Rachel's Poetry for Friends

Saturday, January 31, 2004

 
All
Is a product of
History


History,
In many ways
Repeats itself.


History,
Applies also
To Americans.


May 8, 2003






Twittering
The voices with
No word heard
And understood
But twittering
As magpies
Though he never
Heard a magpie
But as it should
Sound.


So much talk!
And nothing learned
In the hearing
Of noise not
Words.


May 8, 2003






Flocking
All birds are female.
Males speak in groups
Amongst themselves
While the girls flock
To the Svengali
Among the crowd
Listening.


Oh!
The word you may hear
From his lips and
Oh!
What you might learn.


May 7, 2003






In and out
Of the light.


When he’s here
Bright, warm.


When he’s not
Dark, cold.


How can the
Presence of one
So change a life.


May 8, 2003




The old gray cat
Seeks the sunny
Spots on the carpet,
All day luxuriating
In the heat of sunbeams.


This is a new pattern for him,
After a recent pound dropping
Illness he’s changed his
Routine of favorite spots
To one of seeking heat.


Before he would sleep
Through the night on
The orange chair in
The library but move
To his pillow by five.


His mistress found him
There when she woke,
Stumbling to her toilet
“Ah such a good kitty
Sleeping near my bed.”


When she left the house,
He went to her bed,
Climbing to the top
Of the pillow pile
Reclining like a sphinx.


By noon he’d be on the
Needlepoint chair next
To the piano, and by
Teatime he’d be on the
Blue couch stretching.


She’d find him again
On his pillow near dark,
When she returned from
Her day, and again the
Words, “good kitty.”


Now she sees him on
The steps, where the
Sun shines near evening,
Moving from bottom to
Topmost step, as it sets.


April 18, 2003






Song
Voice
Melody
Emotion.


Song
Fills me
With words
That always
Seem perfect
For that moment
I never thought of
Before I heard
The song.


March 30, 2003






Letter to the Editor,
Courier Journal,
That didn't get publisehd.
Friday, April 4, 2003


362 words


The headline under the fold on Friday, April 4, 2003's Courier Journal said, "Lunsford's campaign ditty hits a sour note with TV show's creator." In the fifth paragraph Bruce Lunsford said, "We were told by our advisors we were doing everything properly…." A Lunsford spokesman went so far as to say the song wasn't the same song. To paraphrase Kevin Geddings, the song sounds like the song, has most of the words of the song, and trips the mental wires of everyone hearing the song, but isn't the song.


If one were to have believed the early campaign commercials of Mr. Lunsford, we would have expected that he was too high minded, honest, trustworthy, and noble to have ever stooped to use something to promote himself that had not been researched thoroughly, and compensated honorably to the original author.


After all, if we think back a few years, we recall that Mr. Lunsford and his executive employees took a nice little nursing home company from Tacoma, Washington, (Hillhaven), and with others it purchased, created a gigantic health care corporation Vencor. Unbeknownst to many people, including a large number of Kentuckians, the corporation had a style of operation, which eventually lead to its downfall.


What probably steams me and others, who were naive enough to believe the glowing vision of Vencor, was that Mr. Lunsford cashed out while still promoting the company as a vibrant example of modern health care. We held onto our stocks while he was singing a swan song, waltzing off to wherever enriched scalawags go to practice their golf games and relax after the furious song and dance of corporate life.


Time passes, as it always does, reincarnation occurs with brilliant copy and entertaining repartee pointing its bony finger at everyone else in the state being the dishonest politician. The most appalling thing is that the very money Bruce Lunsford left Vencor with, is what finances his campaign. By my estimates, I have unwittingly contributed about $1000. I am writing a check today, and mailing it to one of his worthy opponents. I suggest every person, who was thusly made a Lunsford campaign contributor, do the same.


Rachel 4/12/2003 01:25:22 PM






The stories I like best
Are where the girl waits
For the man she loves to
Return to her and live
With her
forever,
happily.


Thinking time is infinite, In real life,
She does the thing best for her, and
He does the thing best for him, and
After those best things are done,
Their hearts turn again
To each other.


All that love they had
For one another brought them
Back to where they started,
But during that time, living on
Hope is a lonely thing to do.


April 10, 2003






Someone said today, I had a beautiful mind.


Their view of me myopic


A physical illusion planted


To move their mind away


To listen to my words,


Alone.


April 10, 2003






Voice in my ear
Quiet
Clear
Sweet


There have been months
When I did not
Hear a single word
From this voice.


Today sitting quietly
At the table
One of many listening,
His words are plentiful


Every word a jewel
Enter my ears
Sit in my mind
Surely some will be memory.


March 12, 2003






One day the judgment of someone
Someone I didn't know, someone
I'd decided not to meet, but
Someone who repeated a thing
They had heard, from someone
They didn't like, themselves, yet
Believed unrefutabibly,
.. hurt me.


Asking why this was allowed,
I became angry, not at that inconsequential
Someone, not at the trifle of a someone
Who told them the lie, but angry at
My weakness in becoming hurt by
Those words from someone who
Didn't know me, and never would.


