ARTICLES:
Ancient Chinese Medicine: Herbs & Acupuncture
Some Helpful News
Help for Postpartum Depression
Mental Health Insurance: A True Dilemma
You're Wonderful (Dealing with Learning Disabilities)
Problems With Self-Esteem
CHILDREN'S STORIES:
A Land in the Sky
A Monster in the Sand
"Long Face John"
Little Betty Buy Me
POEMS:
STANDARD:
THE BARK OF A TREE
BRANCHES
THE BUS RIDE
THE CLOUD
FIRST MAMAOGRAPHY
THE FLOWER
IMAGINATIONS RUN WILD
MY MAGICAL FANTASY
THE POOR MAN
SNAPPING ROSE PEDALS WITH GRANDMA
TIME
WIND CHIME VOICES
WAR & PEACE:
A LETTER TO DAD
THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER
LOVE, ROMANCE & BROKEN HEARTS:
I STILL LOVE YOU, BUT NOT IN THAT WAY
WHEN I KNEW YOU
WALK WITH ME
MY LOVER
THE RED DRESS
FROM PARI TO HOME
THE GEOMETRY OF LOVE
FANTASY
BEFORE I GO
LIFE -
THE GOOD AND THE BAD:
A NEW AGE
A WIDE OPEN RANGE
IN THE FACE OF TRAGEDY
THE DUSTY ROAD
MY DAYS OF PAIN:
HAPPINESS BARRED
HEAR THE BIRDS
HOLLOWED
DROWN OUT THE SORROW
DEMONS
TICK TOCK
FOR SPECIAL PEOPLE:
TO MOM
YOU'RE WONDERFUL (MATTHEW)
AT AGE TWELVE (MATTHEW)
LIFE MOVES ON (MATTHEW)
THE PHOTOGRAPH (MOM)
I SAID A PRAYER FOR YOU TODAY (DAD)
FROM A PHOTOGRAPH
THE FACE 0F AN ANGEL (PENN)
HUMOR:
TO MY COUSIN, SUZIE
WORKING MOTHER OF SIX
GEOMETRICAL DISAPPOINTMENT
A CLICHED RELATIONSHIP ENDED
GIRL'S NIGHT
SHOES
CHRISTMAS:
CHRISTMAS MORNING (FROM A SIX-YEAR-OLD BOY)
A CHRISTMAS STORY (SPYING ON SANTA)
LONG POETRY:
THE COLLEGE PROFESSOR
THE BARK OF A TREE
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
It tells us of the hardships it’s faced in the past,
the storms, the blizzards, and then the sun way at last.
The many lines gnarled and embedded deep with in,
pronounce the good times, sad times and rough times it’s been.
The many streaks and veins and entangled spins,
speak of the happiness, sorrow and grief at its rims.
The story the tree tells from its created bark twirls;
its circles and circles; its swirls and swirls,
it's a presence, a life, an entwined history unfurls.
A great deal put fourth, this bark of a tree,
a bark, a life, so akin to you and me.
This bark of a tree, its life so like ours,
tells us of the good times, the adversities,
and all it empowers.
It shows the strength to carry on; not to give up or look back.
And if we do look back and become saddened and dim,
its the bark of that tree we see in its rim.
With time we appreciate where we've all been.
We see what has come from the hard and the tough,
the struggles we've come through, full circle; enough
and begin to feel rightous of the times so rough.
A great deal put fourth, this bark of a tree,
a bark, a life, so akin to our lives, you and me.
BRANCHES
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
Its branches spread out
like that of the clothes broadened on her bed.
“Her,” trepid femella; femmina;
embarking on the lively waters of her adolescent years.
Each article of clothing signifying something so diverse,
each piece denoting experiences, so sundry:
some old and frail; a torn and tattered blouse,
some new and fresh; her latest silk slacks.
Like that of her clothes…
each branch conveys occurrences, varied,
like lines fixed deep deep to to a face,
lines which speak,
of the lips, cheeks and foreheads they’ve been.
Each one with streaks
of smirks and frowns they’ve been around,
laughing faces; mouths they once did surround.
With age each branch becomes feeble; fragile,
now comes a new face, the face of a child,
and all of the lines,
they leave; disappear,
and laughter, giddiness, more smiles appear;
innocence of new lines to bind and connect.
As her clothes were worn and then replaced…
so were the branches.
Now, unsullied kindling with new features to be encased;
new facades and grimaces to be encircled.
The branches, they lived lives of their own,
lives of all things, wise and fully grown.
As did she live a life of her own,
“Her,” trepid femella; femmina;
now wise and grown.
Like that of the branches…
with streaks around grins,
with lines around chins,
wisdom and gaiety,
and all that beamed,
in spite of all storms and strife, it seemed.
THE BUS RIDE
(The 1970’s)
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
A vacant seat on a bus,
the only one;
out it stood.
“I need to get on,
I need to get home,
Mama needs my help,
She’s all alone.”
Onto the coach, the boy stepped up,
and through the aisle he did pass.
Now, while standing and passing by
through rows of seats all occupied,
each one taken; each one gone,
he continued to look further on.
It caught his eye from ranks beyond,
he spotted one space, not yet had,
the vacant seat, no longer vacant,
now sat there, another lad.
He sat down beside him,
people staring; looking grim,
anticipating something dark and dim.
They stared some more,
everyone about;
double takes and looks to see for sure.
What they saw; what a sight,
two boys enthralled, recanting last night’s fight.
Smiling, laughing, conversing, engaging…
a grace to hold, a blessing true;
a picture worth forever saving.
It finally happened; it’s finally here,
to look at one’s skin and see the color, bare.
Together sitting on a bus,
such lack of conflict;
no erupting feuds,
not one fuss,
interacting …together sitting on a bus;
kidding, playing, respecting each other,
treating each other equally.
What they saw; what a sight,
one boy was black and one was white.
A vacant seat on a bus,
no longer vacant;
out it stood.
THE CLOUD
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
Thick and dense, looming over,
darkness and dusk fill its space,
cavities of obscurities within its face,
hovering over car rooftops; linger to the ends of naked air.
It releases the rain on a windowpane.
Murky and misty, foggy and dim,
holding vast shadows bleak and grim.
It embraces the doom; a power so ominous,
a substance so muted; subdued and vaporous.
In each furrow mysteries unfurl,
assorted silhouettes and profiles expose;
I can see my deceased Aunt’s hair uncurl.
Various figures and forms unravel,
some miniscule, some colossal,
bestowing great liberties to swell our minds,
our imaginations, introspections and creations of all kinds.
Gaping at the cloud,
thick and dense,
endows an experience; feral,
untamed and intense.
THE FLOWER (Pedal by Pedal)
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
Its life begins beneath the earth,
where we lay breathless when ours end.
The way the flower arrives is the way we depart.
Yet, during our life spans, our experiences are quite alike;
raised and nurtured differently, but much the same.
The flower gets nourished by the rain.
The human gets nourished by feeding the brain.
The flower is cared for, given water,
the way a baby is given food;
nestled, to thrive.
And as the flower grows and flourishes its pedals come to open
in rainbows of different colors; it becomes alive.
It blossoms further, perhaps changing shades, takes a life of its own,
as does the baby, once fully grown.
Seasons alter,
pedals of yellow, red, and pink begin to peel away.
And that baby; aged, fermented,
feels the layers of his essence begin to fray.
He enters his elder years,
observing the flower’s pedals peeling away:
“Peel, peel away yellow, red and pink pedals,
your life began where mine will soon end.
Peel, peel away with wilted stem,
as I begin to unravel the secrets of my soul.
I now begin to look at my inner reality,
because I am closer to my mortality;
but is it too late?
As I see my history unfurl;
the good, the bad, the happy, the sad,
I lay in judgment;
I ask, ‘What really is fate?’
Was I a good person?
Was I kind to others?
Did the flower share its water on the hottest of days?
Deep in my heart, I know the retorts,
I try diligently to expose,
passing down values to my grand children---
the importance of being a good human being.
I crave traits, endearing,
to carry on in my children’s children,
exemplary ways continue on with their offspring.
My few and far between acts of bad behavior and wrong doings are to be forgiven,
but never forgotten or excused.
And as I leave, with all of my wishes, the next flower begins to bloom.
Pedal by pedal, it grows, shares its water and lives hand in hand,
with my grandchildren;
the life of a flower, the life of a human being, the life of ours;
nature’s beauty equated to human life,
teaching our children to live in peace, side by side.
It is no longer time to hide.
It is time to come clean, time to redeem; it is time to say, ‘Good bye.’
Peel away, one by one, yellow, red and pink pedals,
peel away and make room for the new one to come;
peel away and make room for the new flower to bloom.”
MY MAGICAL FANTASY :
(An Abecedarian Poem)
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
Aladdin thrust away in mid air
Beached on his carpet of colors, going nowhere
Cinderella, in rags, so sad and lonely
Demeaning step sisters, so mean and homely
Enticing fairies spinning amidst
Fantasies draw close; come see, I insist!
Genies grant wishes for each and all,
How enchanting to be at this fairy tale ball
Imaginary figures evolve and erupt
Jack-in-the-Box comes in and pops up!
Kings and Queens, in castles so many
Leprechauns leaping by tons and plenty
Mystical adventures, his soul he bares
Neverland suddenly shows and appears
Outstanding stories, the lad’s eyes widen,
“Peter Pan is here! He’s behind me hiding!”
Quivering, some folk tale wars; unrelenting
“Revenge” is what it’s about; no repenting
Silver and gold chests of treasures and jewels
Tumultuous battles, pirates brawling; such fools
Unanimous vote of children all toll
“Vengeance” it is; don’t sell the secrets of your soul!”
Winding down now and oh what a treat, the faces of clowns and sprites reappeared
X, marks the spot, now here’s Beauty’s Beast we all so feared
Yes, each delightful figure; one by one
Zip; how quick my magical fantasy is over and done.
THE POOR MAN
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
Far be it to know, to grasp and to learn,
just what he can do, what the poor man can earn.
Great honor and pride deep in the core,
in this man so ordinary, common place, nothing more.
He possesses no great riches, no jewels; no fame,
just an average, poor man; simple and plain.
The clothes on his back, torn and tattered, if you will,
the usual, common, poor man; run of the mill.
But the things that he holds deep in his heart;
the honest hard work everyday that he does,
the nickels and dimes he works for; the people he loves.
These are the things that mean a great deal,
these are the things that make the poor man feel real.
A sense of honor and pride to the poor man, you see,
is the gift that he treasures; so special, so simply.
