"Such Transitions"

It's a "New Season," It's a "New Day";

"Turning a New Page," 

"It's Transition! It's Progress!"

What labels they make for change.

But what happens when one is forced

To turn the page, start a new chapter?

What if the transition is mandated 

By someone who deems you no longer of use?

I see it in her eyes--diminished sparkle.

I see it in her steps--slower pace.

This new season, page, chapter

Has aged her fifteen years.

Too bad such transitions fail to come

With pre-arranged contingency plans:

Some people figure you'll find a way to swim

After they throw you to the sharks.

I WILL her to survive, praying fervently

For her to regain her composure,

Set new goals for herself, and become

The Woman I know still breathes within her.

I DO believe that "all things work to our good,"

But that doesn't make some transitions any easier.

I pray, eventually, her dampered spirits and

Her damaged self-esteem will be redeemed.

I DARE to believe she will regain what she's lost,

Recover what has been damaged:

I will see her dance again, laugh heartily,

Embracing every moment of her life again.

Pick up your feet, my sister, and welcome the morning:

You were meant for more than the box they've assigned you to.

Stand up straight, Magnificent Woman--and walk with the dignity

And respect and honor you have earned and deserve.

"There are People Here"

"There are people here,"
She whispered, scanning
The fence line for any sign
Of a quiet observer.

She was quite alone.

There were others here,
She knew it, sensed it,
Heard them in the eerie
Stillness of the big backyard.

They'd been here for some time.

"How old is this house?"
She mused, eyeing the foundation;
Had anyone ever told her that?
"Perhaps a century or more?"

She was standing on a graveyard.

There were souls here, for certain;
This yard was a meeting place
Of the most extraordinary sort.
And there she stood among them.

They were watching her.

Would she speak to them?
No, she would hold her tongue.
Acknowledge their existence?
It was too late for that.

She knew they knew she knew.

She stared straight ahead,
Where she imagined they'd be
And half willed them to appear.
(She was, perhaps, ready for them.)

They remained still, watching her.

She turned and left them, then,
With no regret, no disappointment,
Determined to chase her own day
In the Land of the Living.

Their eyes watched HER retreating form.

"I Hope I Can Forget"

She never went to school
To be a private investigator,
But in recent days, she might
Have sworn she was destined
For that kind of career.

Two days ago, after a quiet dinner,
She stumbled upon a set of pictures,
Evidence of her friend's indiscretions.
Undeniably, it was her best friend
And he had buried himself.

When she saw her friend,
She confronted him.
"What the hell?" she demanded.
This isn't him, she thought.
He stared blankly, taken aback.

She whispered, "I saw them."
"I saw the pictures."
"Shhh," he said. "Not now,"
"Later..." (Nothing else.)
He continued talking to the others.

It was hard for her to engage
In conversation at the table.
She knew what he had taken great care
To hide--And she knew what she knew
Could change the status of the universe.

Afterward, after maintaining
A calm and cool demeanor,
He met his friend in the parking lot.
"I'm sorry you saw those pictures,"
He said. "There's no excuse for them."

"No," she said with finality.
"There is no excuse."
She looked at her friend,
Realizing she barely knew him.
"I just hope I can forget them."

Whether she did indeed forget,
Whether their friendship
Was forever tainted or healed,
We may never know--and who can say?
Who can say what is best?

------------------------
Another poem based on a headline I saw today.

Because I'm Smiling

It's become evident to me
That you think,
Because I'm smiling,
That all is well and we dance
On Sunshine and Rainbows
Again...

When we don't.

You've made it clear
That you think you can
Erase a slate, White Out wrongs,
Champion the "Forget"
In "Forgive and Forget";
Clearly...

I have not forgotten.

You sleep soundly,
Breathing deeply,
Dreaming dreams;
All is well in your world,
You think there is balance,
Obviously...

I beg to disagree.

Because I'm smiling,
You have come to believe
That we are at peace,
That the battle is over,
The storm has passed--
Conveniently...

I'm here to tell you:
It has not.

No, behind this smile
Is a girl trying to come to terms
With grace and boundaries
And sin and lies;
Not to mention our future,
Dubious...

No, I am not smiling inside.

There is a storm brewing
On the inside of me--
You should know that.
To be fair, you should know
That all hell has yet to break
Loose...