Often I've wondered on knowing someone
Who was open and free and happy, kind and
Adventurous, loyal and strong and even
Non-judgmental, accepting everyone for who
They are; why they changed one day to
Became quiet, closed, interior and straight?
Now I realize it was something such as this.
That hurt them.


April 6, 2003






There are times when
All the pretense of things
Fade away, and I sitting
Beside you, look into your
Face and see the nicest smile.


You relax. I relax
We talk about anything
That comes to mind and
Conversation is the sweetest
Thing next to a kiss.


March 29, 2003






She was thirteen, and on the
Television screen she was
This week's, "Wednesday's child".
I watched her tell the world she was
Smart and loved horses and could be
Helpful around the house and
Wanted a family. I thought,
If she were mine, she'd have been
Conceived after Dennis and I
Didn't make love anymore.


So whose would she be?
In five years, she'll be eighteen.
I wondered if adopting her would
Be something I could handle.
Could I give up hedonism, and
Be a PTA mom and room mother.
Would I survive when she
Was raised, and would she be
Better for knowing me, those
Five years?


I'd make her a bedroom here,
And we'd buy a dog, get a gentle,
Horse to board, in the country.
I'd try to teach her how to
Be a strong independent person,
Have a love for learning,
Revive the business for her,
So she'd have something when
I'm gone, and not be dependent
Loving someone for board.


I prayed, and asked to be lead,
If I could be a blessing to her this way.
Asked my friend who raised his son alone
"Wasn't it terribly hard to do what had
To be done to raise a child," and asked,
"Was it worth all that work and worry?"
He said, "Oh yes, because when it was
Over you knew you had helped create
This wonderful person who would
Always be special in your life."


March 29, 2003






I never met a man who
Quoted poetry, filling
My hungry mind with
Tempo and softness of
Long ago words,
So perfectly touching
Me.


Til you.


For eternity or until
The end of my days
Or your days, I could
Have sat at your feet
Absorbing all you had
To teach or learn from
Me.


Til you left.


I will not regret this
Life’s too precious.
I fear I will not find a
Man who quotes poetry,
But if you ever meet him
Point him out as I want
Him to tell poems endlessly
To me.


March 27, 2003






I'm who I was before I met you.
People when they talk to someone
A stranger, on the phone or
Typing into the little window,
Imagine the face, the body of
The one they cannot see.


They evaluate the words, the sound
Of the stranger's voice and personality.
They are always wrong, it seems.
Our raising trains us to judge,
Our experience creates illusion,
A soft voice and sharp mind, beauty.


March 17, 2003






She sits in a chair which raises her
Shoulders a few inches over the lip
of the sink.


She stretches, extends her neck
Back, and her hair falls
into the sink.


Using the shower head on the hand
Held spray, he gently wets her hair
thoroughly.


Allowing her hair it to drip into the sink,
He pauses to place the thick green shampoo
in his palms.


Using slow circular motions, he gets the
Shampoo all through her hair, working
up a lather.


Massaging her head, he wiggles his
fingers in her scalp.
She laughs.


The air is cool so he must stop, but
He wants to continue doing this,
Forever.


Again, taking the showerhead,
He rinses her hair with warm, almost
hot water.


Her hair lies in the basin,
In long dark, wet strands,
resting.


Just as he finishes, he takes her face
In his hands and kisses her wet
open mouth.


Raising her head, he kisses her cheeks,
Kisses her stretched neck, and the back of
her shoulders.


Taking her hand, she rises from the chair,
She bending over, wraps her head in a
Thick white towel.


They walk out to the yard, get into the car,
He drives out into the country, while the air
dries her hair.


March 7, 2003






How our days are accomplished,
Is random.


Planning the future is absolutely fruitless.
Life happens and our responsibility
Can only be our manner in responding.


There is nothing reasonable about this.
Yet reasonable people learn to be ready.


March 3, 2003






Saturday, February 22, 2003


This was a day I went to get my hair cut, having cancelled last week because Marquita was getting ten inches of snow. The parking lots had great mountains of snow moved out of the way. Her city is one that lives with snow, unlike Louisville which closed down Sunday through Wednesday last week, with two inches of snow and one inch of ice. Alright! The ice was a big deal. It didn't melt til late Friday, eventhough Wednesday, Thursday and Friday had forty plus degrees in the afternoons. It is gone now, except in the flowerbeds, close to the building.


Being iced in, a large part of my time recently has been spent organizing. This seems to be an endless thing. Back through the years with receipts to remind me of stuff bought and places gone. Other than the desire for neatness in our stuff, why organize? I pretty much knew where everything was already, but would have to do an archelogical search, down through the layers of time, to find that receipt for the heater I bought that didn't work. Now I can quickly find that I don't have the darn thing! There is some perverse feeling of control in having everything packed away, except the most recent proof of life.






Wet dark earth,
Corn stubble close
With water between the
Rows, reminding one
Of National Geographic
Pictures of rice paddies
In Southeast Asia.
This was Indiana.


Snow and ice and rain
With temperatures moving
Between 5 and 46
All within the days of a
Single week in that
Worthless month
February.


Driving up the elevated
Interstate highway
The feeling was of
Driving on a causeway
As though the lower earth
Lying fallow now was
An ocean, not a field.


