Someone in passing says they’ve seen us
somewhere. It could have been when
we were singing or reciting poetry. At first they
didn't recall the time or place we met.
They smile as if great friends when seeing
us, and we struggle to remember. Maybe we
were just out for fun, but in the other’s eyes
the event was bigger than life. The sun shines
on us, but it could have been night.
It could have been a night when we were
seeing friends over drinks in a bar and
grill on a one-way downtown.
It could have been in a coffee shop
where we read poems, and in the heart
of each person the words and lines
held a different meaning. The atmosphere
was warm, and we called it love.
Someone could remember the time
we walked along the sidewalk, and they
passed un-noticed as they drove along.
I was shy when I was in eighth grade
and asked the girl with red hair if she noticed
me while I was in a crowd below the balcony
where she stood.
O, how much it meant when she said yes.
My head has always been made of glass,
and inside it lives a faint idea of who I am.
She used to be a silhouette,
but even then she wasn’t very defined.
In eighth grade, I believed that she lived in the shadows,
because showing herself felt heavier
than living in the trenches of our own mind.
In a way, she was right.
I was told that the time would come when I’d figure out who I was—
but what use is saying “everything happens for a reason”
if it only makes me sad?
I started to write in my mirror:
words like “I’m funny, I’m thoughtful, and I’m kind.”
And I waited for a big moment,
when I’d realize that I was right.
Then came social media.
It made me feel like people could look into my seemingly see-through mind through a cracked lens and endless filters.
I thought maybe they could help me figure out who I was,
but no flashy moment ever arrived.
It wasn’t until my friend thanked me for giving her a birthday gift
and studying for a class I didn’t take just to help her understand
that I got home to my dusty shelf and whispered into an empty room while looking my mirror in the eye
“Maybe I wasn’t wrong after all”
a bathroom skirmish
eighth grade gang of bullies
middle school woes
Herbert did not say much about his proficient reading cow.
But she read at an eighth-grade level, none of us knew how.
We saw her reading the newspaper and an encyclopedia too.
Unlike other cows, this literary appreciator never said “moo”.
She, my best-friend, left me in eighth grade
An emptiness that now finally fades
Insecurity and trust issues came to stay
A constant struggle, every single day
But through the pain, I found a way
To express my feelings in a different way
She is the reason why I write
Poems that help me heal and find light
With each word I write, I release the pain
And slowly learn to trust again
My insecurities begin to fade
As I find solace in every word I’ve made
Though she’s gone, her mark remains
A source of inspiration that no more pains
For now, I write with all my heart
Grateful for the reason she gave to start
I recognized the hand immediately
Daddy never used cursive
He dropped out of school in eighth grade.
He always printed.
Maybe he forgot cursive?
His blocky dark blue letters were put painstakingly onto a page.
He wrote his memoirs more than once.
Having Alzheimer’s in the end, he forgot what he had already written.
The pages are a bit faded now, but the penmanship is Daddy’s.
He is braggadocio about the southside gang.
His pals and he.shooting rats in the city dump and chasing cats
their exploits captured for anyone who chooses to read about them.
My twin sister and I are probably the only two who ever will.
I doubt our children will be interested.
They never have been.
They haven’t even read my exploits.
Which I write daily.
I begin to read, recognizing most of the words.
As I have read this notebook many times since his death in 2014.
Mystery books have been devoured by preteens since the fifties.
I remember graduating from Nancy Drew to Trixie Belden.
Or maybe it was the other way around.
In eighth grade I discovered Agatha Christie and “Then there were none”.
I think a few boy readers read The Hardy Boys, but not many.
Boys wanted to be moving usually, not reading.
Today’s preteens are reading the Goosebumps books.
Each chapters ending in a cliffhanger, to urge you toward the next chapter.
I read a few chapters of them. They are not intriguing.
They did not entice boys, but the Captain Underpants book did.
I can’t pay attention,
They have deprived me of my perception.
My nose hurts, my eyes are sore and my frown is painful.
In a room of people who never knew him.
So sadly only I’ve seen him in eighth grade.
I was the M.C. at his graduation.
He ran up to the mic. He thanked for the award.
“Thank you”, he said.
Everyday in my mixed grade class,
He would sometimes make everyone laugh.
I wasn’t close to him, but knew enough
From seeing him and his crew everyday.
