Posted in Gracie's Glimmer, Poetry From A Woman Who Thinks Too Much

I Unwish The Wish…

My mind is clouded with thoughts
but none that I can speak.
The words have all been spoken and
thoughts disintegrate as I attempt
to form words that I could say.
My mind is burdened with memories
but I have no more sentences for you.
I wish I did.
My words will not make sense to you
as your’s make none to me,
we said everything that we could say
the silence is deafening
as we stare at the damn TV.
I wish…I wish…
I could just show you my heart
and that I could see yours
so that we could understand.
Then I remember how hard we
struggle with each other’s reality
and we don’t have a backup plan.
So I unwish the wish and
I write words that are my truth
over and over again.
Hoping my head will believe
the words that my soul writes.
Posted in Gracie's Glimmer, Poetry From A Woman Who Thinks Too Much


She started to think about what she wanted to experience before she died and it went like this…she wanted to be made love to like he had never seen her before and she was the most precious thing in the world that he could ever touch or possess.
She wanted him to say her smile made his day and lit up his world.
She wanted him to hold her as he was sleeping, wrapped all around her and never letting go all night.
She wanted to dance around the bedroom with him at midnight. Dancing slow, to a country love song, held so tight she could barely breathe, dancing with the man she loved as he whispered, “I am so sorry, I didn’t know how much I loved you,” in her ear.
She wanted to be loved like that once more before she died.
Posted in Gracie's Glimmer, Poetry From A Woman Who Thinks Too Much


Sometimes I get lost inside my own mind

My body becomes just a shell

I forget who I am and where I wanted to go

I know it’s awful for you to watch me

Trapped inside myself, my blackness is hell.

My mind and my heart feel empty

With echoes of the past all that I can hear

I don’t mean to leave you to sit alone

But sometimes I’m just not here.

I don’t know where I go, yet it feels familiar.

I close my eyes and I fall down into sleep

Waves of calm wash through my bones, my mind

There. Now I don’t have to decide, feel or think.

I know I’m broken, brain, soul and spirit

And there is no extra sticky glue

No modern pill or magic potion

That could bring me back,

Mended, to you.

If only I had known how sad

Together would turn out to be,

I would have walked away

And one of us would have been free.

by Jeanne Marie

Posted in Gracie's Glimmer, Poetry From A Woman Who Thinks Too Much


I ran into a summer life
I tried it on
I tasted it
I loved it
I lost it
and I ran back to snow.
Why I didn’t keep on
I’ll never know.
Fear grabbed the wheel
drove me quite mad.
Panic navigated, flying
through mountains
sliding across icy roads,
dumped me back here
freezing in the bitter snow.
Posted in Gracie's Glimmer, Poetry From A Woman Who Thinks Too Much

I Cannot Sleep. The Cats Are Crying.

On my garage stoop the cats are gathered
crying into the damp, dark mist that rises before dawn.
Sitting in a circle, they howl and whine and mew
like old women with a dilemma to ponder anew.
Another stray arrives but softly cries outside the circle
whimpering as he pleads for admission to the klatch.
The cats howl and whine and mew among themselves
and one fat grey cat snarls his veto. He is out-voted.
The sitting cats become silent and look into each
other’s glowing eyes, then, as one, they turn
their sullen eyes to gaze upon the stranger.
Their silence is inviting so the tenderfoot softly
pads into the circle and sits submissive.
The conversation resumes.
Cold air turning warm breath into smoke and eerie whispers
forming smoky words which crawl into my veins, raising hairs,
fears that have no name, foundation for terror that blooms.
There are no refreshments but the cats don’t seem to mind
stray cats are used to hunger, thirst, cold tea bags
and cigarette butts in the trash can-food that they find.
I’d set out milk and cookies if the cats were inviting
but although a stray myself, their yellow glares
remind me, I don’t belong. I’m not their kind.
The whining, mewling voices grow louder
anger colored by painful memories obviously arises.
Entranced, I listen in silence from my porch until
the meeting is adjourned, ending with screams of rage.
The strays go their separate ways, running,
running to the four corners of my fields.
One mangy calico remains at post beneath my window
to plead their case, to keep the vigil.
Crying with a newborn baby’s wail to my empty arms
while from the fields, the stray’s cries drift back to my ears.
I cannot sleep. The cats are crying.
I used to let them sleep in the garage but they peed on the racecar
and they crapped on the Snap-On tools.
They had heat, food and water, ladders to climb the rafters
but then, aren’t all stray cats a little rude?
I fed my babies milk and cookies
Nevertheless, I let their innocence die, so who am I to say?
Because in a perfect world they’d be no unwanted
babies, kids or cats called stray.
Babies whose only crime was that they sat on wells of oil
immobilized by a terrorist regime which ruled their world.
Their frightened eyes filled the TV cameras
which sent their pleas out to the masses.
Set them free from the terror we heard every day
so, we sent our sons and husbands and let them die.
War does not set babies free as we were led to believe
It is a power play to reline the coffers of the rich
deadly support for the hungry powers that we feed.
Yes, in a perfect world they’d be no unwanted
babies, kids or cats called stray.
I cannot sleep. The cats are crying.