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

The Cliff’s Edge

She walks
Along the cliff’s edge
Looking down.
Behind her
A ravine of lies,
And the man
She loves.
Shattered dreams
Are all she wears,
They are her only cover
From the icy rain.
He walks
Behind her,
Listening with her to
The waves, crashing below.
The thunder booms!
The lightning strikes!
The ground quakes!
She is afraid.
How could she dare to love?
He waits.
He cannot save her
His love sent her to the edge,
He cannot touch her
Or she will jump,
So he stays behind her.
She weighs the choices
While she plays with her life,
Balance a thing of the past
She walks along the cliff’s edge.

1989

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

The Last Box

I didn’t realize that the last box would be the heaviest,
not until I stumbled with it down what is now your drive.
Tears flowing unchecked were blocking my common sense.
Crying, remembering when our desire was alive.
Shoved the box in the van, slammed my door closed.
Then I checked the garage for things forgotten.
Taped to your toolbox, I saw your favorite picture of me
the one you promoted from your wallet
to the dashboard of your race car, a Vega, 1973.
My image inspired you as you raced
or so you used to say.
I guess the week you yanked me from the car
Was the week you did so well, driving your Vega to first place.
The house looks deserted, the grounds are unkempt and unloved.
Summer heat has burned the lilac bush I finally grew and turned my roses brown.
Flowers struggle among the weeds and most of them have died, died to set me free.
The angel trumpets and morning glories alone proclaim
that once I touched the earth around your home with love.
I bend over to rescue the flowers setting dead in plastic pots,
and then I set them back down.
I can’t save what’s been killed with neglect, I know. I know. I’ve tried.
I knew what would happen when I stopped the watering that kept them alive.
I carried out the last box tonight as the sun was going down
It was so much heavier than the first,
the weight really caught me by surprise.
I patted the morning glories goodbye, watered them with tears.
I climbed up into my van, remembering your words the day you bought it.
As you handed me the keys, you softly said,
“There, now you can take all your stuff the next time that you decide to leave.”
I shifted into reverse, held down the brake as I laid my head on the steering wheel to cry.
Crying because; still, I love you, crying for all that we lost.
The last box was the heaviest, so much heavier than the first
How could I have known that a box of fancy glasses
Would weigh me down the worst?

1999

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

Fly Away

He flung the cage door open and shouted at the bird, fly away…
She shivered, and she shook and she fluttered her wings
when nothing happened she just called it a day.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll be free, is what she sings.
He covers the cage for the night with a smirk on his face,
Never even bothers to close the cage door.
He knows she will stay in place because he clipped her wings,
of that he is sure.

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

Mama’s Shoes

Saw her heartache coming, visible
from two thousand miles away.
So when she called me this morning
wondering about him and that girl
I didn’t know what to say.
I’d seen the warning signs
but kept it to myself
cause, I’m a great one to talk.
When my world was blown to pieces
I didn’t run, I didn’t even walk.
So when she askes me twice,
“Mama, what do you think, what do you think
about him and that girl?”
I don’t say what I feel,
“There goes your world, my daughter,
that’s what I think about him and that girl.”
Saw her heartache coming and I
knew she was caught in my shoes.
How sad. I wish I’d flung them in the trash
outgrown them or at least given them away,
before her feet were formed and
now here she is, a beautiful woman
stumbling through love in her mama’s shoes.

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

Time

An old woman
Sits by herself,
Staring at her past
Arranged on a shelf.
Time is money
Or so they say,
Time stands still
Then slips away.
A baby is born
His first sound
An angry cry,
A rose in bloom
is ready to die.
Time waits for no one
Then it just marches on,
It goes by too fast
Then it takes too long.