Long Accustomed Poems
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I swam inside the Mediterranean Sea.
In what would be my Glory Days, off Valencia’s coast,
I dipped my foot in freezing water;
withdrew it; then dipped it in again.
(I’d always had my own will even then,
just didn’t realize how strong it was).
Disappointingly, my one day to enjoy the sea was cold.
I still cannot recall if others from my group
ventured out there with me and stayed for long
although I remember a few of them were shivering
riding on the bus to go back home.
Oh, it was so very long ago!
Nor can I recollect the suit I wore
(I do know I was plump then;
"Gordita” the men called out to me).
The season - was it early spring or still the winter?
And what specific color claimed the sea that day
along my beloved Iberia’s splendid shore?
Of that afternoon, I remember only this:
Aimlessly I let my body float first in one direction,
then another; keeping my eyes always on land,
my body numb, accustomed to the freeze.
No one was around me; I drifted, sometimes nearly straying. . .
just I - all alone -
letting my whole self go. . . for maybe 40 minutes.
It was something I felt that I just had to do
so that years later, standing here today
(“Gordita” frozen deep inside me)
I can say that I swam in that mighty, ancient sea.
There was a time
I saw my mother's hands and
noticed quite a difference
between hers and mine
hers were fine
soft and smooth
with lovely nails, refined
While mine-
so rough and dried
no lotion could soothe or hide
the blisters and the callouses
while hers were fit for palaces
mine were like a scullery maid's
accustomed to hard work
I often thought looking at her
that we must have been made
of different stuff
for even though
she was a simple woman
no frills or fluff
she seemed somehow
to be made of finer clay
Like porcelain-
delicately enchanting
but prone to chips and cracks
while I, more like a
sturdy stoneware
strength and durability
making up
for what I lacked
I never knew just how true
this was until she died
never realized just how fragile
she really was, because
she was the vessel
that originally
carried me
Written January 8, 2013
The morning blues in a lily on the pond
Wake on the wrong side of the road
Penniless pockets play the vagabond game
Ride the tiger recently tamed
On a long road to nowhere, horizon's stain
All's my name sitting next to me
Lie down with graceful angels deep in the snow
Or on wet grass recently mowed
I've grown accustomed to the scent of your mane
Spelled chug-chuga-chug is my name
Oh why do flowers never bloom in the snow?
They never have a chance to grow
No, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore
The oaks and pines getting clearer
Much to a land unafraid to spread its wings
Listen to Woody Guthrie sing
Bacon sizzles in the rain and sunshine reigns
We've reached the line of no return
Of the big rock candy mountain we will sing
For the next week my phone won't ring
I lurch and crawl from
Bar to Bar
As most of all regulars and barkeep alike
Unfortunately can vouch and attest for
As i am well known or shall I say infamous
Far and wide in these establishment
Some have gone so far as to
Take turns or placing a watch out
So they have time to hide or run away
Rather than having been forced to listen to me
Regale stories and forms of poetry
With a booming voice best suited
For a outdoor amphitheater performance
Or town crier
Draped accordingly in gown and hat
Cane walking stick merely used as a prop
Performing everywhere he goes
Unfortunately most of time sadly uninvited
And if given the choice most publicans
Would Bar
Because he chases more customers away
Than end up wishing or wanting to stay
And worst of all he doesn't even
Buy a drink himself
He expects the other customers to
And when or if they eventually do
He then also says
Well go on then
May as well make mine a
Double
And don't try and fob me off
With the cheap stuff I am accustomed
To the finer things in life
And have expensive taste
I will have you know
And as since you are footing the bill and paying
I'll also have 1 to take away as well
It must be 8 years plus now
Without a lover
The touch of another
And I am 44 years of age
Do you think that is strange?
Because I know others do
I know people question
And given the circumstances so would I
What is wrong with him
Is he Arthur or is he Mather
But the simple truth is
I have become so good
At being on my own
My lust has gone
For putting upon
My happiness unto another
If I have made it thus far
And I set the bar above my station
Then what the hell
Is the point of letting go
Of what I am accustomed
What I have learned to miss
Yes I do miss
But I can live with
An empty bed
And the loneliness in my head
And my heart of heart's
That other's seem to can't
I am not blunt or dead inside
And the though of arriving home alone
Sows ever increasing regret
But I still haven't met
The 1 to break the cycle
And I don't think I ever will
And there is no pill
No epiphany
No solution
No resolution
But thankfully
I can rely on the fact
It doesn't consume my time
My shoulders are broad
And I can ill afford
To fall victim of love
Although everyone wants me 2
And so do i
But if it has not happened yet
Then so be it
It's not the end of the world
It is what it is
Crushed by the fickle hand of fate:
collapsing dreams crumble away.
And abandoned, to fear and hate,
an emptiness; consumes my day.
