The Wabi-Sabi Writer

My hair - wavy flaxen 

flowed down 

my back

My imagination 

effervescent    

expansive

and

ethereal

My childhood -  

all ballet recitals 

and play dough parties

a future

well assured

then

felled

by

a pixie

a parting

and pain

 of learning 

it was too late

to change

November Poetry Project

15 of 30  

My red plastic cup with straw attached

so perfect for blowing a frantic froth of milky bubbles

My orange creamsicle coverlet

a snuggly soft security blanket

keeping me safe even as it, like life, unravelled

My menagerie 

a wild bounty of stuffies -

bears, bunnies, kittens and frogs

all cuddly and cozy and love

My kitties

All kitties

Sunny, Coco, Dum Dum, Grover, Speedy, Sweet Lady and her sweet babies, Sebastian, Peppermint, Missy, Dog, Squeaky, even the bite-y bastard Merlin, Moses, Ivy, Sunny, Sasha, Riff-Raff, Scratch, Sniff, Sassafras, Snoozie (Paresseuse), Carlos, Eclypse

Sophie

Lionel

Onyx & Opal

November Poetry Project

14 of 30   

Twice

my mother

hit me

though she claims she never did

Once

across the face

for perceived

sass

the shock

stung

more than the slap

Again

on the ass

five times

in front of the fridge

for asking for a glass of milk

from a stranger

why would a five year old

follow fifteen year olds

oh they said I was old enough

to walk home

from school

This tiny yet tall girl

soon found herself

 tired

and

thirsty

alone

(the teens vanishing into their own airs)

So I wandered

into a strange house

a woman in the kitchen

smiling

when I asked for a glass of milk

I do not remember 

how I got home

or the kind woman's name

just my mother's arm

wrapped around my shoulders

her palm making purchase

on my pants

the refrigerator humming

 only witness

 to the crime

November Poetry Project

13 of 30   

when you knew

nothing

everything

anything

for certain

you were

 happier

smarter

sadder

lonelier 

were you?

and just when

did you believe

it wasn't 

enough?

November Poetry Project

12 of 30   

yet still rife

with dread

where

the walls

lined with tiny dancers

demons

under the bed

My mother

a nonbeliever

through and through

sat me at the formica table

to memorize

the lords prayer

with much ado 

Hurling rhubarb 

in the hall

snapping bones

in a fall

Jealous

Jehovah

witnessed

the death of Santa Claus

by her own hand

Covetous

Cousins

purloined

the pool

with a false promise land

and yet

here I thought I was safe 

a red baby grand piano standing sentinel

in the parlor

peering

Little house on the prairie

through the lattice 

an emerald ring

on my tiny finger

Until one late afternoon

bled into night

and she said

we were never going back

home

all good things

they say must come

to an

end

November Poetry Project

11 of 30  

how I love

the smell of new box of crayons

all the perfect points

still sharp

wrapped in matching labeled paper

the sunset orange

the sea green

and cerulean blue

oh and

pretty 

please

periwinkle

within the lines

or willfully

outside

even within the lead etched

gray gradients

we color

our lives

November Poetry Project

10 of 30  

"From the moment I held a box of crayons, I knew this was my life." - Matisse

*Pervenche - French - Periwinkle

I used to be flexible

contorting my being

to fit 

the world

as a child

my world

was wild

limitless

when I knew

what I wanted

to be

if I had 

to be

in that 

place

the when you grow up place

the essence I easily embodied

curling my feet

to my head

How could I not -

Sunny climbed into the crib

with me on day one

My instincts inspired and honed

like a cat

that combination of hearing

with a preternatural understanding

of cause and effect

sensing what is unseen

The years have stiffened me

settling me into the forgetful grind

it is a struggle 

to bend

to rend

maleable

my will

for fear of falling

and not getting back up

but my tail is twitching

I feel the charge

sparking my spine

It is time

to bounce

November Poetry Project

9 of 30  

"So remember, Mr. Whiskers may be lazily lying on your couch or lap, but he knows what's going on around him. If he decides to pounce, he’ll know exactly where to jump without ever seeing the object that caught his attention" - Fischer Science.com

Hovering Headless

 mannequins

haunting Goodnows

Their long nail-less fingers

finding purchase

in your ribs

Discorporate 

Blue-eyed Indian

woman

watching 

while 

you 

sleep

from the Wakefield

wardobe

Tiny little

hearts

hiding

under the bed

their beats

heard

in the hallways

pooled with piss

and righteousness

the pulse

and then

the

long final 

beep

of

Asystole

November Poetry Project

 8 of 30  

I barely remember her

all I see

in my minds eye

is an amalgam

of images

running together

like 

Joe

 soft tawny fur

black tipped ears

slender flanks

I see her standing

tall in the grass

of our front yard

I do not know

 where

she 

went

or 

why

 we had no other

ever

So here, Now

I keep her paw prints

on my heart

November Poetry Project

 7 of 30  

I remember that time...

