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!