Walking blind, convinced I can see:
cascading doubts, fracture my heart.
And challenging what defines me,
anxieties; rip me apart.
All alone and bullied by fears,
lingering hopes, swiftly depart.
And I drown in a pool of tears,
as feelings of loneliness start.
Forsaking promises of youth,
it's like the world is in my face.
And as deceit supplants the truth,
I question why my birth took place.
I've grown accustomed to the pain
of being hurt by foe and friend.
And on the fringes of disdain,
I'm thankful that life has an end.
When I first saw the shadow on my wall,
I turned, expecting someone big and tall—
my dad or grandpa—to be standing there.
I was alone. Then I could only stare;
the shadow had begun to dart around.
It vanished suddenly. I heard a sound,
a high-pitched scream. I didn’t know it came
from me till my big sister called my name
and said, “It was a dream. Go back to sleep.”
When it returned I felt sure I could keep
its visits to myself. It moved from floor
to wall to what-not shelves to closet door.
It showed itself to no one else. I grew
accustomed to its presence, and I knew
it posed no threat to me--but then things changed.
The shadow morphed into a thing deranged
that uttered wicked words just for my ears
and injured me with unseen hands. My fears
soon forced me to reveal my secrets to
my mom and dad. I cried, “What can you do?
Please make this awful thing leave me alone!”
Just minutes later, Dad was on the phone.
When they came to my room, their eyes were red.
The words they spoke ran circles in my head.
They’d found some “caring friends” who soon would make
this wicked shadow that had made me quake
with fear be GONE. Soon I was in a place
where gentle men in white discussed my “case.”
My parents said that in no time at all,
I’d have no thoughts of shadows on the wall
that speak foul words and have strong, grasping hands.
They promised that they’d soon be making plans
to take me home—to get on with our lives.
I won’t tell them the shadow now wields knives.
September 19, 2018, entered in Tania Kitchin's Scary or Spooky
Poem Contest
(The supernova observed from
Earth in 1572 was a major event
in human thought, because if
stars could explode, then they
couldn't be eternal lamps,
hung out by God.)
The cold stars glimmered
where they hung
in their accustomed places
on the underside of heaven.
The imperceptible gavotte
proceeded up aloft:
those little silver lamps,
dipping or climbing,
went about their business
oblivious of human time.
A scholar of the firmament,
incurious, unthrilled,
at ease with the inevitable,
the trueness of meridians,
stared up, unflinching.
The milky smudge of Cassiopeia
swam into his lens's narrow field,
and our student of the permanent now saw
that which he knew he could not see.
It caused no greater shock
than a snarl of irritation.
We always miss the moment.
The quiet glory of that tiny cloud
of far-off starstuff
marked the noiseless passing
of some unknowable sun.
And though the watcher did not know,
he was party, too,
to a monumental dying.
I’ve grown accustomed to dwelling on the bad
Thriving from the macabre and the sad
But lately I’ve felt this sense of lightness
I feel so free, void of the toxicity, brimming with brightness
I find it hard to understand what I’m undergoing
I don’t know what’s real or what’s true but, this future is glowing
All I know is that I don’t feel like I’m sinking
The good moments are no longer shadowed by overthinking
Because my life is worth something and I know that I count
I know that all my value and worth have an infinite amount
I may not always have much faith in myself and I question too much
But I see myself in other’s so I know there are lives I can touch
And as long I can help at least one soul
I promise I can piece myself together and I too can become whole
Let Him Go
You,
girl who feels so lost,
like a boat adrift
on a sea where the heart
has forgotten how to sail.
They hurt you—I know—
and there are days when the pain
seems larger than the world.
But listen:
life does not end
with a goodbye poorly said.
Time, in its silence,
carries away what is heavy today.
And what burns now
will one day be only a memory.
Let him go.
Yes… let him go.
One should not suffer so for those who did not stay,
nor surrender the soul
to one who did not know how to care.
Let him walk out of your life
like a shadow at dawn,
and let the wounds close
without asking permission from the longing.
Erase him from your story—
not as forgetfulness,
but as liberation.
Was it love? Perhaps.
But it was pain as well.
And a love that wounds
deserves no home within the chest.
Let other smiles find you,
let new hands bring you flowers,
let a sincere gaze
make you believe once more.
There is a whole world of loves
waiting to discover you.
And you,
who still cry in silence,
do not grow accustomed to sadness.
The one who truly loves you
will treat you like royalty—
without doubts, without departures,
without hidden wounds.
Forget the one who broke you.
The heart knows how to rebuild itself
when given the space to breathe.
And when he returns—
because sometimes they return—
with regret in his eyes
and late words in his mouth…
remember:
the one who lost you
did not know how to see your worth.
So smile,
spread your wings,
and send him away
as the wind carries off
what no longer belongs to the sky.
Gete — It was a mistake to fall for him