All this a way to entertain
A mind alone as usual
Driving to an appointment
On a highway without
Pleasing scenery except
For this rainy view of
A warm ocean in dirt.


February 22, 2003




The dream was a
Really good dream.
He Smiled when he
Saw her and reached
Out his hand to hers,
Gently holding it
While he spoke
To her.


The dream was so real
But she was asleep,
Deep in rem, thinking
While sleeping,
“I hope I can remember
This tomorrow.”


The dream revealed
A quiet adventurous
Life together.
Conversation was a
Part of every day and
The evenings when they
Slept, they slept together.


The dream revealed a
Time that never was
But which she had
Wanted for so long it
Was almost a memory,
Instead of a
Real good dream.


February 22, 2003








A lover came to see me yesterday.
His truck parked in front of my door
I didn’t recognize it, as him, though he
Drove the same old truck.


Time passed, three years now,
Since I fell for him in an instant
Spending so many hours thinking of
Him, obsessing.


One night of passion, so profoundly
Affecting me, I had to write it down for
Fear of forgetting, as age or time or new
Experiences crowded in.


He married her three months after meeting.
Married her twice in civil and religious ways.
Again the following September and will
Again this year when they go to Vegas.


Yet on my couch he sat, and I beside him,
As he spoke of the heartache of his lost son,
And how he always tells his wife he loves her,
Reminding me he never loved me.


All I can do is try to focus on how amazing
It is I didn’t recognize that old truck.
I was not thinking he would be coming by
To visit with me for a few hours.


Time erases pain; not memory, but pain,
A wound scratched stays open but the body
Fights it and the sight of it changes, it disappearing
Leaving flesh blemished, but whole.


February 15, 2003






During the Fall
Hedonism ruled.
The product of nature
Died in the fall
As did my love
For you.


Facing the Winter
Sadness is expected
Revel now in pleasure
Feel the touch
Store memory
Of you.


Expect the Spring
Raise the dead
Feel the warmth
Emerge from ice
Open the door
For you.


Heat up Summer
Watch from afar
Radiate warmth
Perform for me
Show me then
You and she.


November 12, 2002






A calico bonnet on her head,
She’d wear a sleeveless cotton dress,
To her knees covered at the front
With a print apron, tied in a bow.


The uniform my mother wore during
Summer months doing her outside chores
Hanging up laundry on the line, or
Walking the fences looking for breaks.


I have pictures of her like that, which
She didn’t want me to take but still
Stood with squared tobacco stick
In her right hand looking like Mom.


Her mother, my grandmother said
Southern women didn’t go outside,
With bare arms or heads for beautiful
White skin was the mark of a lady.


Mom didn’t believe in that ladylike skin.
She believed in hard work and getting
The job done working for independence.
I remember the painful heat of sun.


February 9, 2003






Saturday, February 08, 2003


The colors deepened on the horrible color chart here, and bravery is now expected in all things, but “don’t change your life!” For god’s sake, don’t acknowledge the threat. I feel the tug of the puppeteers’ strings on my neck. I am not alone in this. You spoke of the surreal bus ride and I compare the euphoria of Louisville’s red and white having a championship season while children their age dress in kaki both here and there.


Today I spent many hours preparing my papers for expenses and income to report to the romans. Must pay my due to support madness, as well as many benign things and those who’ve swam successfully in the bureaucracy of need.


I posted some good and bad poetry and e.mailed a Yeats I remember Katherine covering, which I read again in the Garrison Keeler “Good Poems” book yesterday. It reminds me of your circumstance. SMILE


It’s rumored to be two to three weeks, as you told me some time ago, about that time. All things are controlled by the weather. When are you scheduled to leave? Can she come with you? We have the illusion of safety here, and we both could be wrong, you know.






Your hand holding mine,
I could not say to you
the last time I felt safe
a man held my hand
so I could sleep.


Today, sleep is impossible here
for over a decade has passed
learning to sleep alone;
lovers are allowed but one of us
leaves well before dawn.


A blessing is all I ever want
to give or get in life
a gentle gesture of your touch
for you
a whisper of my kiss.


October 27, 2002




Sitting in the waiting room,
Watching the clock.
The appointment was for 3:45 PM,
To be on time, I'd closed the
Office early, telling the workmen,
To return tomorrow,
I had an appointment,
I had to be on time for!


The nurse asked me to follow her
Back to the scales, at 4:30 PM,
Where she weighed me, and
Into a room, where she took
My blood pressure.
I reminded her that I'd been on time,
Rearranging my life to be there,
To be left waiting.


She didn't take this well.
Medical practitioners are demi-gods.
They have your health and better yet,
The insurance payment structure in hand.
Your medication can be delayed and
Your treatment stalled by indifference
"Serving" more patients. Nothing you
Can do but learn to be silent!


February 6, 2003




When I was married,
I wanted to be alone.
Every moment of every day
I was observed,
Watched,
Managed,
Loved.


I strained at my traces, but
Accepted my bonds
As the way of marriage.
All was discussed,
Reviewed,
Observed,
Commented on.


