Perhaps if we had not named us Love
if we had just let emotions run free
we’d still be snuggled side-by-side
beneath the magic of you and me.
No expectations, no promises
just the touch of wanting hands
needs flowing and unbroken
uncrippled by Love’s demands.
Perhaps if we had not named us Love…
He shatters my self-worth
with a single sentence.
“You looked prettier before
you went back to work.”
Oh God, I’m nothing.
Wait. I go to the mirror
just to see for myself.
A familiar woman
sadly stares back.
I give her a smile
brush away her tears.
Hey, I look better
since I started working.
I realize, I am not the
woman he says I am,
I am the woman
my own eyes see.
I am no longer the girl you first touched, held, caressed and loved.
I am much older now. I know too much to play Cinderella to your Prince Charming, although I still love you.
I am no longer a girl at all.
The girl grew weary of childish games and a woman stands in her place.
I can’t play Tinkerbell to your Peter Pan, not anymore.
I am woman who knows what she wants most of the time and I definitely know what I don’t want, all of the time.
I have grown-up. Changed.
In some ways for the better and I’ll admit this, in some ways maybe not so better.
As I fight to make my own choices and live my life inside the confines of this codependent relationship, I am often frustrated and angry.
Sometimes, I feel as if I’m walking on floors of Jello surrounded by walls of melting wax.
The rules change as soon as I learn them.
Your truths are flexible and my reality rebels.
I don’t want to be you. I want to be me.
I want to relax and I want to enjoy my life.
I want you to love me, not direct me.
I want my flowers, my gardens, my children, my grandchildren, my great-grandchildren, my sisters, my pink friend, the Sun, the Stars, the Moon, the Sky, the Rain, the Snow, the Ocean, the cool breeze that gently blows as I sit on my porch and write…and you…
I simply want to get lost in my blessings.
I am no longer the girl you first touched, held, caressed and loved.
October blues appear out of sync amidst the brilliant reds and golds
watching the leaves change as this heart remains heavy and cold.
Fiery burning colors, so bright they make my head spin
while my eyes smile at the show, my heart refuses to join in.
This time last year, snapping pictures with childlike abandon
dashing from tree to tree from river to mountain to canyon.
That child has been banished, her spirit broken and blue
running from memories that whisper; girl, it was never true.
My hands grow old
my legs do not
between a girl and
old woman I am caught.
My antique mirror is kind
The selfie pics a fright
My wrinkles will haunt
my dreamscapes tonight.
Just last year, wrinkles?
None. Lost thirty pounds
and crap, the damn
wrinkles, they did come.
Let this be a lesson
to all you over 60 ladies,
no extreme weight loss or
your face will fall to hades.
Standing on ice
watching the cracks
spread beneath her feet.
Swan dancing on ice
slipping and sliding.
A million more
cracks appear.
She keeps moving
until she stands in the
center of the frozen lake.
Fractured ice under her feet
no matter which step
she chooses to take.
She walks carefully.
She walks slow.
It’s so lonely.
It’s so cold.
Standing on ice…
watching the cracks
spread beneath her feet.
I’m not so young, I’m not so old
I am at the age where the laundry I don’t fold.
I don’t own an iron…I am proud to say
Even if I did, I wouldn’t use it anyway.
I used to clean from the moment I woke
Now I drink coffee and have me a smoke.
After a few hours, when my bones decide to perform
I take hundreds of pictures of the flowers, wondering
when is somebody going to mow the lawn?
Old low burning flames
memories under the bed
like pieces of an old game
at night, fast asleep
they blister in your head.
Upon waking, you weep.
pictures of a love lost
broken glass
beneath your feet.
Regrets flash by
on your mind screen
you still pay the cost
but you’re stuck in now
lost…forever it seems.
How can that old love
still make you cry?
Was it a nightmare
or was it a dream?
Is the past ever gone
is it ever wiped clean?
Wake up, clear your mind
push old passions away
get on with your life
because today will be
the past…someday.
by Jeanne Marie
Like a caterpillar,
I shed my skin.
Peek out at freedom
flutter my wings
then try to crawl
back inside again.
The light’s too bright.
It’s gonna rain.
Will it hurt?
Where will I sleep?
I am afraid.
Will there be pain?
My wings I test.
Oh yes, they work!
I crash into myself
flying away from
a life that hurts.
My sister has flown solo
touching stars all night.
She helps me up
she dries my tears.
“You ARE a butterfly.
You have strong wings
and just like me,
you’ll be alright.”
Still, I bury the torn larva
under a weeping willow tree
just in case…I hate free.
My sister is glowing
as she whispers to me,
“You can’t climb back
inside your cocoon
once you have tasted free.
Spread your silly wings
my precious sister
and come touch
the stars with me.”
Like the clouds in the sky, we travel through life, sometimes with a purpose and sometimes just drifting. Sometimes we are storm clouds and sometimes we are happy clouds. Sometimes our lives connect and we hold onto each other, until life pulls us apart again. Those moments of connection are the moments worth waiting for…
Butterflies kissed my face today
They flittered and they fluttered
all through my hair.
They whispered do not give up
you are loved, you are loved
we are here
to tell you, you are loved.
So many butterflies
surrounded my shoulders
I laughed and I smiled
as I danced
through the grass
with butterflies around my feet.
I felt like a child
no longer older
my spirit so light.
I stayed outside and played
watching my sweet
butterflies in flight.
Butterflies kissed my face today.
I AM SHE
There was a time when my mother was middle-aged and me?
I was young and naïve, not a care in the world
the arrogance of youth was on my side.
I was a footloose hippie girl and I thought love was free.
Her skin was firm and tanned, black waves of hair fell to her shoulders
softly surrounding her fair face, bosom quite generous,
legs as fine as any model, she was my mother,
but with flower child simplicity, I used to call her Grace.
She was spirited back then, although she seemed quite old to me,
and how did I become imprisoned while she has learned to fly–a butterfly set free?
Tonight, as I glance into the mirror, my middle-aged face stares back.
Have I become her, and she, the child I used to be?
At seventy-three she’s still a beauty, but time’s fire has burned its’ trail
and when she had a stroke last year,
I realized how deeply she had aged; yet, become so childlike, so frail.
My firm skin, my shapely legs, will soon bow down to time,
much as my bell-bottoms and tie-up tops gave way
to blue jeans and then on to stretch pants and a baggy tee.
I will lose this interval named youth and as I look into her face,
I see my future and
I am she.
by Jeanne Marie
My mom went to play with the angels in 2009.
Women Who Think Too Much by Jeanne Marie 
You must be logged in to post a comment.