Cruise from Hell
“Crossing the ocean is a wondrous thing,'' they said.
“You’ll love every minute,” they said.
Nobody mentioned that I would HANG OVER the railing,
Feeling my body SHAKE after I had DRUNK my WEIGHT
In cocktails with harmless plastic swords
Ripe with pearl onions and salty olives.
I did not PLAN to BLUBBER like a baby,
Wishing for death as the ROLLS of the waves
Brought another tide of nauseousness
Rushing through my stomach.
Why did I BINGE like that?
Because the drinks are free, of course!
The trip was definitely a FAIL,
But I have enough photos,
A few where my face is not terribly green,
That no one will ever know my battle with the sea,
And I shall lie through my teeth
Telling everyone who will listen about my amazing journey.
High School- a Poem in Two Voices
Acing a TEST, KISSING on the BEACH
Drunk dad calls me GARBAGE, INSTINCT is to RUN,
Dance after the big GAME,
FIGHT after the big game.
Sleeping in PEACE, gentle wind OUTSIDE
Wind of DROUGHT BROUGHT no rain, the farm is failing
The crowd shouts, “BRAVO!” after my ELEGANT recital–life is perfection!
Dad throws me against a TREE, drunk once again.
My boyfriend sits OPPOSITE me at lunch, love in his eyes.
Another INSULT; this time I strike back. Dad hits his head and stares blankly.
I think everyone would AGREE–high school is the best time of our lives.
Bad lawyer, JURY brings back ’Guilty” verdict–high school was the worst time of my life.
Six Months
She really tried.
Psychiatrists, medications,
Therapy
A husband, three little boys,
Daughter, health worker, my best friend.
In her head, she was not good enough.
In her head she was tired, and it wasn’t going to change.
In her head, she believed we’d all be better without her.
The phone call came on May 13, Mother’s Day weekend,
Exactly six months into her 40th year.
Guttural cries, sobbing on my way to her house.
Upon entering, I was told her husband was not yet back
From identifying her body.
Her three little boys, eight, five, and two, are now motherless.
My beautiful friend is gone forever.
On the mantle was a wrapped gift, her Mother’s Day gift.
“I guess we don’t need that anymore,” her oldest told me,
We cuddled and cried on the couch until
Exhaustion overtook us, and all was dark.
Young at Heart
Shooting stars, like tinsel littering the sky
Gave birth to an idea.
Virgin land, void of city lights,
Located near the cranberry bog was
The perfect place to view the magic.
In this place, under a black walnut tree,
The debonaire Winston chose
To go down on one knee, with the help of his cane,
To present Carol with a beautiful heirloom ring,
For love is not just for the young, but also for the young at heart.
Lost Love
Her heart was Heavy as she gazed into the starry Sky,
Longing to hear the Warm Voice of her lost love.
Wandering back into the lonely house,
Evelyn cried aloud, “Together forever was not enough!”
Daniel had passed much too Young.
He was Caught in the in-between,
Wishing he could give her the Gift of Knowing
He would always be there; she need not be Afraid.
Her sparkling Laugh gone,
He yearned to give her sunshine
To replace the thick night.
As she packed boxes, moving from
The life they would Build together.
Evelyn embraced a Clown fish,
A Prize Daniel had won at the fair,
They had smiled, kissed, and then said, “Cheese,”
In the photo booth-- four tiny, precious photos their reward.
Next, they rode a trusty steed--a carousel Horse.
A slight smile tugged at her mouth as she remembered
That day of shopping in the village.
At dinner, he asked her to hold a piece of string,
As she did, a diamond ring slid like Butter
down the string as Daniel proposed.
As she smiled tearily at the memory,
She thought she could hear Daniel's voice
proclaiming his love to her one final time.
Where the Crawdads Sing
Young girl, abandoned by all
Left in the marsh to care for herself
Kya did the best that she could
Despite the ire of the townsfolk.
She was dubbed “Marsh Girl”,
And only Jumpin’, Mabel, and Tate
Knew who she was–
A kind, resourceful, bright young woman.
Tate went away, abandoned her
As everyone else had done.
She lost her faith in humanity.
Loneliness caused her to trust Chase, a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
He lied to her, used her,
Took advantage of her.
She didn’t see it because she was so lonely, so hungry
To be loved and accepted.
Kya and Chase ran into each other in town.
A girl with pearls introduced herself as his fiancee.
Kya ran away, maddening Chase
He came after her, attacking her as her father had attacked her mom.
One night, while Kya was out of town,
Chase died, and she was accused of murder.
One friendly lawyer, nice to her since childhood,
Defends her to a jury of her “peers”.
Kya, found not guilty, returns to her home.
Tate begs forgiveness, and they love each other.
They live together among beautiful creatures
Deep in the marsh where the crawdads sing.
Many years later, Kya dies in her beloved marsh.
Deep in grief, Tate goes through her things and discovers the truth
Told by a hidden shell on a string.
Kya was guilty of the murder.