The gift to appreciate what he has indeed,
a life filled with riches, for him there’s no need.
No top of the line, expensive clothes or cars,
or two or three other vacation homes.
Content with his family and friends so devoted,
perfectly happy with just what he owns.
A wonderfully sincere and true ability,
a wonderfully loyal and great quality:
the gift to live so simply and happily,
without riches and wealth; material free.
So now we know, we’ve grasped and we’ve learned,
just what the poor man so humbly earned.
He’s earned a life filled with wealth, whether rich or not,
with only nickels and dimes, true pride he’s got.
So, maybe the poor man isn’t poor at all,
he may have no money, but he’s the one standing tall;
and maybe the poor man is the richest of all.
FIRST MAMAOGRAPHY: (A Piece of Me)
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
She took a piece of me;
my body, my flesh,
for reasons good; my safety, I know.
A piece of me, and appendage my own,
my breast, my bosom, on the side of my heart.
Upon it she pushed and squeezed, manipulated its size,
somewhat robust, it now resembled something so different,
completely flattened like an appetizer plate;
a hockey puck, a burger patty.
The pain, the pressure; exasperating,
the feeling so strange; so surreal,
this part of me, personal, my very own,
being handled and touched
in a manner so unknown.
Void of the tenderness,
even the lust,
for a purpose different,
a yearly must!
As the machine pressed down,
it squeezed my breast
between two glass plates
my eyes saw stars,
bright red was my face.
“Take a deep breath,”
her voice curt and mundane,
she probably does a hundred a day.
Then a picture she took
and repeated the repositioning
for several pictures more;
different angles, different views;
I modeled my left bosom till painfully sore.
A piece of me,
my body, my flesh,
she pressed it; submerged it,
her motive only; me to protect.
Into a machine
she made it conform and contort,
her hands stark and cold,
her main priority and goal…
complete the pictures
and keep me whole.
A piece of me,
my body, my flesh
my left bosom to prod and test
to prevent something awful and horribly tragic,
a dreadful event, an uncalled for strife;
a piece of me
to save my life.
IMAGINATIONS RUN WILD :
(A Life that Never Was)
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
Life ie eternal,
always happy and gay.
No droplets of sadness,
flowers blooming day after day
no unwanted colors,
no roses that wilt,
no screams and no horrors.
No soldiers dying,
no war at hand,
just peace and happiness,
music playing, so grand.
It echoes in our ears,
it fills our souls with joy,
rainbows of endless beauty,
a child with a toy.
No lying politicians,
no segregated societies,
just symphony renditions,
no deceit and improprieties.
No financial complications,
no child molestations.
No racist manifestations,
no fears and trepidations.
No homeless populations,
no murder and no theft,
no wrong, sour mutations,
oh God, what is there left?
A life so made up,
a life so pretend,
a life filled with such desire,
where our children, we would surely send,
no one’s ever called a liar.
This life of no retrieve, of castles in the sky
this life filled with wishes,
has never even been here to say a long goodbye.
Without the bullets of unease,
one life that never was,
this vision must now soon cease,
this notion must be resisted.
In all the world’s history,
a life of not ours,
this life, so great, so fancied, just purely never existed,
not even for a day or weeks, minutes or some hours.
Quite simply, quite truly, a perfect world there never was,
nor ever can it be or will,
this fantasy a buzz,
this dream upon a great big hill,
this life that never was.
It is in our heads,
it is in our minds,
imaginations that run wild,
hoping for this treasured box of finds,
that ease our minds, so mild.
These glistening thoughts, these gifts, these pleasures, this shimmering delight,
a kiss of bliss, the sun so bright,
the smile of a child,
are just what we are hoping for
in our imaginations that run wild.
SNAPPING ROSE PEDALS WITH GRANDMA
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
On the stoop
Together we sat
As the vines of the rose bushes
Came creeping through.
Through each slot of the wrought iron gate;
Actually, the banister
Pricking us both ever so slightly
Pinching the skin of our arms and legs
Nipping at our body parts
Needling us
Each rose’s thorn.
Grandma, robust and always smiling
Picked a pedal off a rose
Folded it between her index and thumb
Raised it up to her mouth and took a beep breath
And let the warm air from her throat and her chest;
The warmest of air from her heart and her soul
Moisten the bubbled pedal between her fingers
Then popped in on her forehead for the greatest sound ever
SNAP! Went the rose pedal while sitting with Grandma
So amazing that sound that bellowed through my ear
For a five-year-old kid sitting on the stoop
Being pricked by the thorns
With her Grandma, so dear.
It does things to us we never asked,
grants more than we bargained for.
Delivered with its territory;
time…
confronts us with truths unkind.
Packed with constraints
and concessions of its own,
swiftly it passes
until our babies are fully grown.
Quickly, it breezes by,
often we sigh
over how time will fly.
It ages us,
sometimes gracefully,
sometimes not.
But it teaches us too
of all that we’ve got.
Although unspoken and hardly said,
time is not always the enemy,
only what we make of it in our head.
Let it be a guide; navigate
to enjoy the good before it’s too late.
Let’s see the beauty
of time’s gifts and wonders:
a singing bird;
an ocean blue;
a gold sunset;
friends we’ve met.
In truth, they are realities kind,
as the moments in time pass and unwind.
WIND CHIME VOICES
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
When their music plays in midst of the night,
my head settled in so snug and so tight.
My face all warm and nestled too,
into the soft, plump feather filled.
I hear them sing through the windowsills,
their voices, high pitched like baby birds of blue.
Traveling the winds, they wisp as they pass,
pacifying as they flurry through.
The scent of the ocean with each breeze and draft,
a gentle morning sea at last.
By the time they reach me as I lay,
their strength now somewhat frail and meek,
they touch my ears, but fairly faint;
their voices, how I crave and seek.
Tiny, tingling sounds, so light,
still they fill my ears -
with songs of daylight; bliss and bright
away go all my fears.
In shimmering pink crystals of the silky sand,
quiet worlds they bring to a most serene land.
Now beginning to stir in my head there's a ring,
Heaven’s angels softly sing.
Before dawn breaks upon my eyes,
before the sun does up and rise.
In morning dew as birds fly by,
hiding high in the Maple trees…
the wind chime sopranos deliver my peace.
War and Peace:
A LETTER TO DAD
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
I’m writing to you today Dad,
because I know you’ll understand.
There are endless sounds of gun fire,
bombs blasting and wind blown sand.
I don’t mean to make you sad Dad,
but I’m feeling very scared,
the courage and the bravery, little I have had;
much less than I was seeking;
when I was leaving for this war
perhaps it was my “bravado” speaking.
I felt so gallant, I felt so proud,
“I will serve my country”, I did shout out loud.
Whatever you do Dad, don’t lose your faith,
don’t lose your pride or your trust in me.
No matter how much blood shed and terror that I see,
I vow, in the name of freedom, this war, we shall beat.
If I come home, alive or not,
I will tell you this, right from the heart.
You can tell the world; shout it out loud,
“My son served his country and I feel so proud!”
THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
He was fighting for his country while seeking the hope of peace some day.
He truly believed it was not far off and not too long away.
With implausible bravery he forged on in his world of terror and fear.
When he saw the inevitable danger ahead,
he knew his troops would be loyal and near.
But now he sits scared and alone,
and as the enemy approaches,
he wonders if he’ll ever see the likes of home.
His troops were not near this time,
while he contemplated
turning back or surrendering and crossing the enemy line.
He never did see the peace he was seeking
but as he lay still and breathless beneath the earth,
his mother sits home weeping.
Perhaps the next soldier will find that peace,
and while his mother rejoices,
she thanks The Lord to have her son alive and home,
as they both remember the one before him,
on the battle field, all alone.
Love, Romance & Broken Hearts:
I STILL LOVE YOU, BUT NOT IN THAT WAY
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
When you’ve loved someone for over twenty years
They’ve stood by your side and eased all your fears
So devoted they’ve been through all of your strife
For the entire time shared of your together adult life
In such ultimate love you created a child
A pre-teen now, but still precious and mild
You brought him into this world with inconceivable joy
And you remember him thanking you for his beautiful boy
The proudest father right before your eyes
The happiest husband; his smile lit up the skies
The times you shared so special and true
So blissful to be with his son and you
Then twenty years later come these words from nowhere
And you feel as though you can’t live and can’t bear
When he told you, “Sit down, I have something to say,”
The words from his mouth on that life altering day
That unspeakable, dreadful, horrendous phrase:
“I still love you, I do, but not in that way.”
WHEN I KNEW YOU
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
I knew your smell
so very well.
I laughed at every joke you’d tell.
I knew the things each day you thought.
I knew the battles and struggles you fought.
I knew the fears that ate away at you,
even the ones that you had no clue.
I knew the uncertainties in your head.
I knew the words often unsaid.
I knew the worries you obsessed about.
I knew the things you’d frequently doubt.
I knew your long lived reservations
and all your perceived limitations.
I knew just how to make you smile.
I knew what made you tic and rile.
I knew just how to make you happy.
I knew your favorite place to be...
in front of a clear blue sea with me.
At an evening’s dusk on a beach,
under a sunset, high out of reach.
Beneath the splendor of a golden sky,
a life time ago, from now a far cry.
An ocean’s swim at twilight’s start,
how completely you had my entire heart.
Shining stars in the night so bright,
you found to be an awesome sight.
You’d hold me close to your chest,
and have me pick from the sky’s star fest.
Then you’d have me close my eyes,
and wish for all my heart’s desires.
Together we’d laugh, together we’d dream,
oh, what a lifetime away it does seem.
So much in common we did possess,
is it time that made it a great deal less?
There were other things I knew as well,
I knew the stories you didn’t like to tell.
I knew your favorite vacation spot,
I could place my finger right on the dot.
I knew your favorite thing to drink.
and I often knew things you didn’t think.
I knew your each and every goal.
I knew so well, so deep; your soul.
I knew all that filled your giant heart;
when our son was born, your life did start.
I knew your soft and tender touch,
I knew it and loved it so very much.
Sixteen years later with our share of strife,
I don’t know any longer much about your life.
I don’t know the things I knew before,
I really don’t know “you” any more.
WALK WITH ME
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
Take me with you
Can I come along?
Let me be by your side
Together we will walk on
Take my hand
As one we will listen
To the sound of Fall breaking
Crackling;
As our feet press down on arid leaves
Walk with me
To see the weeping willows
Drench the meadow with their tears
Stay with me
As we settle down to rest
And watch each sun rise and set
Wake with me
To the smell of each morning’s dew
To a sky of gray or one of blue;
Walk with me.