I've learned to be alone,
Knowing I am truly in control
Of my life as it is now.
Everything is quiet,
In place,
Unobserved,
Not even judged.


A tiny part would like to be
Connected again
Someone kind and smart
Seeing me as wonderful
Loving
Loyal
Excitingl.


Freedom has its price when
I begin to want connection, and
Remember the bonds
Of connection
The pillow smothering love.


February 6, 2003






He looked at me and saw
My face
My hands
My soft shoulder.


He looked at me and said
Your skin!
Your face!
Your curves!


That morning I had sat
In front of the mirror
Holding one also, in my hand,
Looking at my skin
My body, and
Chastizing the
Effect of the years.


He looked at me and touched
My face,
My lips,
My breasts.


He looked at me with delight
Your skin!
Your lips!
Your curves!


February 6, 2003






There is a blank wall,
Viewed from a distance,
On which your dear face
Is etched.


I've spent a bit of time now
Wearing the veil that
Makes that wall invisible
To me.


Training the mind to forget
Is impossible; the guise
Of lost memory
An illusion.


Where I was empty
You had filled me.


Where I was lonely
You my companion.


Where I was sad
Your presence happy.


It’s hard now to find a new talisman
On which to rebuild a heart, but


Even broken stones
Can be mended.


February 6, 2003






In the field behind my window
The grass is the color of straw.
It is February, that most worthless
Month of the year.


In contrast, the month of May
Reveals grass intensely green.
School is out and the endless
summer vacation begins.


Gray clouds float at the top of the
Bowl of the sky and reveal a
Tiny bit of sun peaking from
The horizon on rare days.


Blue skies reign in May with
Stark white puffy clouds on days
When the skies rain down
Water for the field.


February 4, 2002




Tweak! His fingers at my breast,
When I walked into the house
Upon meeting him.
I felt no threat or ostentation
It seemed to be a natural thing to do.
That concept I've often told
Friends we should have where
People are so open with their
Bodies and minds they would
Allow an intimate touch
From a stranger, without
Offense or brandishing of
Walls.


I've said, "It should be acceptable
For someone upon seeing an open
Face and smile of delight, to
Approach a stranger and kiss them,
Or in the case of an affectionate
Woman, place her hand inside the
Front of his jeans, to touch that
Intimate spot that is so often hidden
Within the folds of cloth, but for
Which she has insatiable curiosity,
And a man upon approach, place his
Hands on her breasts, to feel the
Hardness of her nipples leap
Into his palms."


How are these things so forbidden?
There is no offense intended,
Merely the immediacy of intimacy
One human to another.


February 5, 2003






Saturday, February 01, 2003


Watching the Saturday morning show on CBS, I was waiting for the chef to reveal to us how to make the under $30 meal for four, when there was the “Special Report.” My mind paged through all the horrible things that may have happened in the world. It’s amazing how fast the mind works between the intro music and the appearance of the talking head. Then the voice said the seven people were lost. Coverage of the event stretched out over the entire day. The U of L/IU basketball game got bumped and fans were outraged. Those little minds upset they couldn’t watch the ball bounce and be slammed through a rope strung hoop. I pushed the English edition link. A breaking news banner was there six minutes after it was broken in the US. Amazing the smallness of the world. Candles burned and the ambassador spoke with great solemnity not shown when a family is blown up during Seder. The contrast was remarkable.


The news that you got around, even in an odd way, and returned safe, was happy. An adventure in a trip across a place as small as a state. I hope you are taking pictures and will share.


The Veritas catalog arrived and there you are, listed for the two courses.


The first of the Wednesday night lectures started this past week. Not as enjoyable as the poetry, but an hour well spent, nevertheless.


Two waterlines froze and burst flooding the first floor, so now after a week of cleanup and insurance adjusting there will be an $11K+ re-paint, re-carpet of the far wing on the first floor. A minor fender bender, and that is literal in my truck, one evening, and the red truck will have new bumpers. These are the reason I pay the protection money, but the deductibles are hell!


You both are in my prayers, as I hope I am in yours.


Rachel 2/1/2003




You come to me out of the shower,
Draping the damp towel on the bedpost.
Lying beside me on your back
Naked, your head on the pillow
I have brought over from the head
To the side of the bed,
For that purpose.


Within the reach of my arm,
You are laid before me as
A smorgasbord of familiar flesh.
Your arm encircles my shoulder
Hugging me. You reach for a kiss,
My legs entwine in yours.


We are together again,
In this familiar place of
Long-standing lovers
Totally intimate connected.
My face so near yours the scent
Of your breath is in my nostrils.


If some time in the past or future
I would be in a dark lightless place, and
To me came the scent of your breath,
I would feel safe and warm and loved,
As I do now wrapped up in you and
You wrapped up in me.


Rubbing your chest, my hand strays
Down and finds your cock, soft.
I hold it in my hand, squeezing gently
As we talk of many things having
Nothing to do with making love,
Yet for us it is part of our dance.


When your hardness compels you, you
Roll me over and take charge of things,
Raising my legs to drape your shoulders
You enter me, finding the way wet
Stabbing me with that sweet pain
Opening up pulling you in.


