POETRY IS LIFE -

Thank you for taking time to read the material posted here. I would be pleased if you could comment, and I promise to comment back. Sincerely, Nancy

Followers

Friday, December 31, 2010

NO ONE CAME TO VISIT

NO ONE CAME TO VISIT


no one came with flowers
no one came with pink
balloons or candy
no one brought pink dresses
to fit a new born.

Mother, she knew.

No one believed
or wanted to see a child
who entered this world
a little over a pound -
medical men told her,
“She won’t survive the
night.”

Mother, she knew -

she knew when two men
visited
knew only one – but
knew of the other
one man sat to her right
one man to her left.

These visitors did not
bring balloons or candy
or a pink dress for their
new grand daughter –
a baby who would fit into
their palm -

a baby with tubes in
temples –
a body to small and
needles too large

both men died before
the birth of her child

her father spoke to her,
her father in law
listened. . .

“Don’t worry she will
survive and make you
proud.”

Medical men entered
her room and mother
smiled.
Medical men warned
her – “Babies this small
do not survive.” –

Mother, she knew.

Daddy entered her room
she smiled.
told him their little girl
would survive
he pulled a chair up to her
bed, held her hand, and
listened. . .

He probably smiled back
he must have warned her
to face the truth -
mother, stubborn,
she believed.

A few days passed,
the medical men told her
again –
a week went by, and she
smiled -
two weeks, the medical
men stopped talking of
death –

Mother peered through
glass at her baby –
lying inside a metal box –
inside with tubes and monitors
with no one to touch a child’s
grey skin.

She watched as a chest
was forced to expand
she prayed to herself –
she waved good bye -
thanking the Medical men –
telling them she would be back

every day – to watch a child
who barely opened her eyes.

There was no touching,
or cuddles, no wrapping
of tiny fingers around her own,
no legs kicking, or laughing
when a child yawned, thinking
it was a smile

no one talked about their
little girl –
no one asked about the color
or her hair – her eyes or her
personality
no one asked if she looked
like mother or father . . .
no one talked.

Mother, she believed.

Every day – from summers
end into dead leaves of fall
onto ice on city walks,
she walked up a hill
to the hospital to stare
through glass –
her walk home - eyes filled
with tears, she recited an
Irish prayer.

Every day after work
father walked up the hill
to stare at his child he
could not hold –
laying naked inside a metal
bed with tubes still
attached to her forehead.

He watched as nurses
tapped the soles of her
feet – to keep her awake
to suck on a miniature
bottle – she began to eat . . .

It was the day before
Christmas - a snow
filled sky – when news
arrived – she could come
home.

Three months and ten
days after her birth
she weighed five pounds -

nurses wrapped her
in tiny booties
a white undershirt
a small pink dress - now
snuggled up inside pink
blankets

with open arms - mother
held her little girl
peered into her open eyes
pinched her little hands
and feet.

Mother, she knew

On Christmas day inside a
neighbor’s car they brought
their little girl home.

Mother looked at my father
and said, “I told you so,
she would survive.”

It was beneath their
Christmas tree – I laid
inside a red wagon –
my older brother next to me
a red bow tied around my
forehead -
Christmas and I finally
made it home.

Mother, she knew.

Friday, December 3, 2010

ANGELS FLY BETWEEN BRANCHES OF A TREE

Angels Fly Between
Branches of a Tree

Angels gather above trees
behind my home – I told friends –
do you believe me?
have my friends seen angels
between the branches of my tree?

In the morning I stand barefoot
grass sneaks between toes
wet from morning dew,
grown ups call it dew. . .they
say dew covers grass –
our cellar door – where I sit –
is wet, covered in dew.

I walk bare foot – feet covered
in dew – I wiggle my toes
wait for the angels to return –
wonder I could learn to fly?

I push my hair away
from my face – damp hair
filters between each
tips of my fingers -

a sun begins to peek
out from the mountain. . .
spreading orange into
a fog.

Now – stare at the tree
I whisper aloud - now
sparkles of light flicker as
diamonds – entering my
skin, my soul, magnifying
day – as transparent
as a sky of blue above me
as a sudden state of light
of different colors paints
the sky. . .

I tell people, “I feel different,”
but no one believes me – or
will they join me in early
morning when words do
not illustrate how articulate
a mystery is –

I know what I left inside
is a blank canvas, unpainted -
outside a sprinkle of angel
dust has unclouded my
mind –

So I wake up early each
morning to feel damp skin –
to wiggle my toes.

Thursday, December 2, 2010

ANTI AGING A TRIP TO THE DRUGSTORE - MORE Magazine

"Published in More Magazine 2010"
ANTI AGING AND A TRIP TO THE DRUG STORE You look into the mirror and there it is! You really are...