Category: Gracie’s Glimmer, Poetry From A Woman Who Thinks Too Much

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 drove your Vega to first place.
The house looks deserted, the grounds unkempt and unloved.
Summer heat has burned the lilac bush and turned my roses brown.
Flowers struggle among the weeds, most have died, died to set me…

First you are young
And then you are not
The life that you own is
The life that you bought.
You can’t return it
Like a dress that’s too small
You own it, you wear it, that’s all.
You have to make it fit
My, oh my, what a mess!
It’s torn and it’s tattered
Like an old favorite dress.
Repair the torn out seam
Sew on a missing button
Because once it mattered
It’s an easy decision.
It’s your life, it’s your dress
You own it, you wear it, that’s all.

by Jeanne Marie

My daughter sent me a picture of a rainbow and I told her it was awesome, that I love rainbows.
She said, “You silly gurl, you are a rainbow.”

When you think

I have forgotten

about you…

When your phone

doesn’t ring

when your text

doesn’t flash

when I’m not posting

any PINK Bling…

That’s when I’m

thinking of you

most often.

As I wander

through my flowers

flitting around

just a blue

butterfly orphan,

my only

nourishment

the flowers I walk in…

That’s when I’m

thinking of you

most often.

Jeanne Marie, 2014

 
Imagine a forest where the colors run free

you might see a pink and blue hibiscus

and you can rest under a lavender tree.

Purple lace drapes the branches above

as you stroll through the violets and lilacs

happy forever, dancing in a forest to love.

Imagine a forest where the colors run free

where the rain drips pink marshmallows

and Swiss Hot Chocolate always is free.

A little house you could call your own

with thousands of books waiting to be read

and never, ever, the sound of a ringing cell phone.

Imagine…

Words & Pictures, Jeanne Marie. 2014

My first published piece was a poem in moonchild, an anthology of women’s verse and prose. It was published by Suha Publications in 1976. I gave my oldest daughter my only copy of the book because the poem was about her.
Recently, I was searching for another copy, never believing that I would find one, but I found several copies on Amazon.com. I bought two and I was as excited when they arrived last week as I was when my book arrived in 1976.
My first words in print. The experience taught me that I could be published. It validated me as a writer, handed me proof that I was a poet.
If you haven’t been published on paper yet, do it. Submit until you are published. It is not only possible but very likely and the experience will give you wings. You don’t have to be published to be a writer…

Went to a funeral the other day, the untied boot girl passed away.

She dared to stride, boots open wide, roaming about the town,

trailing her golden rawhide laces all over the ground.

People let her know, “Hon, your shoes are untied.”

“I know, but I don’t have time.”

She’d laughingly reply as she rushed by,

(Twas the very reason that she died.)

And when she fell, it weren’t no surprise.

“Shoot,” we all said, cause we’d always surmised,

“I knew she was gonna take a fall, didn’t you guys?”

“Don’t care if you don’t, have a nice day,

cause if you trip, it’s you who will pay.”

We’d mumble those words, as she passed by,

can’t say we hadn’t tried, wasn’t our fault

when the untied boot girl died.

Weren’t men, drugs or booze that finally took her down,

just some dumb ‘ol rawhide laces, trailing on the ground.

I want to be a storybook mother
With model children who never cry.
I want to sew and read them stories
Then cook and clean until it’s done.
But I can only be myself
And let my babies be too
Beautiful sweet lovely brats
I couldn’t live without.
I start to cook but have to stop
To wipe a runny nose.
I take a bath and the baby falls in
While supper burns on the stove.
Out for a night I should be glad
But can anyone take my place?
Will they be safe till I get home?
They are in my heart wherever I go.

Jeanne Marie

Running naked in a field of tall grass
Lying alone on the beach with the sun aglow.
Watching my babies while they sleep
Searching for life’s meaning wherever I go.
In the bath, water like silk caresses my skin
A physical pleasure that’s unsurpassed.
Heaven on earth, you can touch your soul
Escaping the ordinary till the water runs cold.

This yellow hibiscus
has been rained on
and it has been beaten
senseless by the wind.
It has been bent
almost to the ground
and it fought storms
to stand back up again.
It stands proud and
yes, it stands tall.
It was shaken
and it was bruised
But not beaten after all.

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…