real you are here

Awakening to your gentle caress

With you here, there is no fear

Together as we are meant to be

Fills my heart with bliss

As our longing lips touch

I ‘m filled with love and happiness

Quatrain Poem

From Ruth

Hi, Here are the last two of the five I am planning to submit to "Lyrical Iowa."  At least one of them I've put up on this site before, and maybe the other one, but since now I'm going to submit them to something, I want feedback.

The first is a truncated version of one I did last year.  Too many "the"s in it, but I'm not sure if I want to cut any of them.  The second poem is a terza rima, (also from last year,) which means it is in a specific form, so I can't make changes without substituting something with equal syllable count, etc.

The reason I chose these is that either they were under 20 lines or easy to cut to 20 lines.  Maybe not a good reason but that's the line limit for submissions.  After this you'll only see one poem a week.

Ashes

A cloud of smoke hovers above him; the cigarette's eye glows

at me when he breathes in and winks when he breathes out.

I don't need this evidence of his love. He survived war and famine

to cross a scrolling ocean and a rolling continent to become my father.

Sparks fall to the floor and he curses in a tongue that's all gasps

and clashing consonants. I fetch a heavy ashtray, cut-glass,

to set on the breakfast table. The sun filters through it like a prism;

phantoms sway on his white shirt like nightshade in the wind.

I pick a silvery coin from his jingling pocket; brown tobacco

covers it in flecks. I inhale the loamy smell of the leaf he carries

in a packet like an herbal amulet. Dizzy stripes, like prisoners wear,

slant through the blinds. My father lifts me to his shoulder.

This close, his eyes reveal a grief he's carried with him since the last war,

when his past smoldered to ashes. I'll grow tall in the light

of my new life; he'll shrink into shadows cast by the old world,

he'll become smoke in my lungs, dust in my throat.

But now my father lowers me to the linoleum by the oak icebox,

my gleaming dime gripped tight in my fist. He squeezes orange juice,

a bright miracle of the new world. I lift my glass and the cold liquid

slips down my throat, rich and sweet. The newspaper exhales as he folds it.

or The newspaper inhales when he opens it. or He opens the newspaper; it inhales.

...................................................................................................................................

   Holding On

July, the leaves are dense with cholorophyll,

a deep mid-summer green, and plums in hand

are sweet. My husband and I keep vigil:

We watch my swelling belly, firm and round,

a melon ripened while the fetus grows,

my sugared blood sustaining our shared bond.

My partner and I are forty and we know

the season soon will turn, descend to fall.

Now I want to feel the jutting elbows

and knees, blanketed in creamy wax, caul

encased and safe--away from the knock

at the worldly door--inside, behind snug walls.

The last time I'll be pregnant, I balk:

I'm five days overdue and culpable;

I've suspended earthly time, I sleepwalk...

A one way voyage through the birth canal--

our cleavage, breath from breath, will be final.

Here We Go Again, Again, from Ruth

Okay, since I didn't get comments on last weeks entry, I'm doing two this week.  Both ones I plan to be in the five I'm going to submit to Lyrical Iowa soon, so I need comments soon.  One of them appeared in an earlier form here last year.  As usual, the things in italics are either choices or possibilities to leave out or change.

Eighth and Main

You park five blocks away since it's a pleasant day

to walk--well, it's a little hot, but your bank

account is low and the parking lot expensive,

and you certainly could use the exercise.

You're plodding along the sidewalk on Eighth,

then /when you turn the corner onto Main.

For a moment you feel that old optimism,

the possibility of a bright future, infuse your being.

Is it the way the green fingers of ginkgo reach

through the infinite blue sky to clasp the golden sphere

of the sun, cradle it, ready to hand you its pure

radiance, its alchemical cure, its wealth?

But your knees ache and you remember

your cache of good health has been spent, coin by coin,

until you grasp for what's left with both hands.

Happiness stamps away, enraged that you don't embrace it,

or Enraged that you don't embrace it, happiness stamps away

and leaves you to walk alone with one foot planted

on Main and the other raised over the abyss.

 ......................................................................................

Salad Day

Fresh tortillas spread with creamy green avocado,

the seductive/voluptuous/zaftig/curvy/lustful/lusty/lush Aztec fruit--and fragile young

leaf shoots, succulent verdolaga, crowned

with rounds of fleshy red tomato.

The first bite revels on our tongues like

the smooth juice of youth. It floats down

our throats to our hearts, which split

open like ripe love apples.

Eat slowly. Before we know, it's gone.

