Our Turn

Mother Rock,

Your jolting touch

split open more than my trusting heart

tucked away in virgin chest,

dashed to pieces

more parts of me

than bone, marrow and blood

thought to create.

Your deft smoothness hid the cutting edges

of your sharp anger;

I blinked my surprise at the cold shock of pain

with which you bandaged me

there in your passionless suburban home,

with no corners generous enough

to hide an innocent’s grief.

(I was careful to never step on sidewalk cracks

out of respect for your health,

and surrendered to grasping hands

only when I had no choice…

I really had no choice, mother.)

Mother Rock,

a lifetime I must spend

unlearning the folly of your example

and grieving the lack of a mother’s love

which never reached me

through layers of polyester,

and the suffocating luxury of wall to wall

in your suburban domain.

Mother: no one gave me permission

to come out of the corner

you banished me to

in the heat of your anger…

(I simply fled when your back was turned.)

(1985)

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If we didn’t have knees, where would our legs bend?

(by Jenny & DD)

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We pass by like strangers

isolated within our own heads,

A weird planet, this, populated with the living dead.

We speak in superficial terms

to describe our broken dreams—

but satisfaction guaranteed

is never what it seems.

(1981)

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“I wanted longed to be Twiggy!”

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Nightspell

As night weaves its curtain of silence

about me, I remember bright promises

to make all things new.

Anything seems possible, credible,

in still night hours…

but morning is rude

with its blunt metallic thrust

of reality.

(1981)

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Invitation

Come home to me at twilight

when the day is at its best and,

weary of this maze of life,

you long for warmth and rest.

Come home to me

before the midnight silence

closes in,

and threatens to overwhelm you–

come home to me, my friend.

(by Mrs. Homebody, 12/26/81)

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Steady Hands

They laughed at my feeble attempts to express myself,

then wondered why I spent so much time

alone in my room…

A closed door, blank paper.

A typewriter’s busy, furious clicking:

(Let me write, let me write,

let me fill up the blank skied night

with words.)

“Isn’t she ever coming out of there?

It’s not normal spending so many hours

alone in that room.”

Sweet oblivion reaches out its kind fingers

and buttons me up,

envelops me in the warmth of my little corner.

Words splash and spill

into midnight hours;

they shake their heads in puzzlement—

I am not one of them—

and I have no explanation to offer.

I slowly kneel down

and mop up the spillage of words

with steady hands.

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MEMORIES

The ocean beckons me

but I am much too wise

to be so easily led captive,

drowned before nightfall

on the waves of my past…

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I found myself

inside a book:

pages of dried ink,

read, but misinterpreted…

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Solitary Confinement:

My heart’s a prison

from which there is no escape.

You ask me to share its depth

with you,

but it is only so many words

and night has set in once more.

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