MY LOVER
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
He’s beautiful,
he’s full of courage,
he’s shielding,
he’s so strong.
He protects me like no others
when many would have ran.
He is the best, unlike the rest,
he truly is my “incredible man!”
The wind passes through him,
never chilling a bone.
He’s too sturdy,
he carries me home.
He’s my lover,
he’s my man,
I’m the envy of the land.
He’s my soul mate,
he’s my friend,
meeting him was more than fate.
He’s brawly and he’s strapping,
gifts for me he’s always wrapping.
A kiss he places on my cheek,
each day, each night, week by week.
He tries to be fair,
he’s always there,
he holds my hand,
he understands.
I will always be devoted,
as my heart belongs to him.
I will forever remain grateful,
as my world’s no longer dim.
I will always take the time,
for this man that I did win,
a man so good and kind;
he must know that I love him.
For he is my life,
he is my lover,
I am his dearest, tender fan.
He is, beyond doubt, my undeniable,
my one and only “incredible man!”
THE RED DRESS
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
It hangs in the closet,
but really it doesn’t.
It doesn’t hang at all,
it beckons; it calls.
It speaks, true elegance,
so rich with class,
it invites your body, now and fast.
You take it out of the closet,
off the hanger it slides,
and onto your body, it fastens and glides.
It clutches every curve,
it accents every swerve,
now in it, never a moment feeling unnerved.
You look in the mirror,
you can’t believe what you see,
this dress embellishes you,
hangs on you like a Christmas ornament does on a tree;
so beautiful, so festive; incredibly lovely.
A body so slender,
a body so full,
once on, all is rendered,
extravagant, delightful.
Enticing and stunning,
sexy and cunning,
you will make his mouth water,
vastly salivate,
and his heart shall beat
at an ungodly rate.
He will look at you and wonder if he is really your mate,
as you softly say, “Lets go, we don’t want to be late.”
He continues to stare,
as you walk into the chandelier’s glare.
All imperfections are gone,
for that’s how you feel
when the red dress is on.
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
He went to visit her there
There, where the long Eiffel bears down on you and stares
Watches you with its Francois glair
Cafes in a line
All down a block
The smell of croissant
Cigarettes and coffee, black.
She’s there abroad
To dab her bristles
In pallets of blue and spots of green
And place them on easels to be viewed and seen.
Its aroma, its people
The county side’s meadows
The fresh morning dew
The flowers
She will convey
The city’s skyline, Pari
She will display.
Pari, Pari
Where dinner’s at nine
And lunch at three
Where you dine forever
And eat nothing
(Unless it’s a crepe)
Yes, Pari
Where you dine and dine
And drink French wine
Yes, it’s Pari
The great city of Pari.
Now she tells him
She wants to stay
He gets on a plane
Recurrently pensive
of his “wanna be” pseudo French dame;
His wide eyed artist
Dreaming of fame
In her adored city;
Her fine Pari.
It’s not what he bargained for
As he flies over a painted blue embellished sea
But, she’s in love with it
Her French city, Pari;
Lucky for Pari
And her dream.
He steps out of the cab
And onto the curb.
Up the steps to his Brownstone
Jiggling a bit, the copper in the door
Droning and jet lagged
He collects his mail
And lies on the floor.
Among various catalogs and bills in his hands
A post card appears from overseas.
First he stares,
Then he reads…
“I love you, I do
I truly do
But here I love too; I truly adore.
I can’t give this up,
I love you, I do.”
A feeling unsaid
A silent knowing;
Before
Whether it was he she loved
or Pari more.
A chill runs through
Each lonely bone
He knows for sure
And now he’s home.
THE GEOMETRY OF LOVE
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
He, conservative,
in a slightly “more than need be”
old fashioned way.
She, out there,
unconventional, savvy, not too,
but, noticeable.
He loves,
deep, in his soul,
forever;
loyal, devoted, committed.
She loves,
for the moment,
day to day,
although, she very much loves him.
Together, they wake,
on a morning gray,
against the chill,
bracing the wind,
and what it shall blow in today.
He, longing for a life; discreet
sits in his chair,
posed in a posture unobtrusive;
diplomatic,
at his desk, crossed leg, with ledger at hands,
quiet as sunlight,
he begins his rituals.
She enters,
her face reads well.
There is no wonder;
It says it all,
“I violate everything you stand for; everything you are.”
A teardrop leaks from his eye, but no more,
A silent knowing,
the end; goodbye.
Lines and angles to get around,
lines of love,
some do,
but some don’t bend.
FANTASY
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
Fairies dancing in a far away land,
a white horse and drawn carriage seat.
Upon his horse he extends his hand,
the charming prince; so tall and neat;
a smile; handsome, dear and grand
in my star lit, far away, land.
I climb upon his pearled stallion; white
and off we ride into the night.
Away I soar,
here no more,
into a land of pure angelic light;
a solitary place, an enchanting sight,
away I ride into total delight.
Through a sky so blue
No need to run, no need to hide,
troubles here are scarce and few.
Away I fly
over mountains high
amongst the grandest castles in the sky.
In the murky distance beyond thick dense clouds
not too far off, a sight I see
another me; content and happy, finally,
the me I know will come to be,
who will evolve and be so free,
encased in calm tranquility;
sheathed in sound serenity.
BEFORE I GO
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
I have some things to give to you
I hope you will accept
None of which are items made from plastic, wood or metal
Mostly, they’re just heartfelt words and feelings truly kept
When you see a gold sunset
Or wake to each morning’s dew
When you run across the fields
Or glide around the meadows wide
My being; my very soul’s with you
I’m always there right by your side
My heart you will forever own
For you gave me what it takes to dream
My love for you so overgrown
A treasure true I’ll always deem
Should I forget to share these words?
Should it be something I neglect to do?
I’ll leave this note amongst the birds
High up in the cherry blossom tree
The one way down beside the lake
Passed each year’s big town fair
And before I go so sure I’ll make
Old Ms.Shey I’ll tell, I swear
To see to it that you’re aware
To let you know; to yell; to share
That in that tree
To you from me
A special note is waiting there.
Life: The Good and The Bad:
A NEW AGE
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
A tired man in an ally way
Sitting amongst the foul covered trash
Camouflaged in their barrels and plastics
Their draw stringed Glad and Hefty bags
The soles of his shoes he does not have
His clothes are torn; they look like rags
And from the curb people stare
In an unassuming, nonchalant way
Trying not to be obvious
Some upset by what they see
But most keep walking; unaffected,
“This is just society.”
Ordinary, blatant; so removed
A familiar sight, hardly unseen
So common place it has become
The homeless man
Downing his stolen bottle of stale cheap rum
As we proceed to down our drinks, some
Our Expressolattes and Frapaccinos
Our coffee madness; when will that be done?
Our glasses of wine after work each night
Californian, Merlot; Red or White
Then to our children we must attend
Give them everything they want and see
Spoil them silly; give into each absurdity
This way it’s easier to live and be
While we’re out and while we dine
While we drink our beans, so black; their liquid grinds
Indulge our kids and consume fine wines
Let’s just hope, wish and pray
Dawn to dawn and day to day
Those people staring from the curb
Unaffected and so removed
In an unassuming nonchalant way
That’s it’s never one of ours they see
Sitting it the ally way.
A WIDE OPEN RANGE
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
The wind blows strong
Time passes long
The wind blows high
Time passes by
Straight into the wind
I pass a sunset
And some feelings of sadness and slight regret
I fly on by
Some tears I cry
I drive my car
To the nearest bar
I nurse a drink
And begin to think
As I watch the greenhorns begin to connect
And the local townies disconnect
I think real hard
I sit and reflect
Yes, the time just swiftly flies; it flies
And I think of all my special loved ones
When “He” decided it was time for their final “Goodbyes”
And who now reside
In the hands of the Angel’s and Heaven’s tides
I think about my life
The struggles and the strife
The things I would exchange
It’s a wide open range
My watered down “Bloody”
At a snail's pace I drink
And in my “Mary” my sorrows I sink
I continue to nurse
And so badly I want to scream out and curse
But I bottle it instead
Letting it fester inside my mind and head
I pay the bar tender
A quiet “Thank you” I render
Along with a most fraudulent smile
And drive back into the raging wind
Suddenly, the speedometer dial
Am I reading it right?
Thirty seconds per mile
Time flies by
And so do I
In the gusting wind
Feeling something strange
It’s a wide open range.
IN THE FACE OF TRAGEDY
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
An accident occurred tonight on highway 105,
the perpetrator came out okay and very much alive.
His car however that was found,
had little left to impound.
Once searched by the state police,
the vehicle showed a monstrous beast.
It contained some six packs, and cigarettes,
this man was drunk, I’d take all bets.
It contained a bunch of liquor bottles, most empty, and that’s not all,
it contained a slew of alcohol in boxes three feet tall.
About six or seven cars involved,
all crushed and intertwined.
All metal mangled and entangled,
when the drunken man’s car was searched again, they found two bottles of wine.
Eight people were severely injured,
no news of how many dead.
I can’t make sense of this awful disaster in my heart or in my head.
For some were adults probably happy and healthy,
before such tragedy, our lives we deem so rich and wealthy,
but most were children, young and thriving,
what was this man doing drinking and driving?
How many more God, will You save?
How many are being so bold and brave?
How many more God, will You spare?
How many will the angels take up to heaven with Jesus there?
Will You save the small and young?
And let them sing the songs they’ve sung?
Will You spare their parents too?
Will the driver be put to execute?
Will he pay for what he’s done?
Will he hear the final bell be rung?
In early days he would have hung.
But, knowing Jesus,
He’ll kneel and pray,
for this man’s salvation,
come what may.
He will forgive him, his wrong doings as well,
and watch over the others,
sent angels, fell.
For this is God, just what He does,
He is The Lord, He forgives and loves.
So perhaps then many will be protected and saved,
perhaps they will come out unscathed.
And if they don’t,
if they’re taken away,
from our lives and from our land,
we must simply try to understand,
in this face of horrific tragedy at hand.
God did His best, He truly did,
and it is sick misfortune that took a kid.
We must simply know, believe and trust,
in The Lord, we simply must.
We must have the love, the faith, the hope,
to know The Lord will help us cope.
But, no matter what, in all our minds we will be forever fighting,
the question of, “Why this unaware and careless man was drinking and then driving?”
THE DUSTY ROAD
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
He embarks on a new life
One without grief
So full of fear
Yet eager to be free.
With great apprehension
To a life now eternal
To a life far better
Filled with God’s joy.
