My poetry

partially autobiographical, sometimes biographical, hopefully creatively crafted

Saturday, January 16, 2010


she didn't conform to the specifications of the town's genteel womanhood
quirky with a glint of the rebel
and a sophisticated je nes se quoi
she could be seen throwing a football
with the neighborhood kids
conduct a rousing debate with staid bureaucrats
or dance a wild flamenco
at neighborhood celebrations
there was a touch of mystery
to her hazel eyes
the red flowers in the wildly spiraled Afro
peasant blouses and hand painted skirts
suggested a panache for life
we mere mortals, were bemused
at a woman of such strange juxtapositions
in this small rural town

as a child
watching her hands as they danced in the air
punctuating her remarks
they told me tales, conveyed emotions
without those appendages
she would have been rendered partially

she carried a tattered notebook and a yellow Bic pen
with a nibbled end
and was seen scribbling
in the grocery stores, as she waited in lines
between the loads of laundry, late at night
as we slept
conversations often were abruptly stopped mid-stream
with one up regal upraised finger
hurriedly writing a word, a phrase, a line
less she forget the inspired thought
and then with a fey smile
would resume her narrative

we always suspected she was writing
pithy, profound essays
long philosophical dissertations,
perhaps even the occasional grocery list
when she died
I discovered boxes and boxes
of notebooks
marvelously written poems
dreams, hopes and fears for her children
passion felt for her lover
a deep sorrow at injustice
secret thoughts of a woman
we never knew
I grieved again

Note: Originally published Aug 2007 by Hood Press 

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