Broken
Three years ago, I developed pneumonia. Not walking pneumonia--the kind that makes it hurt to breathe. It didn't seem to be getting better, so I went to the emergency room as I was having trouble breathing even after a course of steroids. They found a blood clot in my chest, and I was put on blood thinners. During this time, my dad was dying. He'd been in and out of the hospital several times with his COPD and congestive heart failure and so many other things, but this time it felt different like he wasn't going to come home. Because of the blood clot, I had to see an oncologist to find out what was going on--why the blood clot had formed. Test after test, day after day. All this while working full-time as a middle school teacher, trying to visit my dad in the hospital, and keeping my mom from falling apart because of my parents' four children, I'm the one who lived here. Then I had a lot of pain in my lower right quadrant. The oncologist found that I had large cysts on both of my ovaries and fluid in my fallopian tubes. Surgery was scheduled, and a few days later, my dad died. There were people to talk to and insurance to secure and Dad's pension to amend and Social Security to talk to and the funeral to plan and the obituary to write and shopping for a headstone. It was a lot. It was late fall of 2019. A few weeks after the funeral came my surgery. It's called a double oophorectomy. Say that three times fast. It was supposed to be a simple, outpatient surgery. Nope. I ended up with a catheter for six weeks, a week-long hospital stay, and blood clots coming through the catheter causing spasms and blood clots. The pain of giving birth was nothing compared to this. You see, the surgeon had torn the back off of my bladder. I was in surgery for five-and-a-half hours, up in stirrups the whole time. This caused a whole new issue. My adductor muscles were shot. I couldn't move my legs. Christmas sucked. I sat in the corner, looking at my dad's empty chair, wanting to cry because I was in so much pain in so many ways, with a blanket the bag attached to my leg, and the catheter still attached to my body. My adductor muscles had been stretched horribly for a long period of time, and it would take 18 months to get back to "normal." I didn't have time to mourn my dad and I felt like hell and I was trying to take care of my mom and work full time and function in my everyday life and I snapped. I broke. I cried and I cried and I cried. I couldn't get out of bed. I didn't want to eat. I went to my chiropractor to try to get some relief, and she told me she wouldn't let me leave her office until I called a mental health professional and had an appointment for that day. I did what she asked. I went to a psychiatrist and I told him a lot...I mean a lot....going back 15 years to when my best friend committed suicide and I didn't get to deal with that either because I had to help her husband pick out a cemetery plot and plan her funeral and help take care of her children ages 8, 5, and 2. So fifteen years later my brain and body had enough and I broke. And I had to go on disability from work because I would just start crying in front of my students. A week after I went on disability, Covid became a thing, and the world shut down, and I cried some more. I thank god every day that my chiropractor, my friend, forced me to make that call because I don't know if I would still be here if I hadn't started speaking to a mental health professional because when you break and don't have the right glue to put yourself back together, you give up and end up like the friend I had lost 15 years earlier.
The Farm
Climbing the ladder built into the old barn wall, I make my way up to the quiet of the haymow. Guided by the rays of sunlight streaming through the cracks in the weathered wood walls, I am just able to make my way to my nest, the place where a few bales have broken loose from their twine binding and have scattered to make a cozy spot to sit and listen and dream.
Across the way, I hear a high mewing sound, and I smile realizing that the mama cat who has been looking heavier than usual has given birth to her kittens and has chosen the perfect place to keep them safely nestled from the hawks flying overhead and the hooves of the cattle moving restlessly below and the collie, whining at the bottom of the ladder, awaiting my return.
I breathe in deeply as the hay, freshly cut, baled, and sent to the loft fills my lungs with the odor of spring. It’s a pure, fresh, clean bouquet that mixes with the scent of the rain beginning to hit the old tin roof, sounding like a parade of soldiers scurrying overhead, enhancing the volume tenfold.
I hear the muffled, hollow ringing of the dinner bell, take in one last, deep breath, and make my way back to the ladder that will lead me to the collie, whining more loudly now, knowing that the sound of the bell will bring me back to him. I carefully make my way down the wall, ruffle the head and chest of my waiting companion, and we run off to my grandparents’ small, warm farmhouse kitchen to pray, enjoy a hearty meal, and share our adventures of the day.
Teaching Seventh Grade
Seventh grade is hard to teach
Because the kids are crazy
Hormonal minds we try to reach
They’re either wild or lazy.
One day after lunch a student cried
With gasps like she was seizing.
To cheer her up I really tried
To understand the reason.
She explained friends laughed at her
Because of the Pacific
I need more info if I were
To understand; I said, “Please be specific.”
She cried when telling them there were two
Pacific Oceans they roared
I said, “Oh, really, I never knew.
Please show me on the board.”
She pulled down the rolled up map
On the wall in the front of the room
And on the map both sides she tapped
And my eyes began to zoom
She pointed to the right and left
And said, “See, there ARE two.”
Her quivering chin, that pointed cleft,
I knew what I had to do.
I reminded her the earth was round
And that those ends would meet
To show the only Pacific found;
She slunk back to her seat.
So now you know what it is like
To teach the seventh grade
And why I often have to spike
My glass of lemonade.