The crumbs and smudges

are like the few years

we have left.

Wipe away the shreds

with a white rag,

a shroud.

A Baker's Dozen

A Baker's Dozen ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Acceptance Realizing that it is okay to be who you are, not what you and others expect you to be. Acceptance Life will be difficult at times and all you can do is your best. Acceptance We live in the present, not the past or the future. Acceptance Today is our reality and we should live it to the fullest. Acceptance Our past is just that, our past. It is over and nothing we do can change it. Acceptance There is no guarantee there will be a tomorrow. Plan wisely for tomorrow but not at the expense of today. Acceptance Life is a journey and there may be several detours along the way. Acceptance We have a right to be happy and just because someone else is unhappy does not mean we need to be unhappy. Acceptance It is okay to accept help and even ask for it when needed. Acceptance Telling the truth is the easiest way to live. It eliminates trying to remember what you said. Acceptance Helping others can be very therapeutic if they want and need help. Acceptance We will never give up ourselves to please others. Acceptance Change is inevitable and we need to be flexible. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

---

Here We Go Again, from Ruth

Hi, Ruth here.  As I said I would do, I've posted two different versions of the same darn thing--the first one based on a friend's comments, the second on Anna's (and others'.)  I was going to wait longer and work a little more on these before posting, but I see more than a week has gone by.  I explained in a comment to Debbie why I'm working on this so much... I tried to italicize the differences between the two versions.

Getting Close

The end of August is tinder dry. Your steps raise clouds

of golden dust that follow you to the house, hiding

your shadow. On the porch, faded towels

are laid out, and kid's sandals are matched in pairs

of half-hearts, good luck charms for our marriage.

Inside, I watch from the window.  The oak table

is scattered with lined paper and yellow pencils.

I clear them for summer's final supper, fish and fries.

Children vanish to grieve the start of school, 

though sparks of excitement crackle in the air.

High pitched voices dissolve, and in the silence,

the day has melted to dusk. We carry glasses

of wine out to the pale, thinning grass

to breathe in the blue haze of Russian sage,

and we are alone, together.

The moon relects pearls in our blushing wine.

Insect wings stitch seams of shelter

in the remnants of light. The force

of evening pulls us toward each other.         

Your blood stirs, my breath catches.

Remnants of Summer

The end of August is tinder dry. His steps raise clouds

of golden dust that follow him to the house, hiding

his shadow. On the porch, sun-faded towels

are laid out, and kid's sandals are matched in pairs

of half-hearts, good luck charms for our marriage.

Inside, I watch from the window.  The oak table

is scattered with lined paper and yellow pencils.

I clear them for summer's final garden harvest.

Children run to their rooms to grieve the start of school, 

though sparks of excitement crackle in the air.

High pitched voices dissolve, and in the silence,

the day has melted to dusk. We carry glasses

of wine out to the thinning pale grass,

to breathe in the blue haze of Russian sage,

and we are alone, together.

The moon drops pearls in our blushing wine.

Insect wings stitch seams in the descending

silk of night. The force of the evening

pulls us toward each other.         

Your blood stirs, my breath catches.

My Friend

The Author Dear Friend, I have something to share with you. I have an illness. If I had diabetes or cancer, would you think less of me? I hope you read this with an open mind and heart. I have a mental illness. Did you know? Does it show? I am the very same person I was before I revealed this to you. Most of us are afraid to tell. We are afraid our relationships will go to hell. There is a definite stigma associated with mental illness that is not found with physical illnesses. Do you look at me differently now that you know? Are you afraid of what I might do? Does being my friend frighten you? With that being said, there are a few myths I would like to dispel. Mental illnesses are not character flaws. Those with mental illness have changes in the structure and function of the brain. Mental illnesses are not untreatable. Today, with medication and/or therapy, most people with mental illness are able to lead relatively normal lives. Most of us are not homeless, although a large percentage of the homeless do have a mental illness. Most of us are not and never will be violent. Most of us are not addicts. We don't ask to be treated differently than anyone else. Most of us are not criminals. Criticizing us will not cause us to harm ourselves. You do not have to walk on eggshells around us. We are no more different from you than if we had diabetes or cancer. I hope we can still be friends. I am the same person you were friends with last week or last year. I have not changed. I have just decided to be honest with you. Your Friend, Debbie P.S. I have had Major Depressive Disorder for nearly twenty years. There are very effective treatments today. By sharing this, I hope to help you learn more about and accept those with mental illness. DEJ