Something About Mary

As ravished as the house had been, being within made me feel less broken.

The overgrown grass, sporadic dead spots on the lawn…it spoke to me of being alone with my thoughts.

Maiden Mary would greet me with her loose ways.

Twisted as she was, she encouraged me to come out of the big book and play.

Years strolled pass and Mary stayed, solidified to those that pray.

And, though she had wished me to always be well. Through her painted on tears…I could tell,

Mary had been living in a personal hell.

Could it have been that we both had were under a broken spell?

The House on Main Street


Tell you what I remember.

Slide shows.

Kisses goodnight on the cheek.

Hardwood floors that announced every creepy, creak.

Plath read by dim light.

A soiled brown journal…

Locked up tight.

Angry sentences filled with the holy spirit.

Standing in line for the back of the familiar…weathered hand.


How long the hours can be.

Awaiting the bending knee.


for a simplistic house on the Main street.


I recall my plaster.

As it, flaked upon the green tiled floor.

The distant screams of the ancient wood-stove.

Crying for more.

The name of the father…

On the forbidden front door.


A sardonic house on Main street.

Basic black on white.

Quaint and discrete.

If Only a Mistress


Let it go.

As the blood traces my recovery.

What of the wise tale of motherly love?

Paternal pacts of protection?

The abuse nothing more than corded piles of wood’s deflection.

Sweet maple.

Tart pine.

A morning’s wood stove…a way of brandishing a ‘hello’.

Never felt sorry for self.

In those knotted woods.

No one spoke of, help.

If only a mistress

If only the plight of wrong turns on dark, gravel, back roads.

A diary of teenage dysfunctions

Foreplay for what was an 80’s norm.

The flow of the natural-born red river has not recovered me.

Alas, to separate will be all that is left to anchor the vagabond feet.


The Living Years

I know that I'm a prisoner  To all my Father held so dear  I know that I'm a hostage  To all his hopes and fears
I know that I’m a prisoner
To all my Father held so dear
I know that I’m a hostage
To all his hopes and fears

My life story in a line…believe in me because I don’t believe in anything!

Or, better yet, there is a fine art to life.  And, that is simply in between the things we choose to see.
As a child, we all long to be, the next president of the United States, an astronaut, Cher and/or Barbra Streisand. Some even dreamed the mission impossible dream of being like their father.

You are just like your father!
Better yet:
You are a spoiled brat…a daddy’s girl.

I often had been told this horrible premonition, it seemed so real, I ran from it via the bottle and blotter daily.

Crumpled bits of paper  Filled with imperfect thought  Stilted conversations  I'm afraid that's all we've got
Crumpled bits of paper
Filled with imperfect thought
Stilted conversations
I’m afraid that’s all we’ve got

Fuck that and the horse the dysfunctional unit came in on.
This I know to be true:
Writers write to find truth. Writers write to discover their childhood again. Poets dream in order to make sense of their nightmares. Poets hide away in the light of day for the night-time brings safety.
I remember once a pushing match between father and daughter. Black hatred and white peace. Fists pushing into one another. Stair’s lingering eerily below. Making the drop from reality seem not so far out of reach. The pushing never seised and the hiding game began.
Behind ancient stone walls in Canterbury not full of tales, New Hampshire. Sliding off and out into the darkness ten speeds away…as fast and as far as my legs could pump.  Had I left my mother laying as she had the day she was born, fetal?  I had.  And, to that, another swoosh of air taken from the sails on the ride to nowhere.
Years later I reascend into the darkness. Pulling out the plug from the jug and easing the pain with just one more…I drink alone.  Just one moment with death for it seemed to always gather at my feet.

So often the threat of ill-will is more like the blade than the handle.  The promise of hate to come seems to be more like kin than the physical moments distant cousin abuse in between.
To some, I never received that many punches from my father’s bag of punch lines. Yet, the joke would always be on me. I have been waiting 47 years for a hit, hook, line and sinker…yet, the emotional ravaging of my soul had been what took its final toll?

You just can't get agreement  In this present tense  We all talk a different language  Talking in defense
You just can’t get agreement
In this present tense
We all talk a different language
Talking in defense

Today, I came upon a room that I had not opened in many a sober years. It had laid dormant behind my chips of plenty and my rented room of resentments.
The room seemed fresh but old. Borrowed and very blue. It held a man so small he almost seemed a ghost. A whisper of the past. He sat in a woolen and wooden within an expensive chair. A sitting device that showed the importance he felt for himself.
I watched from afar…as only a visitor to this planet would. I shivered with fear and disgust. I spoke my handmade Serenity Prayer. A mantra. A savior of words to my condemned to dysfunction soul.
What words were spoken needn’t matter. They rang out in literal stabs at the universe, wrong, bad, lazy, bitch, fuck and so on.
Usually, a strong person, I felt as though the earth that I had built on hope and spirit and love and imagination…was just another episode in the Twlight Zone.
Honest light and traveled tunnels filled the room and soon I would be that little girl again.
Touch by an angel? Brought back into the spiritual light?
A forever, NO!
I began to write.  Write as though my life depended upon every letter, every connotation and every meaning.

A family is only as dysfunctional as I can remember it to be.  I see it in the lines that cross between my sister and I.  The telling of horror tales.  The nights that went on and on without a hint of abuse.  The days that went on and on doused by my father’s angry past.

So often we try to make square pegs fit into round holes.

I am the Indigo Girl singing,

‘I’m trying to tell you something about my life
Maybe give me insight between black and white
The best thing you’ve ever done for me
Is to help me take my life less seriously, it’s only life after all..’

And, my sister?  Well, the darkness has taken its toil to where it is amassed with trinkets and bobble and one month stands.

In truth, as I hope to always be, I would think she’d bang out a few verses of Meatloaf:

Stop right there!
I gotta know right now!
Before we go any further!
Do you love me?
Will you love me forever?
Do you need me?
Will you never leave me?
Will you make me so happy for the rest of my life?
Will you take me away and will you make me your wife?

Tonight, I lie down with dogs and I am blessed.  Abuse is such a unique and passionate item.  Many hold it like a diamond dangled above a rough.  Write I say.  Speak.  Sing. Listen.  Push yourself to where only you can find you.  You are all you’ve got!

It's too late when we die  To admit we don't see eye to eye
It’s too late when we die
To admit we don’t see eye to eye