Waking up

from a wintertime nap

to find a bounty

of boxes

wrapped in crimson stripes

and emerald garland

beneath

a

pvc

tree

Oh the joy

bubbling up 

with giggles

and grins

Sunny inspecting my work

with his red mittens

and twitchy tale

dragging the biggest

of them all

far taller than me

into the bedroom

mommy and daddy

curled up beneath

the covers

the windows displaying

jack frost's best

My mother's shriek 

My father's groan

asking me why

I thought it was Christmas Morning

alas I was three days early

The gifts were re-wrapped and bows restuck

rearranged again

below the sparkling scentless tree

and when the day finally came

Santa had left the stockings full

and I had forgotten

what I had seen 

each gift

a surprise

once over

To this day, I do not remember those gifts

well, most of them.

Except the one

it was my very first one

that one

yes, that was it.

shame

November Poetry Project

6 of 30 

We would take long walks

My mother and I

along the country road

near our neatly tucked-in

tiny house 

my tiny hand

neatly tucked in

to hers

"to the secretary" - I would proclaim

when she would ask where we should go

so off we went

to Wildwoods

where I wanted

to wander

with the tiniest of them all

all the little children

'tell me all their names

so I can call to them'

from my tiny bed

with its chenille pink bedspread

so neatly tucked in

My mother would smile

" you always want to see the children"

Only to frown when I would explain

"I do not want them to feel lonely"

the grass between the stones

leaving my shoes damp

for the walk home

Can we come back tomorrow? - I would plead

She would nod, then say something silly

"unless I leave you out here alone with the skunks"

I would laugh and protest 

turning to look back at the 'the secretary'

I would not be alone -

She would cup and kiss my face

ushering us quickly 

back up to our safely tucked life

November Poetry Project

 5 of 30 

on the burnt orange hassock 

watch the world

on a 25 inch screen

Explore

 Near and Far

Mr. Hooper's Store

to

Mr. Roger's Neighborhood

The Electric Company

powering the way

over a capital T

in a single bound

Have a seat

on the chipped wooden porch

watch Sunny scamper 

in the front yard

before scooting back

sending

 a single

sliver

deep

in the seat

where only a Grandmother

can fish out

while your mother

holds 

back tears

Have a seat

on your father's lap

curl up close

he will keep you safe

from

every

Emergency!

and the heart beat

flatlining

fear

until

there was no longer

any place for you to sit

So you stand

on your own

until

the service

is about to begin

now please take your seat

November Poetry Project

 4 of 30 

It was a simpler time

a time

when a toddler

would amble down

a grassy hill

over 

rocks

and

phlox

to find 

the

yellow

brick

road

really

a long dirt driveway

where she would wander

to the wooden

mailbox

leaving

a note

a wish

written 

with sea foam

and periwinkle

promises

of

pixie dust

her mother

left her

to her own devices

to make her 

own

way

every

day

in

hope

of

finding

magic

delivered

only to find her 

own writing

stuffed way back

where she had to stand

tip toed

teetering

to reach

to pull 

closer

so it would be 

found

not

forgotten

so it would find its destination

One day

I do not remember 

exactly when

the note was gone

Maybe the postman forwarded it

by way of the North Pole

nineteen times over

 she waited

for

a response

a delivery 

Now, in a more complicated

time

where the road

is long

 rugged and rocky

here

there are no flocks

at her feet

here she has 

found

her way

the answer

making 

her own

magic

her own

private

pixie dust

November Poetry Project

 3 of 30

At

three

I 

see

ice

cloaked

trees

sparkling

after

the storm

I 

stand

shivering

you

standing

tall

as the trees

bow

before 

you

snap

one

off

for me

to savor

I

see

not

a crystal sword

nor

slippery

sharp

shard

I

see

only

ever

winters

sweet

and

you

smiling

down

at

me

November Poetry Project

 2 of 30

All of mine

my painful

and

my precious

are saved yet strewn

about

like letters

left

yellowing

in fatigued cardboard

corners

of my mind

I wonder

though

where would I find

my

first

they say you never forget your first

and yet

here I am

staring into the glass

at my mother laughing

bracing against the kitchen sink,

a crystal flute in hand

toasting

I assume

something

wondrous and invaluable

is it me?

tales told at tables

oft include

sparkling notions

like the French champagne

offered at my first

trip around this omniscient orb

they say it was pink

they say it was my first

taste

all I know

in this late autumn morning

is the orb

hides

the truth

what

remains

effervescent

is

the 

story

November Poetry Project

 1 of 30

*Imaginarium -  a place devoted to the imagination. There are various types of imaginaria, centers largely devoted to stimulating and cultivating the imagination, towards scientific, artistic, commercial, recreational, or spiritual ends