Our movement together is
Scratching of the itch I have
For sex and for you.
The fit is there, as it has been
For such a time I wonder
How did I live without it for so long.


February 1, 2003
Rachel's Newsletter 3:39 PM

 
How have I lived so long alone?
By looking forward
Forward to what will happen
What will happen in each evening?


Every day an empty twenty-four hours,
To fill with in and out breaths
Zilions of heart beats from my breast
Since last I was with you,
Dear Dennis.


My friends live their lives of quiet
And loud desperation,
Sweating each moment,
And I listen to them,
And counsel them,
And go home alone,
At night.


How have I lived so long alone?

June 5, 2003



My mother had a room in our house
Where relatives brought their trunks.
Aunt Margaret Holbert sold her home and
Moved in with her son Raymond.
He brought her trunk to our house and
It was placed in that room.
His wife Shirley wanted nothing to do with "that junk."


My Aunt Irene Alexander dying of dementia and
What would later be called Alzimers,
Her furniture and household goods were
Sold at a country auction one bright
October day, and what she had placed in
Her trunk was brought to our house, not
Unlike a bride stowing her hope chest.


Upstairs in our house, this room would
have been a bedroom, if I'd had a brother.
When my older sister went off to school
In the fall, I spent my afternoons in that room.
When Mom thought I was napping, I was
Opening musty trunks like Pandora's boxes.


In Aunt Martha Gilbert's trunk was a
Half-gallon Ball jar filled with buttons.
Scraps of old clothes were used for quilts,
But buttons were saved for new dresses.
Her clothing was somber so buttons were dark,
But what was the story of the brilliant red ones?


Mounds of neatly ironed and folded linen.
Quilts looking as though they were just made.
Things my aunts kept for good, not using.
Beautiful brightly painted china bowls,
Their legends told of foreign origins, and
Ended up in this room in Indiana, in a trunk.


We were not wealthy people, but we were
Proper, well raised protestant farmers who
Had nothing expensive, but everything good.
We were taught to take care of things.
If a gift was given when we wed, we kept
It for good, putting in trunks when we went.


Such a waste of the original purpose of things.
Do we hold back our good stories and not
tell them, No. We tell our stories every chance
We get and by their repetition and use, they
Become living breathing songs of instruction and
Good humor, resting in the mind of the listener.


September 15, 2003




Living with a cat, you notice relaxation,
As the right that cat has by living.
So why do we the human owners of cats,
Rush around and "get things done" everyday.


How important is it that I get those papers
Sorted and filed today, verses tomorrow,
And how important is it that I go out in the
Heat and pull that weed near the mailbox.


In the morning when I'm making my coffee,
Brushing my teeth, the cat will walk into
my room from the library, to drink from his cup
He stretches trying to touch a paw to a wall.


While I attend to my toilet, putting on lotion
Searching in the mirror for a new wrinkle or
White hair in my eyebrow or lash, he watches,
As though I am the most fascinating being around.


While I put new kebble in his bowl, and make
Sure his cup is full again of cool water, he
Follows me, staying just off my heels, running
Ahead when I go down the steps to the first floor.


In my office, he crawls up under the kneehole
of the desk and runs around the chair and
jumps up onto the loveseat in the corner,
or lies on the carpet where I can see him.


When a co-worker walks in, he rushes
to meet them, and will jump up into their
lap and rub his face up against their kneck,
purring a little cat tune. He is so begiling.


After supervising us all morning, he runs
Back up the steps for lunch and toilet, settling
Down for one of his first naps, ready for
Meowls when someone stops by. That's his job.


After work I join him upstairs again and we
Sit in the big chair, he on my left hip, while
I rub him without thought, and he sleeps or
Sings a purring song, til bedtime again.


September 12, 2003


I remember when I first saw a naked man.


He was my father, bathing at the sink,
me lying on my stomach at five years of age
over the open grate between my playroom
upstairs and that warm kitchen downstairs.


Daddy didn't know I was watching,
for I had discovered I would see and
hear all manner of things if I were just
quiet enough to go undetected.


I nestled in the closets, among the shoes
of my grandmother's bedroom while she talked
on the phone to my aunt, her sister back
in Kentucky, telling her how sick someone was.


I stood behind doors, to rooms I'd been
banished from, while my mom and dad
talked about the tobacco crop or
the loan due from the bank.


I had no sense of sensuality or sex.
I had just seen my dad naked and knew
his body was different from mine and
considered that, but said nothing.


It would be another eleven years before
I saw another naked man, for I lived in a
house of women, after Daddy died the
night before I turned eight.


September 18, 2003




Getting the finger nails under the edge,
It is possible to peel the thinnest bit
Of flesh from the body, even
If not dunked in boiling water.


It’s like that now, a slow quiet progression
He tears himself away.
The smart thing to do would be to
Rip away quickly, but no, it is slow!


One day he tells her,
“We can’t be friends.”


The next day,
he asks her to the broadcast of a show.


The next day, he says,
“I’m leaving.”


The next day, he brings
something personal to leave with her.


The next day,
he doesn’t acknowledge her existence.


The big jagged weeping hole is there
In the quiet moments, it seems to be shrinking,
Until another painful tear
Removes another bit of flesh.