A paradise
Where angels sing
A rapture of glory
No sins to forth bring
Cleansed already
Entering pure
Where mercy is always bestowed;
An invariable factor
So we are told.
Befalls, the dawn’s mist
As that awful site of the hearse and limos behind
One by one, all in a line
The sight of true sorrow and heartfelt dread
The sound of silence; words unsaid
As the shiny black lean travels up the dusty road
Carrying his widow and children of three:
Forty-five, forty-eight and fifty to be.
And the seven grand children he had to leave
All saddened and tearful;
Faces prone and weepy
The youngest one
His teeth gnashing
As his widow asks,
“What will I do now at night?
In our bed all alone
Without my devoted limb long
Feeling them entwined;
Their warmth
Entangled around mine?”
The masses of people
Walk from their cars
To the marked site
And bequeath on him; peace.
Silent in prayer
Each places a rose
Upon the casing enclosed:
The beautiful box
That houses his body; his bones
Not his spirit; nor his soul.
And then they head back for
The dusty road they all came
So solemnly they walk
Beyond the sea light
Not thinking for one minute
This man’s future, now eternal; now bright.
My Days of Pain:
HAPPINESS BARRED
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
Why was it taken?
Why so hard?
Why in the world was my happiness barred?
A wonderful existence,
filled with persistence.
Outgoing and happy,
just living to be.
Life was so simple; so care free,
it was wonderful; great, just to be me.
Determined and motivated,
creative and dedicated,
I loved my career,
I had no fear.
Then one day, so fast,
away I was cast.
It all turned sour,
my mind lost all of its power.
Sadness, so wretched for days on end,
not even wanting my most cherished a friend.
Incredible misery took me away,
transformed me into this hopeless creature crying all day,
into this being who wanted to be no where; to stay,
other than in her darkened room in her bed where she lay.
Silent, catatonic, in a blank stare,
how could God do this? Did He no longer care?
This is how it all happened,
of my ship, no longer was I captain.
My emotions no longer belonged to me,
to a higher power they went, so frightfully.
Although I’ll never know how and I’ll never know why,
sometimes I just think and then I just sigh.
This transformation from happy to sad, just wasn’t fair,
and was really much more than I could handle or bear.
Why was it taken,
my happy existence?
Why was it taken,
my gleaming persistence?
I’ll never know how and I’ll never know why,
sometimes I just think and then I just sigh.
Why was it taken?
Why so hard?
Why in the world was my happiness barred?
HEAR THE BIRDS
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
Just once upon the early morn
I want to hear the birds at dawn
Hear them chirp on my front lawn
And I want to really concentrate
On what they’re saying; let penetrate
On whom they like and whom they hate
Which house’s trees they do prefer?
And whose lands and roofs they better rate
If Five Medford Lane is of high preference
Or mine, number Three, does more for their taste.
Which branches do they seek and search?
And how high do they enjoy their perch?
Are they happy in number Four’s Dogwood?
Or is number Two’s Maple equally good?
The big Cherry Blossom across the street
Is that where they fancy each day to meet?
Just once I want to wake and hear
The words of all the birds, so near
But what a feat when each waking day
My mind is overwrought with fear.
Just once, I want to wake and hear
The talk of all the chirping birds
But how impossible when my head is flooded
With constant ruminating words.
HOLLOWED
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
My body feels so empty,
my insides feel so light,
as if my organs left me,
my battles they could no longer fight.
Perhaps I’m only dreaming,
and most likely when I wake,
I’ll feel a bit of fright,
then realize all of it was fake.
My heart went up to angels,
my brain evaporated in deed.
The other organs went to those very much in need.
My soul so light and singing,
my mind in a lake or spring,
my other organs on their way,
a life to someone they’ll bring.
My body feels so hollowed,
like my insides have been swallowed.
I feel so light and airy,
not at all weighed down or weary.
I’m sure this feeling is temporary,
I am dreaming so sound and solitary,
but if I may, I’d like to say,
I take pleasure in this way,
for it feels like the month of May.
I like this feeling,
this hollowed feeling,
it feels so much like my body’s healing.
DROWN OUT THE SORROW
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
I feel so dull,
I feel so down,
my face shows no smile,
only a frown.
Actually, I’m petrified,
I’m terrified and horrified.
If this is back,
if it’s ugly face, it rears again,
its monstrous claws, I cannot hack.
Its gruesome ways of the past, and then,
will knock me for one great big fall.
It will punch me out and weaken me,
slice me to pieces, so tiny and small.
I can’t go on, I cannot endure,
this pain I can’t tolerate, no way no more.
Please spare me of this dreadful fight,
and make me see the sun’s bright light.
Make it appear quick and fast,
then make it stay and forever last.
Please let some happiness drown out the sorrow,
so that I can go and live tomorrow.
Please do this God, for me I pray,
but, also for those who need me each day.
Please do this God, for me I ask,
don’t let me put them through yet another lonesome day or task.
Please let some happiness drown out the sorrow,
so that I can go and live tomorrow.
DEMONS
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
Waving about, around my face
Around my body; around my place
In my world surrounding me
Everywhere I go, everywhere I’ve been
Scary, they’re not
Frightening, yes
My life, its path
They have drained; unblessed
Lethargy to a degree, extreme
Fighting these cocky and smug demons
Everything they think they can take from me
Rip it all away; tear it apart
Fragment my mind
And take my heart;
Deny me the things I value most.
No more will I let them piece my mind
Away they will go, far, far behind.
TICK TOCK
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
Tick tock go
The hands on the clock
So widely spaced
One at the twelve
One at the three…
“Tick tock, tick tock”
The sound of the night growing much older
A steady, inevitable happening
The weary in your bones
You can hear their painful cry
Their whispering drones
They simply can’t dance like they do in day light
The simply don’t have the power and might
“Tick tock, tick tock
Screaming out for sleep
Eye lids weighing heavy
With the strong urge to close
As your mind is ruminating
Riddled with thoughts;
Abstract and obtuse
You witness it again
Now it says, “Four”
And ever so faintly it still feeds your ear
With that echo you detest…
“Tick tock, tick tock”
Your eye lids now weighing even heavier than before
With a greater compulsion to close and shut
To be at rest
To hide all that you see
In your mind and your thoughts
What sparks you; ignites you
What keeps you so shackled
In this state of stirring;
This state of wake
And the hum continues…
“Tick tock, tick tock”
So strong the desire for your brows to be drawn
Like the Venetian shade that blocks out the sun
Drawn over your pupils
Blocking anything seen
Any objects, any thoughts, worthy, you deem
So strong the urge to close and shut
So strong the desire, but still they don’t
You glance again and see the clock
Now it reads, “Five”…
“Tick tock, tick tock”
So strong the desire to close and shut
So strong the urge, but still they don’t
Now it’s morning
AM is dawning
Shades of light are nearing and drawing
It’s six o’clock…
“Tick tock, tick tock.”
For Special People:
Top of Page
TO MOM
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
I am writing to you today Mom,
because I know you’ll understand.
It’s raining out this evening and I’m feeling dull and bland.
I’m having trouble being satisfied with the parent that I am.
When I was young you did it all, no doubts, just the words, “I can.”
You always seemed so confident, if it was me I would have ran,
three kids and a host of trials,
yet, you stuck it out through many miles.
I’m feeling so confused Mom; I am void of all my smiles.
I don’t know how you did it all,
when I feel like I could drop and fall.
I don’t know if I am instilling anything of value,
I often feel it’s hopeless and want to throw in every towel.
I don’t know if I’m teaching my son any lessons of simple quality,
it seems the only thing he’s interested in is his own popularity.
You always made it look so easy, no matter what the strife,
one look, some words and “kids that’s it, that’s just this thing called life!”
Why can’t I seem to do the same?
To my son it’s all one big game.
I know that days and times have changed in so big and huge a way,
but if I don’t get help, I’m going to lose my son; he’s going to go away.
Please help me Mom, you did it once, and you did it really well.
I’m so confused about what to do, this is a living hell!
I know you’ll help, you always do,
you always have come through.
Please hurry Mom, I’m scared to death and my patience is so few.
Please help me save this boy I love.
Please teach him of our God above.
Please let him know I tried my best,
but maybe I’m just not like the rest.
Please teach me how to give him guidance.
Please teach me how to give him faith.
Show him the meaning of “true belief”,
so in times of tragedy he will feel less grief.
Please do this goodwill for me Mom, the way I know you could.
And I will be so glad and joyful, and always good to you.
For there is no other I would ask this of but the one who gave me life,
a life so rich and plentiful; a life, a fortunate life.
For which I can only choose these words to speak and at all times say,
I will always tell these words of truth, forever and a day.
And, I will always be so appreciative Mom, so grateful, so obliged,
because of what you gave to me from the day that I arrived.
YOU’RE WONDERFUL
For Matthew
Michelle Longo-Bloom
Not many a day or weeks go by,
when I don’t tell him, for him, “I would die.”
Not many instances, chances, I let pass away,
without telling him the things I must simply say.
Not many a night to dream and sleep,
without him knowing his wonder, so deep.
Not many eyes shut close and tight,
without him knowing how hard he can fight.
He is wonderful, smart, terrific and more,
he’s excellence, distinct, magnificence galore.
He’s kindhearted, warm, caring and compassionate,
he’s cordial, courteous, polite and considerate.
He’s pleasant, thoughtful, selfless and understanding,
he’s perceptive, indulgent, at times quite demanding.
There is nothing in this world he can’t accomplish or do,
his talents, his gifts are so many more than few.
These words of praise he must forever be told,
so his confidence will never, ever fold.
So his honor and virtue will never be sold,
he’s wonderful, and he must forever be told.
He’s honest and forthcoming to his family and friends,
he’s kind and gentle, many times he will bend.
He’s friendly, gracious and always obliging,
he’s happy, singing, laughing and smiling.
I try to tell him when he’s up and alert,
but, mostly, I do when he’s asleep and inert.
This is because he gets so embarrassed,
he feels he’s being bugged and deeply harassed.
So I wait till he’s drifted off in the night,
and then for minutes, I watch and I stare at this site.
For it is the site of glory, and better, this face so ideal, of such perfect splendor,
the face of my son, so childish and grandeur.
It has the utmost dignity, opulence and more,
this face of an angel beyond his bedroom door,
that I will tell it over again and again,
“You’re wonderful, you’re wonderful,
among men of all men,
you’re wonderful, my son, with this face of a gem,
you’re wonderful, my son, precious angel God did send,
you’re inspiring, most radiant, men of all men,
you’re wonderful; you’re wonderful, again and again.”
