Should I get lost, point me in the direction of a poem.

Author Archives: bbleen

Different Strokes

July 3rd, 2015 | Posted by bbleen in Uncategorized - (Comments Off on Different Strokes)

During my pre-teen years I spent

most of my summer days

at the pool.

My companions were Lynette

and Elaine, cousins and my

best friends.

I was the tomboy of the group,

spending all of my time

diving from the low boards,

spinning off the high,

staying in the water until the

whistle blew signifying a

mandatory ten minute time out.

At this time teenagers and adults

were the only ones allowed in the

pool. Lynette and Elaine would

get up and wiggle over to the

edge, dipping their toes into

the water, squealing accordingly

if they happened to get splashed.

Once the whistle blew I was back

in the water in a flash. They would

return to their beach towels, roll

their hair up in huge brush curlers

then lie in the sun and bake; turning

up the transistor radio, turning on

the boys.



Threading the Needle

August 11th, 2013 | Posted by bbleen in Family | Love | memory | Mom | Reflections | Sewing - (Comments Off on Threading the Needle)

Mom works the pedal of the Singer,

driving the needle through

crisp rose-colored taffeta.

As she sews we make small talk,

she smiling at her pesky Chatty Kathy

while I, with deepest intention,

thread myself

into the eye of her life.

Bluesy Lady

June 30th, 2013 | Posted by bbleen in Broken Heart | Joy | Love | Poetry readings | Reflections | Romance - (Comments Off on Bluesy Lady)

That’s the good thing about women, man. Because they sing their $!#% insides, man.

Women, to be in the music business, give up more than you will ever know. ~ Janis


Love her or hate her but you can’t deny her

because deep down you knew she was the

free spirit you secretly wanted to be.

Maybe your mama didn’t like her an’ your daddy

called her white trash, but on that stage

she had a presence that couldn’t be denied.

Maybe you got high an’ maybe you didn’t

but you grooved right there with her an’ you

became her an’ she you because Baby, Baby,

when those bluesy notes rose up from her throat

you wanted to jump up on that stage an’ bawl

your eyeballs out right there with her.


Love her or hate her but you can’t deny her.

When she sang the blues you felt her pain right

down to your pretty pink painted toenails.

Talk about love, how it catches you on fire

an’ turns you inside out, well Janis wrote the

book on love Baby!

Whether that love was Southern Comfort or

Bobby McGee her emotions were out there

for everyone to see with no apologies or

pretenses;  writhing and wailing on stage till

you’d take that piece of her heart, that ball

an’ chain just to relieve her pain ‘cause

she shone brighter than any stars in your sky.


Love her or hate her but you can’t deny her.

When she was up there on that stage she was

bigger than life itself.

She made love to that microphone an’ her

deep raspy voice reached clear down to your

soul an’ you didn’t care about her looks or

bad habits or sexual preferences.

It only mattered that she sing and keep on singin’

because when you got  a little sprinkle of that

sunshine you knew, it didn’t get any better

than this.

Love her or hate her but you can’t deny her,

no more than she could deny herself!

Poetry readings 2012 on youtube

April 7th, 2013 | Posted by bbleen in Poetry readings - (Comments Off on Poetry readings 2012 on youtube)

Click on the link below to check out some of my readings at festivals around Columbus Ohio.

Sentimental Journey

December 1st, 2012 | Posted by bbleen in Family | Fantasy | Joy | Love | Reflections - (Comments Off on Sentimental Journey)

Home again… arising early

I wander through my parents’ house

in search of memories.

In the pantry are the small clear glasses

hand-painted with tulips.

Instinctively I lift one to my lips,

almost tasting the Seven-up my grandfather

used to pour, remembering how the fizz

tickled my nose, grandpa’s laughter.

I imagine him standing there wearing

his felt hat and checkered flannel shirt,

puffing on his long stemmed pipe.

But too soon, the image fades, as set in the past

as the tulips are in their glass prisons.

