Mortal Sin

concrete pews held us
muffled coughs, 5 & dime store perfumes
waft thru the chill air.
tiled floors echo each tap of our shoe
wool coats reeking of bacon pulled from
a white porcelain stove.
.
braids and crooked bangs stare back at me
from my black patent leather purse.
as "en dominae patrae" bores into my head
i flick my fingers in my black mirror.
at a certain angle--
transformed -
spindly spider's legs with knuckles protruding.
.
i feel the terror
i do not know God or sin or
sister florence marie,
only freakdom holds me.
.
my mother gently molds my deformed hand into hers.
Her vegetable-peeled hand
grown rough with oil soap, pots & pans, clothespins in March,
encases my own.
.
but i only feel the terror.
one moment's respite from a consistent hell.
she must have been feeling heaven.

---

the birth - day...

a time somewhere behind me,
so long ago now
I sometimes can't remember
if it was real or not.
.
it was all before I hit the highway.
.
I stayed at home in those days
not ever really being allowed to lie in my hammock
to dream for a little while.
while most everyone else "wheezed" everything
in black & white & grey then,
( they wanted it that way---
it was safer I guess).
even then I could feel the fragrant colors
yet everyone would tell me
"you know, it's just easier if you dream in black & white".

so I just ended up not dreaming at all
...for a while anyway.

but then I hit the highway
and the sun turned blue.
the moon turned into fingertips for me.
everywhere I went I could smell the pulse
beating, rhythmic innocent as blades of grass.
new music that was old came along on the trip.
it melted into every pore and connected me.
when you can hear our own breathing
the colors can't fade.

tears could crystalize
melting like citrus drops
sighs & shouts-pale blue; roaring blacks.
your days were my nights
and you always spoke of time.

your charcoal-swept words burst
like rainbows kept too long at bay.
the simplest smile blew pink & green kisses into me.
purity & innocence like birthdays in August...
before summer could say good-bye.

my highway rolls with me.
in a motion as sensual as our swaying dance.
not of blacktop or gravel, bricks or concrete..
but of soft earth & patches of grass.
beaten down .. the trail leading to the garden.
doves praying.. sacred bamboo & jaccarandi
we move in pastels most of the time.

looking thru the small four panes
we sit together watching a full moon in a gray night
fingertips press, lips speak...
i'm on the shoreline of you.
honey, you've gotten so good with your focus.
remember when mondays were so blue?
now, just one pulse breathing twice.

---

evening commuter

at the crossing, alone.
may's scents surround me.
cars pass over the bumpy tracks.
from the darkness
a white glow washes the platform.
the red lights,
hanging from the crossing gates,
flash a warning.
shifting my purse from one hand
to the other..
i step forward.
.
the night is stark
against the red beacons
and as the sleek machine glides
to a stop, i count the single car.
tightly gripping my suitcase, i take the first seat
as the train slides back
into motion.
.
a steel silouhette flashing
through the night...
occasional specks of light from the guide wires
break the black.
and we roll
into
the
darkness.

---

     hhmmm, having been put in the position of "trying" to be clever with the content of this bio, i find myself at a loss. i'm better at the impromptu i believe. anyway, i write "poetry" which my family and friends patronizingly say is fine. however, the professor at our local college, (Bucks County, Pa. Poet Laureate for several years) seemed to have quite a different and less complimentary opinion. (smile).. i write for therapy which is more than any person should expect. it seems to be safer than medication and a lot less expensive.
     i'm not an artist, a photographer, a musician, or a math teacher. i do APPRECIATE art, film, music and i like math. (smile).. i travel the highway and i have 13 earrings in my left ear. that's all i can think of that's "clever".