All My Love,
Mom
AT AGE TWELVE
For Matthew
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
My precious, life-altering, incredible child,
at age twelve, you think you have run each and every mile.
With your sweet, tender compassion and your beautiful smile,
you show me kindness, you give me strength, and you make me so proud.
Yet, I always see you running,
from an occasional truth,
from the fear of being wrong,
or from the undesired deliberation of not being accepted by your peers.
For nothing else can be as dire as this belief,
the one most hated of all your fears.
But, I am your mother and I swear to you, you mustn’t always be right;
you don’t have to triumph every case, you don’t have to prevail always,
you don’t have to win every race.
My precious child,
at age twelve,
how do I get you to believe that you are liked beyond what you know?
That you are loved so unconditionally, by so many, and by me:
the one who gave you life,
to whose darkened world you brought the light.
My precious child, at age twelve,
you see the world as large,
I see it is as enlightening.
And although we rarely see eye to eye, there will come a day
when your own child quarrels with you, and you will say these words to him:
My precious child, at age twelve,
you think you have run each and every mile.
You mustn’t always be right; you don’t have to triumph every case, you don’t have to prevail always, you don’t have to win every race.
You simply have to know,
as deep in your heart as you can go,
what my mother once shared with me:
You are the very air I breathe,
you’re the endless boundaries of the sea.
You’re the sun and moon wrapped up in one,
a work in the making, not nearly done.
You’re my shining star, my ball of fire,
my yearning cherished most simple desire.
And what you must forever know,
regardless of it’s mask of strife,
you are my precious, incredible child,
at age twelve, and always, you are my life!
LIFE MOVES ON
For Matthew
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
Years ago when my son was two,
I watched him ride the carousel.
I watched him ride the helicopter,
the airplane, and then the train.
I watched him eat an ice-cream cone
and wiped his chin when it dripped down
covered in sprinkles of blue and red;
how I wish I took a picture instead.
Oh, how fast the time went by
and what I’d give for another try.
There are things I didn’t say and do,
what I’d give for that day with you:
a day just like that very one.
Now growing fast and on the run…
but life moves on; what’s done is done.
Some time ago he turned four at last
I watched him picnic on the grass.
I watched him lay a blanket down
and in circles he ran around and around.
It must have been three dozen times,
he circled that blanket then fell to the ground.
He ate from his basket of treats; so fine
his candies of every sort and kind.
And then I watched him laugh so dear;
his smile spread from ear to ear.
I made him eat something healthy
and suddenly, his smile bare;
his laughter gone; no more to hear.
Oh, how I wish I left him alone.
I wish I wasn’t caught up in the fear.
Oh, how I wish I let him laugh.
I wish I let him be so dear.
I wish I didn’t interfere.
Oh, how fast the time went by
and what I’d give for another try.
There are things I didn’t say and do,
what I’d give for that day with you:
a day just like that very one.
Now growing fast and on the run…
but life moves on; what’s done is done.
It seems like yesterday when my son was six,
undeneath the grey sky amidst.
Under the deep, dark cloud beds,
he was running through the sprinkler heads.
Laughing hysterically, and “oh so cute!”…
a fact I simply can’t refute.
Dashing back and forth he’d go,
over and over, fifty times in a row.
Each time I’d follow with a towel to wrap him
so afraid that he’d catch a cough or cold.
Now how I wish I threw that towel in
and ran along side him getting wet.
I was just too afraid he’d catch a cold.
How wrong I was, you can bet
because now at thirteen, he’s just a little too old.
Oh, how fast the time went by
and what I’d give for another try.
There are things I didn’t say and do,
what I’d give for that day with you:
a day just like that very one.
A pre-tean now and on the run...
life moves on; what's done is done.
For My Mother
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
A photograph, nothing more
In it’s tarnished five by seven frame
The places it takes me; it will lure
From who I was; from where I came
Just one simple black and white
Her face or grandeur
A smile lacking; a saddened sight
Yet all the splendor
And to accompany, an incredible force of power and might
A true abundance
Of her convictions told
Her words gave credence
To forever uphold
Her beliefs, so loyal to her loved ones
Her actions, so selfless; always out runs
Generosity great and overflowing
Yet at any given place and time
A smile barely there and showing
Her laughter; an uneventful sign
Little, scarce and hard to find
Moments few and far between
Mostly with her cherished grandkids
That was when it was always seen
To every darling one of them
A special love she did bequeath
To each and every darling one
It left me breathless; I could hardly breathe
To watch it, to see it, to witness her affection
Was the love she needed; her soul it freed
Adoring these children; her sound connection
Made her smile; no price in the world for this treasured deed
That is when she truly shined
When her happiness prevailed; so well and fine
Her delight and pleasure came through so kind
And when we saw her smile all the time
They gave her life true meaning; they confirmed her worth and being
In her eyes, in that photo, that’s what I keep seeing
Over and over she tells me she’s happy
For us and our children that we brought to her heart
Over and over she says, “You must believe me
In spite of us being so far apart.”
“Everyday with the angels I sing
And everyday I watch all my offspring
Everyday such happiness all of you bring
And louder and louder with the angels I sing.”
Just a photograph on the shelf
At times emotionless; at times sad
Oh but how that photo resembles myself
And the good yet hard life’s we both had.
Before I know it I’ll have my own grandchildren to enjoy
To cherish and treasure and love like she
And before I know it I’ll be singing loud with joy
Singing and smiling with the angels and she
Everyday we’ll watch all our offspring
And everyday such happiness they’ll all bring
Everyday louder and louder we’ll sing
Everyday with the angels we’ll bellow and sing.
Just a photograph on the shelf
At times emotionless; at times sad
Oh but how that photo resembles myself
And the good yet hard life’s we both had.
For Dad
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
I said a prayer for you today, and know God must have heard.
I felt the answer in my heart, although he spoke no word.
I didn’t ask for wealth or fame; I didn’t ask for success in plain.
The things I asked, far more humane, were for love and happiness to ease your pain.
I asked for treasures of a different kind,
treasures I thought would ease your mind.
I asked that He be near to you at the start of each new day,
to grant you health and blessings and look over you in every way.
I asked for friends to share your way and see you, if they may,
as one who is so giving, with hardly ever a say.
And finally, from your daughter, I asked for one thing more.
In all things, great and small,
it was for his love and care,
I prayed the most of all.
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
November 26, 2007
It’s your tender words
In your deepened voice
It’s your sweetened style
And your protective choice.
It’s your eyes that see the depths of me
So mystically and clairvoyantly
Your deep, dark eyes, they radiate,
They see my being; they see my fate
They perceive straight through me
Your deep, dark eyes
And see all my strife and life’s demise
It’s your deep dark eyes somehow, someway
They tell me everything’s going to be okay
And in some strange way they make me feel
Undeniably whole and undoubtedly real.
It’s the way they see
From a photograph
It’s what they see
The way your eyes; they glare and cast.
Does your heart see what your eyes, they see?
And will they both see us; you and me?
It’s the gestures that you often make
So genuine and never fake
That opens up my heart so wide
At the risk of losing all my pride
So unadulterated like a child’s
Across the many, many miles.
It’s your inner soul’s untainted truths
That come gaping and prancing through and through
It’s with the deepest honor and respect
So dearly I admire you.
It’s the way they see
From a photograph
It’s what they see
The way your eyes; they glare and cast.
Does your heart see what your eyes, they see?
And will they both see us; you and me?
Your character, it shines so bright
Your compassion exudes such beaming light
You’re sensitive to the center core
A gift to hold; to savor and adore
A gift of delicacy, of sheer distinction;
To be treasured forever and ever more.
There are no facades; no pretenses
Everything is real and greatly cherished
Always honest; warm and true
Special is what I feel with you
It’s the way they see
From a photograph
It’s what they see
It’s the way your eyes; they glare and cast.
Does your heart see what your eyes, they see?
And will they both see us; you and me?
Always,
Michelle
THE FACE OF AN ANGEL
For Penn
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
Sometimes wearied
Sometimes frayed
A boyish look
Taken; dismayed
Still so amazed
At a person’s wretched craze
Needing so badly to be freed
Of the dire sights and dreadful deeds
His ladies past and their selfish needs
Innocence appeared at my doorstep
And vastly chipped my guarded soul
Within days my being; swept away
My thoughts, my convictions, my body; whole
The face of an angel came to me
My jaded spirit, broken apart
He gave it back to me
Untainted, untouched
He gave it back to me
My soul; my heart
Humor:
Top of Page
TO MY COUSIN, SUZIE
We lived side by side in two-family houses,
back in the days when men’s pants were called trousers.
The Bronx was a place where we could play in the street,
there were no worries, no fears; sometimes we were even bare feet.
It was a time back then, much different than today,
the news didn’t reveal, “Three shots and dead”, I just heard them say.
It was a time when fear was just not life’s way,
on our minds these thoughts and worries never did lay.
But, more than that and most of all,
were the times we were together just having a ball.
The things we did, so crazy and fun,
these times I wouldn’t trade for million and one .
Picking roses from our neighbor’s garden,
selling them to her with our faces hardened.
Not a giggle let out; not a laugh to see,
but, boy when we were caught,
there were plenty of places we’d rather be.
I remember it like yesterday, the words that I screamed:
“It was Suzie, it was Suzie, I swear, not me!!!”
Then there was the time
I saw a strange dog and peed.
I blamed you and your sister,
best scapegoats and a way out in deed.
Our parents have movies of us doing ballet,
I can’t believe tickets were sold for such a play.
We were only five and six, with incredible drive,
but we had no clue, we looked barely alive!
We had no idea as to what we were doing,
and years later we said, “We should have been suing.”
Then years passed and we moved up to the suburbs,
a place, in your backyard, you don’t grow your own herbs.
For this we did not know as it took a little getting use to
but soon the problems became less, fewer and few.
We were a bit more separated in our new homes near Rye,
instead of climbing a banister, we had a five minute drive.
But this never deterred, prevented or stopped us,
now the games persisted with even more surplus.
The things my cousin, Suzie, had us do,
not even a monkey would ever go through.
Being dragged by our limbs off the Jersey Shore boardwalk,
she made us follow these guys with whom she wanted to talk.
It was late at night and she told them we were eighteen,
and when my mom found us, “They’re only thirteen!” she screamed.
We were in Puerto-Rico on a raft at sea,
close to the shore, but laughing so hardy, just you and me.
There were so many times spent like these,
being with you always came with such ease.
Like at at age sixteen,
when you had a crush on Joe Nill,
you had us dress up as spies
to follow him in our wigs and sunglass disguise.
