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Trappings I see you As I untangle my blonde confusion. You reveal yourself in increments As I unwrap the weave of 40 years of shoulds and should nots. I see you smile As my veil of uncertainty falls. And then I realize All the abandoned trappings Lying about my feet Weren't only mine.
When I awoke From a two-year sleep You swept through me. My mind My heart Stretching From my long slumber Flooded with memories Of old loves And past friends. I felt the loss Of each Deeply I read each tear I cried For the stories they held. I stored each unbidden smile For a rainy day. Each past friend and lover Shared their particular gifts with me And I missed those gifts In my period of rebirth But, mostly, I missed you I tried to pinpoint What it was I missed… On one cold, winter's night While listening to the silent snow I knew It was your very presence I missed.
I lost my virginity
one summer night
at Lake Cachuma.
I was 16.
But that was not the moment
I lost my innocence.
That happened later,
with small, nervous steps
into incense filled rooms
with boys exploring life,
as I was.
That happened the day
I visited friends,
and was stripped
of my faith in friends
by one, lone strong,
groping, grabbing, tearing…
my screams bringing no end,
and no help.
I lost my innocence in huge leaps,
and in increments so small
as to go unnoticed
by all around me.
Taking trips
through a surrealistic landscape,
Blues becoming all encompassing,
watching teeth crumble,
falling out of the speed freak's mouth,
while his roommate and supplier
only found the color Red
fascinating to swallow.
In a room filled with music, Patchouli,
and the soft glow of candlelight and Lava Lamps,
I held a young girl,
as she was dying
from a "bad reaction."
With memories of the Kennedy's,
Martin Luther King,
and friends who died in Viet Nam,
I became 17,
seeing life,
my life,
from a new perspective.
Over the years,
past the killing of the students at Kent State,
past the birth of my child,
past my marriage, and the beatings
my husband gave me,
past the death of my Uncle,
past the discovery of Aids,
I have discovered
that innocence is very hard to destroy.
©1990
As I prepare for the 4th of July, pulling out my old poetry, envisioning friends and barbecues, and eagerly anticipating the drive in search of the just-right spot to view fireworks from, images of our not-so-illustrious past run through my mind. I contemplate bombs bursting through the air the fireworks represent. The dropping of "THE BOMB" on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Napalm dropped burning the skin off so many civilians; and more recently, Iraq, the tracers meant to illuminate the incoming, only confusing the civilians covering up the real bombs, destroying cities, milk factories, and shelters considered safe from harm. The fireworks illuminating our skies so dazzling to the eye, blind the mind, with their gloriousness, to the atrocities of war. I think about parades with great marching bands, and how they represent our military coming home after some celebrated grand victory. We don't see the maimed communities, or the familial destruction our soldiers left behind. As our children clap and cheer the many marchers, children in a far-off land cry for their lost or dead family members. Our country was conceived in violence, has a continuing story of violence, and on the 4th we honor that violence. I, basically a nonviolent person, find it difficult to reconcile the honoring of violence; and the magic I have felt since childhood surrounding the 4th of July Is not so powerful, anymore.Top of page