August 19, 2003






It’s surprising what a
Person can stand
After knowing the man
For twenty nine months,
Not seeing him or
Hearing his voice or
Corresponding with him
For over sixty days,
She would have thought she
Couldn’t have lived.


Likened to silent
Blackened soundless
Incarceration.
Living in isolation
Within the world,
But apart from it for
He is not in it
Anymore
in this cell.


September 8, 2003






The power of words are not considered,
At the moment they fly from the mouth,
Or spring forth from the page marching
Blackly across the white velum.


Was the first pressure of these long written
Words as bold or forceful as they were at
The moment they flowed from the mind
Of the poet? No.


Four seasons fill the measure of the year,
There are four seasons in the mind of man.
John Keats


I’d like to sleep till winter’s gone
Or till the sun is in his strength.
This blast has chilled me to the bone.
William Butler Yeats


I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.
Pablo Neruda


When Statesmen gravely say 'We must be realistic',
The chances are they're weak and, therefore, pacifistic,
But when they speak of Principles, look out: perhaps
Their generals are already poring over maps.
W. H. Auden


There is an odd feeling in farewell.
There is some envy in it.


September 13, 2003






Conversation is the energy to my mind.
I could read a book, even a scholarly one,
but there is no joy in a blank stare from a page.
Pleasure is seeing the opposite voice.


Conversation on a phone is even delightful,
as hearing a voice is knowing the personality
of the speaker from the tone and inflection.
Pleasure is hearing that emotion from the voice.


Conversation by typing words and smilies
into a personal message window online
you see the knowledge of the typist.
Pleasure is waiting for a reply from the voice.


Conversation in person is the entire package.
Not only hearing the words and tone of voice,
but seeing the face, the gestures of the body.
Pleasure is interaction physically with the voice.


August 20, 2003






The simple acts of kindness
in their very simplicity and
lack of purpose or point of
manipulation are the most
amazing things.


Someone holds the door for
another person whose arms
are full, a smile exchanged.


Someone smiles and gives
a wise ass funny comment
to a stranger in the next chair.


How valuable is a glass of ice
water to someone who needs
a drink and somewhere to sit.


How valuable is a kind word
to someone who opens up
themself and talks of darkness.


If someone can speak their
story, and find an ear to hear
without judgement.


If someone needs a hug and
you have one there in you wanting
to get out, what a gift!


Don't look at the world through
black clouds and grey air.


Don't think of the bad parts of
people but the good ones.


Good things beget good things.


Smiles are exchanged for smiles.


Even you can change the world.


August 26, 2003






"She was the most loving, kind person I have ever known. I don't know why she had to be involved."-Blake Walker, Courier Journal, quoted form court proceedings August 25, 2003
She was his mother, who he killed along with his father, this past Spring.
September 5, 2003




After a week of
Playing like children,
Eating like children,
Crying like children,
Giggling like children,
Kissing behind doors,
Like children,
they were alone.


All the knowledge
Of that week was
Sunk into their bodies and
Minds, their hearts and
Even the skin on their frames.
Their bones ached with
The knowledge they now
Had learned in that week.


So forward they went
Listening to the songs of
Their fellow travelers,
Learning at the feet of
Their elders, knowing
Their lives would be much
As they saw before them.
Yet unique to them, still.


We and even they are not
Victims of fate, but
Products of experience,
Learning all we can see or
Ask or read or reason.


September 18, 2003






How can I learn to be strong,
proactive, grasping of what I need,
instead of placid, waiting for it to
come to me?


I could have ended the pain,
the want, the desire, the hurt,
if I had closed our door, that
December day you went back.


Instead, I lived every moment
in pain, hoping that you would
need me because things didn't
work out for you and her.


This was not smart.
This was hoping for hurt.
This was painful, and
Totally unnecessary.


It was a choice I made.
For every ten wonderful moments
there were hundreds of bad
scar making ones.


What are we, however,
if we are not a product of
our scars. We would be
so vacant.


September 15, 2003






He sits beside her on the red sofa.
He is tall, solid, her age.
He does not smoke any or drink much.
His eyes twinkle when he looks at her
He smiles easily.
He doesn’t say all he could
But holds back, listening.
He knows who he is.
He has no guile.
No matter where you drop him.
He watches the world unfold
Before him neatly, and
Steps into the place meant for him.


He loves her.
He knows who she is, and
Loves her because of it.
He admires her, with all
Her strengths and weaknesses.
His puzzle piece fits hers,
Co-joined as if born there.
He works with his hands.
He is creative.
His mind is never still, be it
Full of plans or daydreams.
He thinks things out and
Makes them work.


He can be quiet, or
He can rock the glass laughing.
He will always tell her the truth.
He will kindly be her strong rock.
He kisses her fire,
He hugs her breathless, and
He touches her liquid.
Because of him she’ll be better.
He is her blessing. She is his.
She will know all this
The first time she sees him.
But, she hasn’t seen him yet.


August 7, 2003






Just think of all the broken
Hearts in the world today,
Who are sad because the one
They love, doesn’t love them.
You’re not special!