You thought he was with another girl,
so we put him to the test to see what would unfurl.
All night we drove and followed him to each destination,
staying far back enough not be faced with harassment and incarceration!
Then of course there was the time when you took me shopping for clothes,
in a store on the Jersey Shore where you spotted outfits in rows.
Everything would have worked out well and, by all means, been fine,
but you neglected to tell me our parents were waiting for us on a dinner line.
We got pulled out of the store by our hair and more,
I punched you in the arm, “this one you certainly ARE taking the blame for!”
I shouted and screamed, “It was Suzie again,”
but now NO ONE believed me, I was the girl who cried wolf way back when.
These are just some of the stories, so fun,
of my cousin, Suzie and I, always on the run.
We were dumb; we were stupid, naive and young,
and many a times we were almost hung.
But I love her today just as much as back then,
and I would do it all over again and again!
There is something about cousins sharing the same blood line
that makes the strong bond so special and kind.
The times that we shared are held sacred and blessed,
to many of which I will NEVER confess.
Just know that they’re always so cherished and held dear,
even if some were done purely out of fear.
To my cousin, Suzie, over flowing with kindness,
I’ll always be thankful of our times filled with blindness.
I’ll always value and treasure our times shared in the past,
especially our sleepovers, God they went fast!
To my cousin, Suzie, whom I hold close to my soul,
I forgive you that time for speeding through the Henry Hudson toll.
To my cousin, Suzie, whom I love with all my heart,
I adore you immensely and hope we NEVER grow apart.
I will always be grateful for our time spent together,
and hope that the memories will last forever and ever!
ALL MY LOVE,
MICHELLE
WORKING MOTHER OF SIX
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
Phones are ringing
Kids are screaming
Work’s so busy
My head’s in a tizzy.
Day’s chaotic
Parent’s sickly
Each kid on an antibiotic.
Laundry in piles
Beds unmade
Kids so riled
Bills unpaid.
Rebellious teens
Too much homework
Tantrums and screams
My house is Le Serc!
The babysitter quit
My youngest threw a fit
She painted her room
With the kitchen broom.
Kathy, age fourteen
Wants to date
My boss just called
“Tomorrow afternoon,
Can you work late?”
Grandma ate a bad tangerine
Pale and nauseous, now she’s green.
Jack kicked off all sports teams
For poor sportsmanship, so it seems.
Dinner is burning
Kids are complaining
A vacation, I’m yearning
It won’t stop raining.
The roof is leaking
The basement flooded
My husband’s freaking
My six-year-old, his gold fish, he just gutted.
Just got rejected for a job promotion
My husband has no walking motion
In the basement he bent down
As my four-year-old yelled, “Look what I found.”
He continued to bail out the water
As she proceeded to swallow a quarter
When he bent down, his back went out
Then Grandpa called, he’s got Gout!
My mother’s collapsing; I have no doubt
And my eight-year-old let the Ginny pig out;
Around my house, he’s off and about.
Just found a pack of cigarettes
In Sally’s draw behind the barrettes
At age fifteen, she’ll lie like hell
I’m sure they’re hers; I’ll take all bets;
I have six kids and no regrets.
The dog is peeing on the floor
Billy just left; walked out the door
Just sixteen with the keys to the car
“God watch over him; I pray for him and all my kids,
But get me to the nearest bar!”
GEOMETRICAL DISAPPOINTMENT
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
First bewildered,
no, not quite it.
More like shocked;
stunned with a twist,
this angle of him
never did exist,
at least not to your eye;
what a bombshell he dropped!
Never seen before;
this side of him
this line, this streak,
leaving you lost and dim.
From any perspective
horizontal, vertical,
latitude or longitude;
the sight of him
repulses you.
Selfishness circling,
so hard to figure,
a diagonal of displeasure,
not even a protractor can measure.
A curve in his character,
so unexpected,
and at the very least,
so disrespected!
What’s even worse,
you know he knows,
but, an apology
he completely forgoes.
Geometrically speaking,
an empty box,
nothing there.
Better yet,
shall we say,
nothing more
than an empty square!
A CLICHED RELATIONSHIP ENDED
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
With the weight of the world upon her shoulders,
her decision was made;
it is done and over.
In the blink of an eye,
she was going to tell him, “Goodbye,”
she was calling it “quits,”
although eating away at her
and causing her fits.
Never the less,
she was throwing in the towel,
now just a matter of finding a way
to break it to him gently;
to let him know that
her heart isn’t in it
and that
her hands are tied.
Treading on waters, very trepid; not sound
walking on very shaky ground.
Feeling great anxiety, uneasy and sad,
she knew it was time to
let the cat out of the bag.
With no just cause and no just reason,
not a leg to stand on,
feeling at fault and to blame,
especially to do in this “summer love” season.
Suddenly she feels a frog in her throat
as she quickly thinks or already thought,
“Am I cutting my nose to spite my face?”
Is this what I want; can I state my case?
The truth of the matter, let it be told,
he just isn’t cutting it…
not her face or her nose,
but what she’s getting from him
just isn’t enough.
This relationship failed;
this ship has sailed.
When she finally came out with it
his lips were sealed.
He turned the other cheek,
it was a done deal.
But, perhaps the cart she put before the horse
because it was only a matter of weeks or less
that she was not feeling her needs being met.
Days so few void of the fire,
feeling completely alone and very unlit.
A short time only with no burning desire,
no spark no passion, too late she quit.
Now six months later,
over and done,
she regrets her decision;
letting him run.
As one more loser after another
takes her out on a date
and they don’t measure up and clearly don't rate.
Now a year gone by
and she asks herself, “Why?”
She wonders and ponders
while listening to each and all phone ringers
if she let the best thing in life just slip through her fingers.
She contemplates if that’s in fact what she did
when calling it quits
based on a series of some small quirky fits.
Maybe she jumped too fast and too quick
and in the blink of an eye
let the man of her dreams slip away and fly
with a most “matter of fact” and simple “Goodbye?”
GIRL’S NIGHT
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
Guacamole’s in place;
Tostidos’ adjacent.
Brie is melted,
cracker’s near.
Port wine chilled,
each glass half filled,
margarita mix out and ready to go.
The girls arrive, one by one,
so singular in appearance,
not in spirit at all.
Conversation ignites, takes its course,
subject matter varies some,
but, at most, one hub, just one.
Periodically a drifting tangent; diverse,
perhaps politics or Brazilian waxing at first;
an eyebrow lift or the white sand in Nice.
Entertain for a minute what our children are learning,
and then less than a minute on good parenting;
for thirty seconds or so:
“Are they obnoxious and rebellious or delightful and cute?”
And then, “the children topic” we quickly refute,
and soon right back from the boundaries of outer,
before the “code of loyalty” is broken or soiled,
before the “girl’s code of ethics” is wrapped and foiled.
This theme, this subject, always an enigma,
the laughing and plotting begins and proceeds.
It brings us together like past war heroes,
unites us forever,
this topic, this focus, so deliberated on.
It brings out our most honest reckonings,
our soul-baring truths and inner secrets.
The chuckling grows louder, and louder still,
the bonds are tightening, so instantly.
Involuntarily, we’re together in mind and soul,
with the exception of trifling opinions, quite sparse.
The dwelling continues as do the hysterics,
now all in a frenzy; heated and impassioned.
Several sips of wine later,
a few more margaritas down,
this theme we have now intellectually mastered,
everything possibly true has been said,
every point raised from each tipsy head.
Whatever deemed imperative, put on the table,
along with the Brie; chips and wine.
It’s getting late, a grand time we’ve had,
hours into the wee and we’ve been a bit bad,
in our words and our phrases of this topic at hand,
not at all too thorny for this subject’s nature,
the topic of every “girl’s night out.”
The rule of discussion that ties us so close,
it’s the opposite sex we’re talking about!
Those incredible, yet annoying mystical creatures,
at which our vocals are sore from our continuous screeches.
Those fascinating and exciting extreme male beings,
and the ludicrous, questionable things that they do,
offering their partial, distorted sports view,
on women and children and our country too!
Even the superior things come up as well,
romantic, tender gestures; so kind,
in spite of their mysterious, unexplainable and lazy ass minds.
Moving right along, straight down to their finest moves in the sack!
No matter how far adrift we walk,
to one center the subject mostly comes back,
to our spouses, our lovers, sex partners; boyfriends,
it is generally about “our men” that we talk.
There are never too many that a woman can own,
she buys them, borrows them; even takes them out on a loan.
And at least once a week she spots an absolute must,
from the store window they lure her; so filled with lust.
They draw her, entice her, a pair of plain shoes, they are simply not just.
She thinks of them; pines over them, all day and all night,
as costly as they are, they will bring her such delight.
Even worth a big fall out and disastrous a fight,
that she will indeed have if she doesn’t restrain with all of her might.
Oh, how her husband, he’ll scream and he’ll shout,
“Another pair; are you crazy; is this what your life’s all about?”
“Oh, but these are so special, can’t you tell; can’t you see?
They will bring me such joy and make me so happy,
just sliding them on will brighten up each morning,
not to mention walking and strutting right down the street,
I’ll be the talk of the town with these new soles on my feet!
Made of leather and suede of top quality grade,
to my eyes incredibly stunning; the best things ever made.
Amazingly crafted, a heavenly sight,
oh, what the heck, it’s just one more fight.
Off to my job in my sexy new shoes,
starting my day without one single hint of the blues.
This is the power they can hold over us,
men just don’t understand the nature; the fuss.
If they look this good; this sexy, and oh so appealing,
who cares what my husband is thinking and feeling!”
They have this uncanny ability to make you lose it,
all of your ration; your reason and wit.
Because when you slip them on your feet to wear,
the beauty is overwhelming; the thought of not having them you just cannot bear.
Not owning these shoes, you quite simply won’t hear,
even if it means escaping the wrath of your husband; not a great fear.
In the end you’ll get the shiny stilettos and it with all conclude with an, “I love you dear.”
And soon you’ll be walking and strutting your stuff,
until those heals are a little worn down and a little bit rough.
At which point they will join the rest of the gang,
resting on the floor of your closet, worn last like a song last sang.
Yes, just sitting and waiting with the rest of the bunch,
to be worn, to work, for a walk or even just to lunch.
Accompanied by pairs; so many and many,
this is the plight of shoes by the plenty.
One would think, this is so, like with everything else,
once the initial excitement is gone, the shoes are neglected by even the woman herself.
But if you really and truly understand and comprehend,
you know that the relationship between a woman and her shoes never comes to an end.
There may be periods of time when they’re not in use or worn,
but that bond between the female and her pumps is one that will never be torn.
