forgotten again

 

the past rattles my windows

and rain whispers in morse code

begging me to remember

 

my subconscious reluctantly exhumes

memories long buried

 

with dawn’s weak light,

decaying and dirt covered,

they are forgotten again

 

Fight for Grateful

I am grateful that I have

my work, funded by federal grants

for now.

I am grateful that my uncle

has Medicaid, funded by the federal government through the state

for now.

I am grateful that elders

get meals on wheels

for now.

Tomorrow I will fight for

these things that make me grateful

Disappearing Letters

Letters are disappearing
from my keyboard.

Gone are my a, s, d, n, c, i, o.

Fading fast are good old r, k, w, t, and h.

The rest are crisp and clear

but they can't take up the slack.

Soon I will be typing blind. 

May as well close my eyes and

imagine -  hoping the right words appear

pulled straight from imagination.

How I Became A Writer

 In elementary school, I received a shiny 50 cent piece as first price for a poetry contest. I don't recall whether it was for my grade only, but I do remember the pride I felt when my writing was chosen.

In high school, I recall a meeting with my career counselor. I was placed in higher level English classes, told I would be tutoring in the writing lab (terrifying for a shy introvert - I was able to decline) and being steered toward college. My parents didn't go to college, though I had uncles and aunts who did, and I respected them and their education. But I was scared.

My career counselor asked what I wanted to do. I said I'd like a career where I could write. She said, "Well, in Wisconsin, you could either write for an agricultural magazine or teach English." Since I didn't want to do either of those things, I underwent a series of interest and ability inventories. I met with my career counselor to get the results. "It looks like you should go into social work." Well, my mom did that, and it seemed like a tough road, so I enrolled at our local two-year community college. I tested out of the required English 101 and English 102, and jumped write into an advanced English course. In addition, I signed up for Sociology, Geography, Psychology, and Anthropology. The man who was supposed to provide guidance for me in signing up for classes did not clue me in that it is a bad idea for most freshmen to take more than one 'ology course in their first semester. I tanked.

After a year of struggling through these classes in an atmosphere that felt like high school (lockers, living at home, seeing many of the same people I went to high school with...) I left university life with a very low and ragged grade point average.

My younger sister had just graduated and enrolled in the local technical college to pursue accounting. I had nothing better to do, so I followed suit, even though I had never even balanced a checkbook. Still living at home (now at the ripe old age of 19), I took the required accounting intro courses as well as a required communication class. Halfway through the semester, my communication class teacher, Mrs. Kemp, asked me to stay after. I couldn't imagine what I had done to get in trouble, but that could be the only reason for being asked to stay after class.

Well, she wanted to kindly suggest that I might be bored with accounting. (I honestly don't think I would have made it through a second semester.) Had I considered public relations as a course of study. The University of Oshkosh (UW-O) had a good program. 

The angels sang and the orchestra music swelled and that's what I decided to do. I attended UW-O for two years majoring in Journalism and Public Relations before finishing at UW-Stevens Point where I graduated with honors. While there, I took several writing courses with Professor Karlene Ferrante who has remained a mentor and friend. I also got my MA there, with Karlene heading my thesis committee.

Oh, life got so much better once I had a clear direction. I owe a great deal to Mrs. Kemp for her insight. 

Beautiful Life

He stood behind her in the mirror and whispered, “You are beautiful.” She smiled and closed her eyes, remembering all the times he had said this to her before.

On their first date, forty years ago, when he arrived at her door holding a dazzling bouquet of spring flowers.

Before he slid the simple gold band on her finger and said, “I do.”

When they welcomed their son into the world, even though she was tear-stained, exhausted and flecked with remnants of her own vomit.

As they began the long drive home after delivering their only child to his new, adult life halfway across the country.

Before they went to sleep each night and first thing each morning, his words, steady presence and love were with her, always.

He had said he loved her, that he would always love her, as he lay in the hospital bed, morphine drip and cancer dulling the usual sparkle in his eyes and slurring his words, but he didn’t really need to say them anymore. She knew.

She opened her eyes, and he was gone, a hint of his cologne and memories all that remained.

Clarity

In an atmosphere continually fraught

I seek clarity.

Who am I and what am I here for?

Why must we endure seemingly endless days

under clouds and rain, deprived of

the nurturing sun?

What is the purpose of ongoing wars

and other violence throughout the world?

Some days, it seems more than I can bear.

Then, a cardinal alights to feed outside my window.

A stranger on the street smiles my way

and the laughter of a child arrives

on a passing breeze.

I remember to seek balance

and begin again.

Transformed

Carol watched the glass fall. It slid from her fingers and descended past the counter’s edge, past her swelling belly and swollen ankles to crash on the kitchen’s tile floor. The hand that had recently held the glass fluttered up to touch her face, as though affirming that it was still there. It hadn’t suddenly changed like everything else that she thought she knew.

She eased herself down to a crouch and began collecting the chunks and shards resting in puddles of once sparkling water. She carefully laid them in her hand, one by one, until she’d gathered them all. There was no way to restore the glass to its original condition, much like her life.

Stepping over the water she walked to the trash bin and dumped the glass inside. The last piece to slide from her hand left a thin scratch, quickly rimmed with red. She might not escape this situation unchanged, but perhaps she would become more distinct, sharper in some way. Only time would tell.