Aches hurt in physical pain
There’s no bruise that feels
Like this, from chest beating
Or falling over a rail on concrete.
You’re not special!


She told him to leave her alone
After the disastrous date where he
Was so needy for the touch of a
Feminine hand, it was a thirst.
You’re not so special!


He told her to get lost
After he took her home in the
Night drunk and fucked her in
A sloppy meaningless way.
You’re not so special!


Living on crumbs of affection
Doesn’t fill you up,
Or quench your thirst, but
Gives you empty hope.
You’re not special!


Neither is he.


July 26, 2003






Sunday, July 27, 2003


It’s amazing.
I said hello to a friend today,
They didn’t say hello back.
This would make one of any
Sense think,
“They’re no longer my friend.”


How is this possible?
Someone I kissed,
who kissed me back,
Someone I loved,
who loved me back,
Someone of extreme intimacy,
who liked that.
Someone who told me his stories
who sometimes listened to mine
Someone who called me
when he had good news.
Someone who was a part of my life,
who let me be a part of his.


Chose today not to say hi.
Lesser ones wouldn't go on.
Not me.


July 26, 2003






All those foolish deeds
Be they proven by time
To be good or not so good
Seem to have been a
Good idea at the time.


If we walked at that time
In fug where memory holds
Only the pleasure,
It would have truly been a
Good idea at the time.


April 10, 2003






Alone is quiet,
usually.
Voices in my head don’t
Create sound waves in a
Room,
yet the voices are loud.


Alone is choice,
usually.
Human voices in my ears
Are unpredictable in the
Room,
though voices aren’t loud.


Alone for now,
Please.
I am so sad I cannot stand
The sound of another in the
Room,
soon it will be ok, but not now.


July 25, 2003






Friday, June 13, 2003


Women and men of a certain age,
Having lived through wars of the roses,
Confronting lives alone, with
Children they loved and sacrificed
Any thought of themselves for
Being certain they were educated.
Fed and independent,
Now take the first steps outside
Their boxes to interact with others
In various stages of the journey
To find a bond, or commonality,
Wanting to run down a hill arms
Spread and shout to the heavens
That they are free and now it is
The time for me, the time to discover
The self they always thought they
Had time to find, as they were
Growing up. Now the best time
To find one’s self is on the
Approach not decent to middle age.


June 12, 2003






Drunk,
I am drunk on words from the
Printed page and others’ writing,
And


Drunk,
On the sounds of my
Friend’s voices,
And


Drunk,
From sitting next to your body
Feeling your warmth,
And


Drunk,
From saying what I think and
Knowing my friends listen,
And


Drunk,
From your hug, seeing your candle
Fire up watching the women,
And


Drunk,
Knowing a little of the future,
But blessedly not all,
And


Drunk,
From your saying, “Rachel
Writes some good poetry,”
And


Drunk,
Knowing there are mountains
Of words I have yet to write,
And


Feel the passion of life. Know
The last thing I want to be is
Sober.


June 13, 2003








Kudzu, the clinging, summertime
Greening, Insatiable, unstoppable,
Pervasive, land conquering vine,
Encasing over seven million acres
Of America’s South, is just one
Thing I didn’t know before you.


Add to Kudzu, all real knowledge of
ee cummings, Kitty, “whose least
amazing smile is the most great
common divisor of unequal souls.”
Leonard Cohen’s, “Chelsea Hotel”
T.S. Eliot, “The Love Song of
J. Alfred Prufrock”


Rudyard Kipling’s, Chant-Pagan
“That the sunshine of England is pale,
And the breezes of England are stale,”
Bob Dylan, “You’re going to make
Me lonesome when you go.”
“On the trail of evening light” in
The Navaho Prayer, and
William Butler Yeats, ‘the ceremony
of innocence is drowned…’


You’ve a reasonable thoughtful voice
In the chaos of the world where
Debate is allowed, even applauded.
Anger is replaced by the kindness of
Respect, friendship and high regard.
Where sin does not exist except in
Our ability to hurt others, purposefully.


It is for me here, as though I did not
Ever take a deep breath before you,
Nor see the sunshine coming out
Of darkness on a cloudy day.
Before you, in my little place
Hope had died.


Looking forward to days without you,
Is as the former alcoholic said they saw,
“A great dry wastelands of sobriety”,
But who refers now of her sober life
As a “wonderful, vibrant thing.”


I believe truly and honestly
That I will look back at this time
As one of the happiest of my
Life, and I will wonder some day
How I was so upset on your leaving.


But now,
Right now,
It is very hard to
Understand.


June 7, 2003


About Kudzu:
Japan brought it to our 100th Centennial
Channing Cope called the plant
“The miracle vine.” in the 40s and
It was declared a weed in 1972.


Sunday, June 01, 2003




The value of this is
The value of me sitting
Across the table from you
Listening to every syllable you speak
Praying to God I will recognize
That sweet calm voice
Ten years from now.


May 18, 2003




And now these last few days,
A man who is near my age,
And taller than I,
And widowed,
A non smoker, and lite drinker
Who owns his own home, and
Never made love to anyone
All his life but his wife,
Has been talking to
Me.


