My Love


I remember loving you with nuclear heat
Though we stayed cool together, 
our feelings ran deep & our flesh 
was contained in polished exoskeletons.

No one could touch us; many tried,
But we, 
calm & knowing 
to whom we belonged
Easily kept the world out of our shells.

We hardly spoke, yet it was clear 
we partook of destiny – so meant to be
That the world didn’t trouble us at all.

You bought me a silver engraved heart necklace –
I still remember the weight of it around my neck
And I miss it just as I miss you.

The Blue Kimono

Song Dynasty Kimono

Floated around her bare legs like flags waved in surrender.
All shades represented, from almost white to blue-black,
She stood at attention, trying to focus
On the tea instead of the delicious slide of silk on silken skin.

He waited, patient as a crone
For her to take another step into his world.
Not really giving a damn about the tea;
Her presence owning him completely.

They each saw something in the other
That belied the truth – she, able to surrender,
And he, thirsty.

Me, Granny

Old hands

These hands look just like my great-grandmother’s – we called her Granny.  I think they are beautiful & reflect a lifetime spent doing for others – these are the hands of love.  Lately I’m noticing a change in my own hands – my collagen is gone & I’m starting to get wrinkles there & I’m realizing I’m on my way to having hands like these.  I’ve always been vain about my hands, so I have mixed feelings about this latest change in my body.

My Granny was a wonderful mother; anything I learned about how to love I learned from her & her eldest daughter, my grandmother.  Recently one of my granddaughters called me Granny & I discovered that I’m perfectly ok with that.  I’m a young-looking 57, so I don’t look the part, but if that’s what she wants to call me, I’ll take it.  I’m discovering that I really love being a grandmother.  I wish I had the means to spoil them all rotten, but they’ll just have to settle for me.  I hope I’m enough.  I hope I’m half the loving grandmother my Granny was.


Angel Naomi

After my last post my roommate & I had a bible study with another sister.  The topic was discipleship.  I learned that the bible only refers to Christ followers as Christians 3 times.  We are far more often called disciples & are commanded to take up our cross & follow Him.  We are further commanded to deny ourselves & follow God’s way & to know that it isn’t easy – just as Christ’s mission wasn’t easy.  But this is how the world will know Who we follow.  Jesus also gives a beautiful promise after the command to follow Him: that He will surely be with us through difficult times & circumstances.  

It occurred to me that this other “Mom” could very well be my cross to take up & that in obeying God & praying for her, she could find salvation.  That is none of my business; I’m simply commanded to love her.  True, I’ve had to pray to the Holy Spirit to love her through me because I just can’t yet bring myself to love her.  That may be the best I can do for awhile in my human weakness.  But I’ve prayed to love others who have done me wrong; she won’t be the first, so I have every expectation of success.  With God’s help, Amen.

The Other Mother

Elle se Retourne

I’m having a problem with jealousy.  My daughter calls another woman Mom & this drives me mad with rage.  Because she calls me Mom as well.  And I’m sure the other Mom knows this & is laughing her ass off about it, because you see, she’s just that kind of person.  It wasn’t bad enough she stole my husband & any chance we had of staying together, she taught my children to call her mom.  This was before I left, but it was a huge reason I did leave.  And she’s still doing it.  My twins are 35 years old & still persist in this practice.  She’s a drug & alcohol-ridden piece of garbage, but she gets to be called Mom.  Some days I just don’t know how I’m going to be able to work through this.

Poor Neglected Blog

Pink Quilt 2

I’ve neglected my blog of late.  I’ll try to post something interesting to make up for it.  The pic above is a quilt – an art form I used many years ago but have since abandoned.  But I’m so in need of doing some art – textile art, that is.  Textile collage/mixed media to be precise.

I have acquired some supplies & they stare at me & I stare at them, neither of us knowing how to start.  It’s like the beginning of a love affair; two hearts wanting to join but still afraid of what will come after surrender.

My Family

Please Return

It started with one dissatisfied woman;
Drank her way to Nola & back again.
Then fell in love with a uniform,
Hence, me.

Then, twin brothers
Each helpful to the other.
Mystery how she couldn’t love them,
But I could, & did, until their loss.

Finally a baby sister,
I tried to love her, but she nearly
broke my nose as I held her,
Baby head lurching forward
In her excitement to be held by me.
I must admit, I held a grudge for that injury
But not for long.

Then came my own, born into my
Tornado of a mind, me unable to
make sense of love, to make sense of anything.
They think I threw them away, but really it was me
Gone round the mountain.

Now, out of three
I have one & while I rejoice in my one,
I wish also for the remaining two.
Maybe some day.
I’m learning to mother my un-mothered
children along with myself.
There is joy, there is pain;
All is good for growth.
I give thanks.

Family Life


It is not my desire to vilify my mother.  I think she did the very best she could with tragically few resources.  I just feel like some final bits are rising up in me for healing & forgiveness.  Now, she has been sober for 20 years, or so I’m told.  I tend to believe it because I feel like I’m getting to know someone I never knew before;  she’s happy most of the time when I talk to her.  She’s funny, insightful & takes ownership, as far as she is able, of the crappy upbringing my siblings & myself had.

Since the recent death of my brother, she has shown me a grieving side of her I never saw before.  It’s hard to resist her tears.  I find myself comforting her as though our roles had switched.  She has known as much loss & sorrow as I have & it’s hard to recall her as the abandoning, drunken mother she once was.  Now she’s a person who has lost a child & who longs for sympathy which many would deny her.   I find myself drawn to this version of my mother, drawn to healing & forgiveness.  It’s my turn to show her my belly & trust her not to tear it out.  So far she’s shown none of the behaviors that used to drive me to stay out all night in friends’ houses.

I suppose it boils down to this: I love her.  She gave me life.  She did some very mothering & brave things for me growing up – things a good mother would do.  It’s time I began showing her my appreciation & giving her love.  Our family herstory is littered with unmothered daughters, lost children, lost or inadequate fathers & lots of sorrow.  My unmothered daughter Megan is helping me create a new paradigm.

Losing My Brother

Fish Dinner

I had twin brothers.  Past tense.  My mother allowed my paternal grandparents to adopt them when I was around 5 & they were 4.  I went to see them when I was a teenager.  That’s it.  I found out yesterday that the elder twin, Lynn, died 10 days ago most probably from complications of diabetes.  He died 10 days ago & I’m just now hearing of it.  My family is strange that way.  Ties are afterthoughts.  Emotions aren’t important.  Pain is the norm.

Because I had so little contact with them, I’m remembering him as a little boy.  To try to picture him as a grown man hurts too much.  I’m so very sad & grieving the loss of that little boy.  I remember being very protective of my twin brothers.  I remember loving them so much.  Then nothing.  Just silence forever more.  RIP my dear little brother whom I never knew.