Writing

With grateful heart, I sit a bit… listening

Her bereft heart pours out grief,

Her terror and rage seek relief

Tears puddle beneath our feet

Emotional exhaust rises to rafters and out the peak…

No quantifying stats, only evidence based proof

Events that used to floor her have gone - *poof*

Transformed terror into triumph

Fashioned compassion out of angst



Folks come into this space with terrible knowledge

Fortunate am I to bear witness with hard-earned wisdom

Not stuff learned in college

Slowly, I turn up the heat under the crucible -

Lead into gold; dross into floss

She puts down her cross

Out into the world to live life with a bit more grace and ease



As lives run smoother; fears that tripped us, miss us

now

as we’ve found a different groove

Eventually, there’s nothing left to prove

So we pass along the learning

Still there’s bound to be yearning

That children wouldn’t have had to have suffered

Wish that our adult bodies could have buffered

The winds, slings and arrows of outrageous fortune

Yet, with gratitude I note, what didn’t kill us made us stronger;

I sit a bit with others, and want to linger longer…






Some days I wake up feeling broken all over again…

That’s when I need to be reminded that I want to linger longer.

Living well is the best revenge.



One sixth grade teacher perceived the pain

Powerless to change the life of her student

But acknowledging the student even by so slight a

Glint of recognition in her teacher’s eyes was enough

For that student to carry her through to the time

When she could act upon the label:

“Melinda, You’re going to be a writer.”


Seventh grade’s Mr. James, or was it Mr. Jones,

They were both so ungodly handsome, all those

Ken Dolls look alike, who ever…

He started off the semester with, “It was a dark and

Stormy night…”

Never knowing it was stormier in the daylight when this

Student was a kindergartener

What fun she had letting go

With words about things that went “bump

Bump” any time any where



Eighth grade’s English teacher had pin-ball eyes

Steely blues blurry behind bottle bottom glasses

His waddling penguin gait exaggerated the blur as

Head followed feet’s command: waddle left

Waddle right, waddle hallways out of sight

His private invitation only to this student

Was to write essays about the new baby in the house

Starfish fingers; interrupted sleep

Crying, cooing, cuteness, crawl and creep


Journaling began in earnest

High school sweethearts page after page

Reds, whites and blues were all the rage

Reds were a downer, Bennies (whites) made you high,

True-Blue Truinols told the truth, but some nights she could fly

Sailed so high, she crashed and burned

Failed to remember all that she’d learned


Mrs. Payton in tenth grade science

Saw her gifts, offered an alliance

Got her into Advanced Placement Classes
With the gentrified lads and lasses

Mrs. LeFont we all called, “Mommy.”

Mr. Fagan was a Queen and, perhaps, a Commie

Played us Vivaldi’s Seasons

Explained logic and reason

loved to watch as D. Kurakani stretched

“Look out, there he goes, there he goes,”

Mr. Fagan wiggled his nose.

“Mr. Kurakani, please watch out for your toes!”

Blur of dope days

Owsley’s purple haze

Some how survived

Glad to have arrived

At a time in my life that's ripe for reflection

A time for writing from selections

Of chapters

Back to the rafters…

Up & out into the stratosphere

Helpful to clear the atmosphere

Creating a good and right write rite

Miss Finley, help me out here... please!