For those adoring, fascinating, gorgeous high heals,
will always be the point, at which everything caves; all bets; all deals.
These are the very item, the breaking point; the match,
once that pair is found she must forever have them; cling to them and latch.
Even if at times while sitting in her closet for ongoing stretches,
amongst all of the others who are feeling the same and being called kvetches.
She has never forgotten them and longs for that upcoming day,
when wearing that perfect outfit for which in her beautiful shoes, her feet she will lay.
CHRISTMAS MORNIMG
(From a Six Year Old Boy)
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
You wake up that morning as excited as can be,
you cannot believe your own eyes, what they witness and see.
There are so many presents under the tree,
large and small, and all wrapped so decoratively.
The feeling in your stomach is one of true anticipation,
you feel so energetic, and you’re filled with exhilaration.
Your eagerness and enthusiasm is driving you wild,
you go and wake all the others sleeping, so calm and so mild.
You tell them you feel like you’ve been waiting for days,
“Okay, just a minute give us, to come out of our daze.”
Leisurely, they’re all washing and putting their robes on,
“How can they not understand, to what planets have they gone?
“I’m a six year old boy and its Christmas morning!”
“Hurry, please hurry”, I scream and I shout,
just what are they doing, all lingering about?
Finally everyone is there and we’re all under the tree,
everyone looks excited, but not half as much as me!
The thrill and the laughter, the fun of it all,
is so magical and delightful, I’m having a ball.
With each present that we open, with each box, each gift,
our hearts they open, they rise and they lift.
For everything I love and truly adore,
this is such a great Christmas, I couldn’t ask for more.
All that Santa brought, each game and each toy,
was just what I wanted and perfect for a six year old boy.
But, I have to say and I have to admit,
my eyes couldn’t have been more brightly lit,
than when it came time for my mother to unwrap and see
what I had gotten her, on my own, just from me.
When she opened her gift, she couldn’t believe her eyes,
she was filled with amazement and such great surprise.
Her face was so bright, her smile so wide,
To make her happy, I felt such joy and such pride.
I thought I was excited about all of the presents for me,
but really, it was something more sitting under that tree,
that had me so eager and so raring to go;
it was the gift for my mother that I had to bestow.
This is what gave me the most pleasure indeed,
because my mother is the angel God sent down to me.
She’s there no matter what and for whatever I need,
she is simply the greatest and makes me feel so at ease.
In spite of every present and every toy under that tree,
so large and so small and all that I could see.
Giving her this gift on this Christmas morning,
without her knowing, not even a warning.
It made me so happy and so filled with joy;
this was the best gift of all for her six year old boy!
A Christmas Story for Children:
A CHRISTMAS STORY
(Spying on Santa)
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
Quiet, quiet, not a sound,
hush, hush or we’ll be found.
Mom and Dad we’ll wake for sure,
and our spying game will be no more.
How much longer do you think He’ll take?
all night long, I don’t think I’ll make.
Is there not a schedule of some sort or some kind?
That can tell us how close or if He’s far far behind.
He could be thousands of miles away,
my eyes are closing, in my bed I must lay.
Quiet, quiet, not a sound,
hush, hush or we’ll be found.
Mom and Dad we’ll wake for sure,
and our spying game will be no more.
Shall we make more cookies? What if He’ll be hungry?
Shall we get more milk? Perhaps He’ll be quite thirsty?
Do you think He’ll have tons and tons of toys?
I hope He has lots and lots, especially for boys!
Do you think He’ll bring everything written on my list?
It sure does feel so very late; please check the clock on your wrist.
I can’t stay up any longer; I must go to bed now, Sis.
I’ll give your Teddy a great big hug and a great big kiss.
Quiet, quiet, not a sound,
hush, hush or we’ll be found.
Mom and Dad we’ll wake for sure,
and our spying game will be no more.
Please promise, promise if you spot Him, you’ll come and wake me too!
Okay, I promise, I will do so; just go quietly now, please do!
“Quietly, quietly, there is no need,
you have already woken us, now please explain indeed!
Whatever are the two of you doing awake and so about?
Spying on Santa Claus, we surely hope not and surely doubt!”
“I told you we would wake them, now look what we’ve done,
now we’ve gone and spoiled all the mystery and the fun.
The truth Mom and Dad is that we were just so curious,
we really didn’t mean to wake you or make you the least bit furious.
We just wanted to see if and how He really, truly does it,
get around the entire world before each home is morning lit.
To reach every child with all of our requests,
it seems so hard and difficult, one impossible quest of all quests!”
“Difficult perhaps it is, but impossible, it never was,
bringing smiles to children’s faces, this is just what Santa does.
But, more important for you both to know,
a gift of knowledge, I’d like to bestow:
it’s not about the gifts for us,
toys and presents in such surplus.
This holiday, so wonderful,
is about more things, so plentiful.
It’s about the gratitude we feel and show,
we give to Jesus while kneeling low;
the thanks and praise He feels and sees,
when honoring Him while on our knees.
It’s not about the toys we get,
it’s about much more; we mustn’t forget!
It’s about a miracle that took place,
when Christ was born, our Saving Grace!
On this day, so long ago,
He came to us with the angels glow.
It’s about opening up our hearts to Him,
showing our faith and letting Him in.
On Christmas day He came to us,
and then died for us; He said He must.
He sacrificed his life for us; so heavenly and so divine,
for all our sins, He died for us; the worlds sins, yours and mine.
He is so Holy, He is our Savior,
so right here and now, please think about your true behavior.
While the stars are out so clear and bright,
this is a humble lesson for the two of you to learn tonight.
May you remember it always, and always do right,
and always know from where it comes, the halo’s glow; the angel’s light.
Now go to bed and get to sleep,
close your eyes, don’t make a peep.”
“Quiet, quiet, not a sound,
hush, hush or you’ll be found.
Santa will find you up for sure,
and your spying game will be no more.”
“Oh by golly, oh by gee,
it’s half pass six and look Sis, under the tree.
It is a miracle, it is indeed; He gave toys to every girl and boy.
But, the true miracle, as Mom said, means so much more than a gift or toy;
it’s the day that Jesus was born to us, bringing the world such peace and joy.
This is what we’re celebrating,
this Holy Day, so commemorating.
For this is Christmas Day for us, the birth of Christ, when He arrived,
more important is what He did for us; He climbed the cross and then He died.
With each present that we open, with each toy that we see,
we’ll say, ‘Thank you Santa for your kindness and your generosity.’
But then we’ll look up towards the heavens and think of Christ our King,
and how on this day, 2000 years before, He came with grace to bring.
In doing so the world rejoiced; embraced His words, all loving,
as he spread the hope of faith and peace and said, “Good tidings we shall sing.”
"LONG POETRY" (as if what you have already read wasn't. However, this final piece is what is truly considered to be what is called "Long Poetry" as it does have certain requirements. Generally, "Long Poetry" must be a minimun of 14 pages with anywhere from 10 - 20 lines on a page and the poem cannot exceed 500 lines or 7000 words.)
Here is my final piece of "Long Poetry" and the piece I am most proud of:
"THE COLLEGE PROFESSOR"
Note: the poem may look like it has ended due to large gaps and spaces. These indicate page changes. Please keep scrolling down. You will know when it is finished.
I would like to take an oppurtunuty to offer a personal "thank you" to anyone who has taken the time to read what I have thoroughly enjoyed putting together for the public's viewing. I truly hope you found what you read as enjoyable as I found writing it and I hope, at least some of it left you, inspired or feeling like your were "graced with the colors of life!!!"
Sincerely,
Michelle
THE COLLEGE PROFESSOR
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
The college professor
Sociology, he teaches
In his lesson
The message he preaches
On the road of life
As his students begin to moan and grown.
From experience he talks, he shares and speaks
Experience; true, his very own;
An encounter that lasted a duration long
A few of life’s punches, he was thrown.
He tells his students
What’s real; in his heart
What he relays to them
Can’t come from a text
What can be measured
Only by feelings
No rulers or timers or an hour glass turned over.
During his lecture
He speaks of sadness
How imperative it is
An emotion to possess.
His glasses he removes as he talks on
Of the adversities they’ll face and how their lives they’ll impress.
Through aisles and rows of now eager filled seats
He makes his way, each student’s eye, he meets.
Now opening the mind’s of each; rousing them up
Their thirsting for his words; their interest is sparked
As he continues to speak and continues to glide
And again he takes another stride
Now hungry for the things he has to say
For the experiences and knowledge
He will so modestly convey:
The crying infant yearning to be held
The six-year-old boy who fell off his bike
The screaming toddler, pacifier withheld
The high-school kid kicked out of his group; told to take a hike.
The seventeen-year-old girl who plays Solitaire every Saturday night
The unhappy gay man who can’t come out, thinks of his life and says, “Oh what a plight”
The young sweetheart left at the alter; what will her life now be all about?
The forty-year-old woman staring in the mirror and all that she sees is shame and doubt.
An illness that took from a middle-aged man
His very reason for being; his beloved wife
The president of a wealthy company that went bankrupt;
He got lead astray and took his life.
The wife and mother of three; all alone
Sees her investment banker husband every fourth week
The single parent without health insurance
And all three kids, sickly and meek
The man hearing voices with no family to speak of
All this and more, the above, the unknown:
What life brings us, what will be?
What voyages we’ll travel?
What crossings we’ll see?
How our time here is spent?
Am I making a dent?
What adversities we’ll meet?
What triumphs we’ll beat?
What odysseys we’ll encounter?
What directions our lives will go?
Up or down?
Not a sole will know
How our histories will unravel and unwind?
The choices we make
The people we find
The college professor continues to walk; to move
And a strong message of worth lies in his realities true
As he spreads his words and goes on to preach
So eloquently he shares his wisdom; so passionately he does teach…
“In each grain of upset
There is some good
Void of it, to know, how one could?
There is value; true
In each tear of unhappiness;
In each lonely droplet that runs down your face.
It can’t be measured, accept to say
When it exists
When it’s ugly head, it rears and persists
Painful, the emotion of true sadness…
The air is thick,
The sky is gray,
Your body feels each tear and fray.
The sun is hiding,
The darkness grows,
You’re feeling one of those deep dark lows.
You’re falling down,
Right to the ground,
Sometimes you hope you’ll never be found.
The air is cold,
The clouds are dense,
Again, to you, this makes no sense.
The sun is gone,
The rain is here,
Much more of this, you cannot bear.
You’re falling down,
Right to the ground,
Sometimes you hope you’ll never be found.
