Saturday, June 6, 2015

Hello, Friends. I have decided to post some of my poems, which I started at the beginning of my divorce in 2002, when I was 64. This is one that won a prize. Tell me what you think. I'm going to post a poem at least every few days. If you like them, tell me and I'll continue.


It's nightfall when I spot her, let's say outside
the dusty plate glass of an antique store,
plated wares a-peel behind her head.  She owns
something of my husband's sorry soul.
I remember losing it, but swore it was
to Stoli that Russian beauty who knocked him out. 
How could it be this woman, so cool,
so heavy-lidded, long-nailed, when I thought
it was my noisy clutter that he loved?
And how to garner grace when this time comes,
those plated wares so perfect as a backdrop?
A friend once asked me if I'd rather not
have had my retarded child. "Oh, no!" I said,
the words bursting from me. "She's such a blessing!"
I hastened on, "If I have any good in me,  
it came from having her." I didn't always feel that way.
All I’m saying is I know  how everything can change into its opposite. 
I perceive grace as finding, when that moment comes,
what to say to her, something kind, something true.

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