It’s Holocaust Remembrance Day
Yet some in Tennessee
Decided their curriculum,
As is, just could not be.
A book Art Spiegelman did write,
A graphic novel, too,
Described the way his parents lived,
As Jews, in World War II.
The Nazis are portrayed as cats;
The prisoners are mice
And it depicts how those in camps
All paid an awful price.
The school board said their eighth grade class
Should not be left to read
A book with nudity ( of mice!)
And swear words - no, indeed!
The novel‘s won a Pulitzer
But ignorance must rule,
Preventing history from being
Taught today in school.
FISHING is FUN
Me Jack thirteen years old
Smart intelligent bold.
Son of a fisherman
Also my Dad's fan.
Studying in eighth grade
Learnt fishing A to Z.
Trying fishing off and on
in the right fishing zone.
I catch with fishing rod
on wheel tied to long cord.
In boat lying fishing net
for use of Dad, that's meant.
A basket I have brought
to keep the fishes caught.
Lots of fishes and fry
for us: Mom to fry.
11/11/21
Photo chosen no.2
Rhyming me a poem 2
Contest by Eve Roper.
When my mother said I could wear heels
I thought HIGH heels; was disappointed it was almost a flat.
About an inch high.
It did not make a satisfying click.
I had hoped to be taller.
At five foot two, I coveted being higher up.
Only one eighth grade girl got to wear heels to our first dance.
The rest of us hated her; our jealousy floating around the room.
Until her feet got so sore she started to limp.
None of us cheered, but there was some gloating.
I gave my girlfriend a thumbs up.
I wore my first high heels at prom.
They were beautiful. I could barely contain my joy.
Now I was the one limping with callouses.
It was worth it, I told myself, because I felt beautiful.
But it wasn’t.
When I was a young mother in my early twenties,
I fell off both high heeled shoes when I was walking up concrete steps
On my way to work.
I had sprained both ankles.
I went from “feeling sassy and sexy” to miserable.
It was the last time I wore high heels.
This was in 1980.
Balanced and perfect!
Always standing up for me.
Teaching me manners. Oh, how I fussed!!
Having French braids every summer.
My shorts and tops had to match.
Teaching me to be proud to be and say, I was American
Reading poetry to me, when I was so verynyoung.
And teaching me words to songs.
You took me to top restaurants, not left at home.
You made sure I was in the best schools.
All the time we spent at the ballet dressmaker!
My eighth grade graduation at the Edgewater Beach Hotel.
Huge windows that faced Lake Michigan,so very tall.
Thank you for a suburban,,beautiful home.
You were a Mom, I was so proud of.
Loving to all, friendly, full of laughter!
At every event, you, most stunning woman in the crowd.
What a gift to me and to my daughter!
A source of pride and love, like no other!
We all love and miss you, Mom
~~~Your birthday, May 12th~~~
4/27/2021
Henry was hopping around on a foot or three
we all laughed at him not realizing
he was grabbing the girls attention
We were in eighth grade
all we cared about was our height
None of us was half as tall as the girls
I finally figured it out why Henry was a clown
he was gyrating like a top
flinging them here and there
we took his leftovers gladly
First grade, pelted with eggs
Second grade, broke both legs
Third grade, fell down the stairs
Fourth grade, clawed by a bear
Fifth grade, ran into a tree
Sixth grade, twisted a knee
Seventh grade, concussed my head
Eighth grade, fell out of bed
Ninth grade, had meningitis
Tenth grade, appendicitis
Eleventh grade, torn hamstring
Twelfth grade, acute bee sting...
So, to allay any fears from admission committees
I wrote the following college application ditty:
You may consider me somewhat injury-prone
But I have yet to break my first wishbone
And I give you my whole-hearted assurance
That I will use my parents' health insurance
SHE WANTED TO BE A NUN
After graduating from eighth grade,
She wanted to be part of the novitiate,
of the Holy Sisters of Nazareth.
Dad put his foot down loud and hard.
How she went from that, to nurse,to
teacher ,to comedian and bellydancer?
Are eternal questions to which she just
cannot find any answers!
Who knows what her zany future may
bring?
A palace, a Mercedes? Better yet.
perchance a loving, handsome king?
She has no unicorns of fairies dancing
in her house.
They are all on vacation now~so the
poet's only companion is a cheese-loving,
visiting field mouse!
November 15, 2019
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