Now the air is getting warmer,
The clouds are getting fewer,
There have been days when you felt bluer.
You must tell yourself this,
The pain, you must resist,
You mustn’t lose hope,
You must try to cope.
For you may feel like you’re falling right down to the ground,
But, in all truth, you know you’re good at pulling yourself straight up to be found.
In both body and mind,
You will seek courage to find,
You will seek hearts, so kind,
You will no longer stay strapped in this miserable bind.
The one good thing about falling, you see,
Is that once you are down it’s quite easy to be.
Once you are down on that cold, barren ground,
There is only one sure way left to go,
That is right back up and around, you know.
So let “falling” remain a good sign of hope,
A sign that tells us we can get up and cope.
But how about a true victim of the mentally ill?
How do we justify their ongoing pain if you will?
The constant battle of their insidious disease
The struggle and chaos; the darkness it breeds.
Take, for example, a woman I’m acquainted,
All that she longs for is some days untainted.
By this I mean void of her illness,
Free from the battles of her prolonged mental darkness.
From the things she’s told me on many a day,
Here’s what I imagine she’d write down or say…
Just once upon the early morn,
I want to hear the birds at dawn.
Hear them chirp on my front lawn,
And I want to really concentrate,
On what they’re saying; let penetrate.
On whom they like and whom they hate.
Which house’s trees they do prefer?
And whose lands and roofs they better rate?
If Five Medford Lane is of high preference?
Or mine, number Three, does more for their taste?
Which branches do they seek and search?
And how high do they enjoy their perch?
Are they happy in number Four’s Dogwood?
Or is number Two’s Maple equally good?
The big Cherry Blossom across the street,
Is that where they fancy each day to meet?
Just once I want to wake and hear,
The words of all the birds, so near.
But what a feat when each waking day,
My mind is overwrought with fear.
Just once, I want to wake and hear,
The talk of all the chirping birds.
But how impossible when my head is flooded,
With constant ruminating words.
And then there’s oh that other subject,The one that makes us all a wreck,
I’m talking about the topic of “death.”
To which we all act insanely senile,
And keeps us in proverbial denial.
Let’s take, for example, “The Dusty Road.”
It’s the road from where we watch a funeral take place,
We watch the people walk to and from this space,
As they pay their respects to the newly deceased.
We watch as they stir in their sorrow and grief,
For the man and his loved ones, we watch as they bestow their peace,
And if we look hard enough we may even see,
Just what things are in store for this departed man;
What message to his family he will silently hand down,
And for him, Eternally, God’s Holy plan…
He embarks on a new life
One without grief
So full of fear
Yet eager to be free.
With great apprehension
To a life now eternal
To a life far better
Filled with God’s joy.
A paradise
Where angels sing
A rapture of glory
No sins to forth bring
Cleansed already
Entering pure
Where mercy is always bestowed;
An invariable factor
So we are told.
Befalls, the dawn’s mist
As that awful site of the hearse and limos behind
One by one, all in a line
The sight of true sorrow and heartfelt dread
The sound of silence; words unsaid
As the shiny black lean travels up the dusty road
Carrying his widow and children of three:
Forty-five, forty-eight and fifty to be.
And the seven grand children he had to leave
All saddened and tearful;
Faces prone and weepy
The youngest one
His teeth gnashing
As his widow asks,
“What will I do now in the dark of the night
In our bed by myself, just me, all alone
Without my loving, devoted limb long
Feeling their tenderness so intertwined;
Their warmth enraptured,
Entangled around mine?”
The masses of people
Walk from their cars
To the marked site
And bequeath on him; peace.
Silent in prayer
Each places a rose
Upon the casing enclosed:
The beautiful box
That houses his body; his bones
Not his spirit; nor his soul.
And then they head back for
The dusty road they all came
So solemnly they walk
Beyond the sea light
Not thinking for one minute
This man’s future, now eternal; now bright.
Now I’d like to intercede with a different emotion,
One of which we are all shackled by the likes of its fear which sets us in motion.
This is the one which stands to hold its own badge of honor; its very own code
It could very well lead you straight up that so called “Mentally Unstable or Crazy Road.”
It is undoubtedly the one of which is highly fearful and anxiety producing,
The one we are forever making those futile attempts at lessening and reducing.
And when that doesn’t work another trick we have up our sleeve,
Strategy number two we begin to implement and simply proceed,
Lurking somewhere in the backs of our souls and backs of our minds,
Only to find what is restricted by our hidden inner truths and moral confines.
And suddenly we find ourselves in a world of our own,
Filled with coffees, lattes, wine and late night dinners so well known.
In a world where we run from solemn truths; run away and lie;
In a world where we escape and we simply deny, deny, deny.
My next example,
A highly thought provoking sample,
Frightening and poignant to hear and see,
Don’t fall victim; don’t let it be.
Take a moment, take several, take more than a few,
However long it requires; take ten if you need to.
Think about these next words so candidly expressed,
They’re words I’ve often tired and obsessed
A tired man in an ally way
Sitting amongst the foul covered trash
Camouflaged in their barrels and plastics
Their draw stringed Glad and Hefty bags
The soles of his shoes he does not have
His clothes are torn; they look like rags
And from the curb people stare
In an unassuming, nonchalant way
Trying not to be obvious
Some upset by what they see
But most keep walking; unaffected,
“This is just society.”
Ordinary, blatant; so removed
A familiar sight, hardly unseen
So common place it has become
The homeless man
Downing his stolen bottle of stale cheap rum
As we proceed to down our drinks, some
Our Expressolattes and Frapaccinos
Our coffee madness; when will that be done?
Our glasses of wine after work each night
Californian, Merlot; Red or White
Then to our children we must attend
Give them everything they want and see
Spoil them silly; give into each absurdity
This way it’s easier to live and be
While we’re out and while we dine
While we drink our beans, so black; their liquid grinds
Indulge our kids and consume fine wines
Let’s just hope, wish and pray
Dawn to dawn and day to day
Those people staring from the curb
Unaffected and far removed
In their unassuming nonchalant stay
That’s it’s never one of ours they see
Sitting it the ally way.
And how about all our regrets;
How painful to think about,
I’ll take all bets.
Here’s something I’ll gladly share with you all,
On an even more personal note that came to me one day last fall…
Years ago when my son was two,
I watched him ride the carousel.
I watched him ride the helicopter,
The airplane, and then the train.
I watched him eat an ice-cream cone
And wiped his chin when it dripped down
Covered in sprinkles of blue and red;
How I wish I took a picture instead.
Oh, how fast the time went by,
And what I’d give for another try.
There are things I didn’t say and do,
What I’d give for that day again:
A day just like that very one.
Now growing fast and on the run…
Life moves on; what’s done is done.
Some time ago he turned four at last,
I watched him picnic on the grass.
I watched him lay a blanket down,
And in circles he ran around and around.
It must have been three dozen times,
He circled that blanket then fell to the ground.
He ate from his basket of treats; so fine,
His candies of every sort and kindAnd then I watched him laugh so dear;
His smile spread from ear to ear.
I made him eat something healthy,
And suddenly, his smile bare;
His laughter gone; no more to hear.
Oh, how I wish I left him alone.
I wish I wasn’t caught up in the fear.
Oh, how I wish I let him laugh.
I wish I let him be so dear.
I wish I didn’t interfere.
Oh, how fast the time went by,
And what I’d give for another try.
There are things I didn’t say and do,
What I’d give for that day again:
A day just like that very one.
Now growing fast and on the run…
Life moves on; what’s done is done.
It seems like yesterday when my son was six,
On a breezy day with dark cloud amidst.
Under the sky’s deep dark cloud beds,
He was running through the sprinkler heads.
Laughing hysterically, and “oh so cute!”…
A fact I simply can’t refute.
Dashing back and forth he’d go,
Over and over, fifty times in a row.
Each time I’d follow with a towel to wrap him,
So afraid that he’d catch a cough or cold.
Now how I wish I threw that towel in,
And ran along side him getting wet.
I was just too afraid he’d catch a cold.
How wrong I was, you can bet,
Because now at thirteen, he’s just a little too old.
Oh, how fast the time went by,
And what I’d give for another try.
There are things I didn’t say and do,
What I’d give for that day again:
A day just like that very one.
A pre-teen now and on the run…
Life moves on; what’s done is done.
So, there is sadness in regret as well,
When we look back on time spent; so easy to dwell,
Moments so tender; so precious and swell,
Their faces, their touch, even their smell.
And now as my lecture comes to a close and I begin to conclude,
I leave you with one final message of grave importance.
It is what I unknowingly and inadvertently took for granted and misconstrued,
If I’ve done nothing else, let this be the greatest lesson of all:
Don’t find yourselves guilty of this; don’t be one of its countless statistics or victims fall.
Why, because if you do, they will fight back with aching rejection that pierces your heart,
And as for the loneliness; it will tear you apart.
So, hear me out; hear me loud and clear,
Appreciate your mate and let them know,
Every day say, “I love you dear.”
Appreciate your mate and let it show,
Because eventually, if you don’t,
They will surely go.
Even if you’re angry or have a fight,
Say, “I love you dear” by the end of the night.
I tell you this straight from the heart,
Do the right thing; be sensitive, be smart.
They are the most important part of your life
And when they are gone you will face your own self caused strife.
You’ll spend endless days saying, “If only I had done this,”
And endless nights thinking, “If only I had done that.”
When the fact of the matter is it will just be too late,
And it will all be left in the cruel hands of fate.
So desperately and dreadfully you’ll want them back.
You’ll want to wake from your awful nightmare,
And there’ll be times when living without them, you just can’t bear.
So simply and plainly, what I’m trying to convey,
How lonely it gets in life day to day,
And how you’ll long for tender words in your ear,
All unnecessarily spared for moments you neglected to say,
The simplest words: “I love you dear;”
The most important words of the day
Yes, painful, the emotion of true sadness,
But, it also does something quite positive;
A different perspective;
so igniting…
It opens us up; it lets us live,
It empowers our freedom; it lets the light in.
It enables us to appreciate what happiness is…
Not take for granted, moment’s content.
So, in light of these terms, these words I’ve spoken,
In spite of all your hearts once painfully broken,
Please promise, please assure and vow to me,
The next one, with whomever or where and when it may be,
No matter the circumstances or how it takes place,
Remember my words; remember my face.
I strongly hope you will or might,
I hope you will consider this:
Close your eyes; shut them real tight…
And make it the longest held and best ever kiss!
I hope that you all got something worthwhile today from this,
Something of value to take with you and spread amidst,
God Bless you all; have a good day; class dismissed.”