This is not over.

---------------------------------------
This poem is based on one of today's headlines. A high profile couple who clearly didn't know each other, discovered shocking and painful secrets about each other.

"Got a Cigarette?": At A Stoplight This Morning

At the first of many traffic signals I would encounter en route to work this morning, I found myself sitting at a red light. This, in itself, is never a source of stress for me because this particular intersection is the one that leads to the elementary school--it is usually only a matter of moments before the light changes.

No problemo.

Very rarely, if ever, is this a place where unusual things happen. This morning, however, it was just that.

As I dug around in my bag for my cell phone, a middle-aged woman in high-water pants and a crocheted hat of sorts crossed in front of my car. I saw her look at my car, then me, then me again. She looked at my face, as if she were assessing me. I could tell she was trying to make up her mind about something.

Then it happened. She walked up to my car door.

I cracked the window, praying the light wouldn't be long in changing.

"Hello..." I said.

"You got a cigarette?" she asked me, with a haggard look on her face.

"No, I don't, sister," I said. "I'm sorry."

And I was sorry.

At that moment, I found myself wishing I had, for no apparent reason, one or two cigarettes in tow. "Why don't I keep a pack stashed in the car for moments like these?" (Maybe because these moments never happen...?!?!?)

But seriously: I'd like to be prepared for moments like these, that's all. Be able to help someone in need. Person to person.

In that short space of time between her question and the light change, I chided myself for not having a cigarette or any money on my person to give her. By the looks of it, I might have been able to really brighten her day.

It doesn't take much, you know. To brighten someone's day. I just hated that my daily offering was not much more than an awkward smile.

She turned and went her way, with an audible sigh, and the light changed.

And I've thought about her all day.

A Penny for Your Thoughts

"A penny for your thoughts,"
He said, leaning into that
Intimate space across the table.

"I--" she started, thinking
This one really expected
Her intelligent response.

"What I meant," he corrected,
Looking her in the eye,
"Is I want to purchase your thoughts."

"Whaaat?" She countered,
Confused by his icy stare
(Had she misread him after all?)

"I want to buy your thoughts,"
He said again, nonchalantly,
"All of them."

"All of them?" she repeated,
Attempting to process this
Turn of table event.

"Yes, of course, all of them,"
He said, "For a penny."
As if that were more than enough.

"I don't know who you think you are,
Or what right you have to ask,
But there is no way in hell--"

"Look," he said, put out with her
Objection, "I'm paying more than
The asking price for them all.

"What need have you of them?"
He pushed an envelope forward.
"Here, two pennies then.

"You really can't do better than that,"
He said. "I've heard enough of yours
To know there'd be no market."

She stared at the envelope;
Wondering when the price
Of a person's thought was so--

"I will not sell out." She said.
"You will," He countered,
"To me or someone else

"Only they may not pay
Such a high price
For your meager thoughts."

"You cannot buy my thoughts,"
She said. "You cannot have them."
And she slid the envelope forward.

"Fine," he said, standing up.
"Your loss, my dear."
He threw a bill on the table.

She stared at his retreating form,
Tore into the abandoned envelope
And gripped tightly two dull pennies.

Caution: Falling Boulder!

By definition, detached--
Feeling no longer a part
Of what had held it before,
Nothing binding it anymore,
Only momentary incidents
Of impact these days.

A falling boulder.

Some would call this Free Fall
A cosmic inspiration of Hope;
Misguidedly waving as the weighty
Mass succumbs to Gravity.
There is only a hard surface
Awaiting to Break the Fall.

Someone needs to warn them.

Far below, they idealistically
Celebrate what they deem to be
An intellectual phenomenon.
A band plays, someone blows a
Trump and another cries in glee.
Fair maidens dance in Time.

But this rock is worn.

They cannot see the deep crevices
Or the scars of impacts made long ago;
They cannot imagine the density
Of this rock which has fallen,
Finally, after long years of foggy
Contemplations on a mountain top.

This rock is large.

She's no pebble, this one;
Rather a planet of swirling,
Unnamed disappointments;
There is no combination of words
To describe what lies within
Her damaged surface.

Alas, the hard earth at last.


Boulder: A detached and rounded or worn rock, especially a large one (dictionary.com)