From a PIP (poem in progress)

C5438C4D-7EFC-4B03-8398-D253E9D9DDE8Line breaks, wording, so much work needed. A much longer poem, but I don’t want to post complete poems here. And they are MISSING GIRLS, which is important. And missing small ones… hmm.. Lots to consider.

Middle of the night
moon casts
umbrella shaped shadows.

Soft light of night
I’d hoped would help
find the lost (missing?)
(??find the missing
small ones?)

 

**  Word Press doesn’t like to format poetry, it seems.

C5438C4D-7EFC-4B03-8398-D253E9D9DDE8I’m playing with language, tone, line breaks, meaning.  (I don’t want to post a complete poem here, since I will submit for publication.)

FACE STORM —very rough draft

Oh how I hated to close the window!

FACE STORM

The Smell of rain

Through an opened window

The sound of thunder

Awakened her

at the beginning

week five

Of recovery.

The excitement of a

late summer storm

The sky turning gray green

the raindrops falling

down, straight down

Towels around the window

soaking something splendid

summer storm, found a small way

blessing way

fresh onto her face

On a Sunday morning

On the first Sunday

dreamed for week 5

Of recovery

Rain, the smell of rain

Awakened.

Rush Hot Now (rough draft)

Found from an old site, part of a 30 poems in 30 days challenge.  This is from ten years ago.

Just a few snippets from that time ten years ago, since I am submitting a revised/ edited full version for publication and don’t want to have this considered published.

#13 /List poemSummer Things I Forgot

i did not rush, hot, now.
i forgot how.

i forgot poetry would end
coffee at midnight, phone calls
in the middle of the night
would all end

i did not rush, hot, now.
i forgot how.

Nine Month Sentence ROUGH DRAFT. To edit. Revise.

ROUGH DRAFT. to edit. Revise.

Just a few snippets from that time ten years ago, since I am submitting a revised/ edited full version for publication and don’t want to have this considered published.

The Nine Month Sentence

Stunned. Nine months of

little sun, closed streaked windows to follow.

We had not

used our summer well.

We had not slept

under the June blue sky,

toes curled in fresh green.

 

…We might

flee with them.

What do You Call Your Father?

42694360_10155800587148499_7360350429420453888_n FROM THE WRITINGS SNIPPETS RANDOM AS I THINK OF THEM FOLDER

 CNF STARTER:

I Never Called for Him

Being older, I sometimes find myself in the “remember when” conversations with family, friends, colleagues.  And sometimes those conversations turned to our childhoods and what did we do, or watch, or dress like, or listen to, or call…

Or call. Yes.  Lolo what did you call your father?

Indeed. What did I call my father? I could not remember calling him anything to his face.

‘What did you call yours?” I might ask, trying to avoid the question.

Daddy, if I wanted something.

Sir, Yes, Sir.

And then she laughed, the kind of laughter that meant love, trust, fond memories.

Mitter, another friend said.

Da, another said.

Papa.

Pop.

Dad.

DAD!

HEY!

Old man.

OG.

Pops.

Lots of laughter, lots of smiles.

Me, oh I don’t remember.

Me?  I don’t remember calling my father anything.  I don’t remember calling him at all.

I never called him on the telephone if I could help it.  I never called him anything to his face.

But writing was different. In writing in those spiral angst filled journals, I called him my father.

With my siblings it was He or Him.  What kind of mood is He in?  Shhh… Him one of us might whisper, pointing with our chin to another room where He was. Or sometimes just among ourselves we would call him by his initials, LW, and later The Weird One. If we said That Bastard, we knew we meant our father.   Or if we said that mother fucking cocksucker son of a bitch we knew we meant our father.

Perhaps it was our way of identifying our father while keeping him at a distance.

I did not share these family secret of what we called my father at any party or any gathering ever.

But if I were honest, I believe this–I never called for him.

 

Little Sister-Rough Draft

img_1235-1

Just something I found on an old flash drive.  Will edit, revise, see where it goes.

Just a few snippets from that time ten years ago, since I am submitting a revised/ edited full version for publication and don’t want to have this considered published.

Little sister
you are not alone
sometimes I am
in your dreams
purring
a pink cat who speaks.

And sometimes
I am at the top of the stairs
thrusting
limbs forward
as a shield.


Little sister, sometimes
I am in between the lines of
words from decades ago
straight to your mirror.

 

 

 

img_1235-1

Fifty-Five Years of Gratitude

img_1235-1(From a work in progress)

 

The heart knew it was 55 years ago that you last went to that restaurant with your uncle. Do you say something to him?

 

Probably not because back then you were a child who was too small to even look out of the backseat of his car and see the snow covered streets, streets with no one but children who had been forced from their home during another Sunday night alcohol fueled rage. Do you say something, hoping he would remember?

 

Do you look at him and realize that back then he was barely more than a teenager himself, so young and proud of his red 1963 Chevy with back then unheard of features of automatic windows and doors. I drove all the way from the city to pick up the kids, your uncle said, so they wouldn’t be walking in that empty field or the swamp.

 

You look at your uncle and realize he’s nearly 80 now. You look at his hands that have had dozens of operations from damage done during the lifespan of a laborer.

 

Yet he still has that boyish smile, the quick wit, the quick temper.

 

But he’s 80 and you’re not eight years old anymore. You have a career, an education, a loving kind spouse.

 

But this is a gratitude 55 years in the making , for taking a child off the street that night, making jokes, buying hot chocolate, anything other than spending a cold winter night alone outside.

 

You can’t say thank you for that to an 80-year-old uncle. You just can’t. You’ve never spoken about it.

 

You reach across the table, take the check, walk to the counter and pay.

 

ROUGH DRAFT: MOVING LOVE

C5438C4D-7EFC-4B03-8398-D253E9D9DDE8      A few years ago, I found this old rough draft of a poem I started after we had moved.  I keep losing it and then finding it.  This time, I won’t lose it, but I will revise, edit, and work on the poem. There is something to the “moving on” theme that is compelling–maybe escape is the correct term?

In any case, thanks for reading.

Laura Lee

********

first draft:

Moving Love

Note: …..many stanzas before this…won’t post here so I can publish one day… and took out middle stanzas   

 

Memories, you said. I cannot move.
These have been
the best years of my life here.

How can you say that, I asked,
not wanting to see the paint-peeled walls
or the missing tiled floors even one more time.

They were my years with you, you said.

Today I looked for photos
I am sure I threw away in my
haste to leave and I wonder
how I could have been so cruel
how can I
live with such moving love?

Found Poem (on old flash drive)

C5438C4D-7EFC-4B03-8398-D253E9D9DDE8  What a pleasure to find an old rough draft of a poem on an old flash drive.  I was looking for a document when I found this, simply titled: “Work on this poem.”

So I will work on this poem.  I’m not sure about the rhetorical questions or who the “you” in the poem is, but I like a bit of mystery.

It starts like this…

Mud-crusted rags
wrap blistered feet.
Earthbound, I walk
beneath topsoil.
How would I drive?

Bridges stop around curves,
hidden in the fog or dust
a glimpse of surprised faces
before plunging
into the wide river of our poetry.
Where could I drive?

 

Then it goes on, but I won’t post more since I want to revise and rework to submit.

****

Thanks for reading.