And I am afraid, that he will not
Like me on meeting or he will.
I have to decide if I’m going
To let go and let this other man
Love me, and I him, the way someone
Like we need to be loved.
He has wounds, saying he does
Not want to get involved, yet
All he knows is to talk like he
Does.


He does not hear his own voice,
But I hear it, for it is an echo of mine
I who have had almost a dozen years
To build my walls, and tear them down,.
While the callous grows ever thicker.
His wall is not strong nor high and
Were I a more clever woman,
I would use that to get what I say I want
Although I am not sure, and don’t really
Know.


So he says, when we pause in talk
“Where do we go from here.”
Actually thinking I can answer that
Question with a logical path to follow.
I say, “I have rules.” Spending hours
Explaining the “Five Date Rule"
As though rules would really stop the
Body rolling down a hill.
And he says,
“Let’s meet for coffee, tomorrow.”


May 26, 2003






When the dogs do find her,
We will know what made her
Run away that night,
Inappropriately dressed,
Without her credit cards,
In house shoes and
Hot pink pajama pants.


Jonie wasn't a wild woman.
She raised her kids and
Loved her man and
Did the ironing on the
Screened in porch on
Hot August days, watching
Cars whiz by on the blacktop.


Jonie never moved far
From where she was born,
Choosing to be just down
The road from Mama and
Close enough to help drive
The tractor for Daddy at
Haying time.


Her kids knew all their teachers
Long before starting school
Because they taught them
Bible verses at the Baptist
Church Sunday school and
Were the people working in
Stores on the square in town.


Jonie read from an early age
Seeing pictures of oceans and
Tall redwood trees, knowing
The world wasn't flat as the
Fields around her house,
Knowing that people were
Many colors and verities in noses.


Jonie's mind's eye saw different
Views and smelled different scents.
Her ear heard a different cadence
In conversation she'd never heard.


Jonie was the quietest, calmest
Woman you would ever know
In her small place, and
When the dogs find her,
We will know why she ran away.


May 20, 2003




Small places are not easy.
My body stretching limbs out,
I touch walls, windows, ceilings,
Objection from the populace,
Social convention disturbed,
How can I be here and breath?


Life has been lived in small places.
Moving away forty miles was
Nothing but a larger room,
The same art on the walls.
The same music in the air.
The same odor of rot.


A muse says leave and find the
Larger place to explore. Know.
Plan a way. Draw a map.
Go forth and experience but
Remember where you were born.
Keep a tether to the past.


Those who left small places,
Don't realize the effort in remaining.
The safety of home is easy.
The certainty of a nester’s days
Are horror because there is no
Simplicity in staying.


Rage against the quiet,
It's difficult being bright when
All about you is dull and dim,
The traveler cannot understand.
He only finds comfort in being away
From the place he was born.


May 13, 2003




Run
I’ve wanted to run for so many years,
I cannot recall a time I didn’t think
Of running, as a way of dealing
With the horror of each hour, here.


Why
Have I lived in this small place?
For so long, and cuddled with
The killing of my spirit,
Fighting always to be.


Yet
Never taking a step beyond the
First forty miles from birth.
It was for so long a giant thing
I had accomplished, by that.


Always
Remaining here, so others could
Find me, and never going away
To find someone valuable who
Remained in their place for me.


He
Stepped into a space near to me
Teaching me by speaking of
Himself and what he had seen.
It opened up my mind.


How
Can I honor that. and
Give it to those that need
A similar wisdom from
Me, unknown to me now.


Run
To the freedom of not being
Responsible for anyone.
Maybe find the ultimate
Blessing.


May 13, 2003






There are things you need to tell me.
I know you haven’t thought of everything.
If I were traveling beside you,
You would turn to me and say,
“Oh I don’t remember, did I tell you…”
And in that simple extension of the
Familiar comment, tell me something
I never knew before but definitely
Needed desperately to know.


How can I, or you say all the things
That each of us needs to know
In the few hours we have left
Near each other, to say.
How can we?
We do not know what you need to
Tell me, and I do not know what
I need to tell you, until it is
Far beyond each other, where
We exist now.


May 13, 2003






Penguins
Those proper waddling birds
To whom flight is alien
Sit all about the room,
Even in the alcoves,
On the monitor, and
In the corners behind the
Cabinet.


An analogy could be
Drawn between the
Proper part of this man, and
Those penguins his friends
Have always given him, as
The one thing he would like
For birthdays and other
Special days,


Yet, we who know him now
Never would see this part of him,
As he has been a hawk,
The vibrant hunter to us, not
A rotund, waddling bird
Mating for life with another
Similar being, seeking warmth
In the cold.


May 13, 2003






Beat my drum you hungry beast
Don’t you dare be gentle with me.
Seeking pain to wake me from
This calm and orderly day.


Twirl and dance, my skirts lift
To create a vortex of wind,
A frenzied movement, and color
Flashing before your eyes.


The dizzy constant tumult
Repeated without concentration
Is mindless in its motivation
I toss my clothing to the wind.


Not only is the fast movement
Making a blur of my body
To my gaze you are merely a
Column of blue color standing.


May 12, 2003
Rachel's Newsletter 1:39 PM