From a dusty shelf in the den I retrieve

the old Currier and Ives, copyrighted 1952.

Through its pages I’d traveled America,

journeying by steamboat down the

Mississippi, flat boating the Ohio River,

riding the rail to California.  Always

enjoying my imaginative adventures,

always thirsting for more.

Wistfully I close the book, leaving its

people and places, now slightly faded,

to a future wanderer.

Photographs crowd the living room,

each one caressing a memory-my birth,

birthdays, school days, first date…

every event cascading for eternity in

wood and glass.

The floorboard creaks as my mother

enters the kitchen.  I hasten to greet her

blinking back the tears. Our eyes meet

and we smile, scattering the memories

amongst a million dreams, the air

shimmering with the essence of their

beauty as they surrender, each one

to its designated place.

Last Tree of Fall

September 10th, 2012 | Posted by bbleen in Uncategorized - (1 Comments)

At a fork in the road you catch my eye,

a straggler, magnificent in saffron.

All the trees around you fail to compare.

Already, they have been stripped bare,

their knotty limbs like skeleton fingers

grasping at the air.

I cannot help but stare, for you are

wondrous in your simplicity, the sinking

sun casts you in crimson rays and you

shimmer, aflame.

A late bloomer, you have come of age.

Once a mere tree, you are transformed,



March 17th, 2012 | Posted by bbleen in Woe is me day - (Comments Off on If)

If the world is my oyster

where is my pearl?
For each step forward
I take two steps back.
Something is always
raining on my parade.
There’s never a prize
in my Cracker Jacks.

Sometimes it doesn’t pay
to get out of bed.
Always finishing second
no matter the race.
My choo-choo train dies
halfway up the hill.
I’m always left wiping
the egg off my face.

I don’t know what’s real
from what’s Memorex.
When I’m all dressed up
they cancel the show.
Motel Six doesn’t leave
the light on for me.
Can you hear me now?
I didn’t think so.

Spell Check

October 30th, 2011 | Posted by bbleen in Growing old | Love | Reflections | Romance - (Comments Off on Spell Check)

My body is no longer the flawless manuscript

most men would take time out of their busy day to read;

no longer as exciting as the latest novel,

nor as interesting as the daily news.

There was a time when everything was capitalized

in all the right places,

the i’s were dotted and there were no uncrossed t’s.

Everything was worded right. 

Sentences had the appropriate emphasis and titles

fit me perfectly.

Now, I am more like the comics, and even some of them

aren’t funny, but rather tragic.

I was beginning to think I was of no more use  

than a rolled up newspaper used to swat flies.

But then you found me.

You read the manuscript, overlooking the flaws.

There is no need for spell-check, you accept me as I am.

My words come off your lips in the form of poetry,

and in your eyes I am the sonnet,

I had always hoped to be.

The Houses of Bees

October 30th, 2011 | Posted by bbleen in Bees | Creation | Love | Nature - (Comments Off on The Houses of Bees)

You anticipate the bees arrival with that same wonder lust in

your eyes that a child wears on Christmas Eve,

spending the whole month before their arrival planning,

thinking out the construction of their houses,

going back and forth on the decision of where you will put them

in the backyard.

I listen with fascination as you explain to me about the workers,

drones, and the queen, who from a larva you tell me,

feeds solely on royal jelly.

You have become a beekeeper extraordinaire,

intent on teaching me everything you know about bees.

And it is quite funny when you mimic the bee dance,

buzzing around in circles, then abruptly changing direction

and buzzing around again.

I watch you with the same wonder lust in my eyes as you have

when you talk about your bees, feeling a wealth of love for you,

this man tenderly caring for and loving one of God’s smallest creations.

I anticipate the bees’ arrival with dread, careful not to let on how

much they intimidate me.

After they arrive you take out a few and gently hold them up for me to see,

the thought of their sting sending chills over my body.

That night, as we do our own tango between the sheets,

I think of them out there buzzing, buzzing; the virgin queen

leaving the hive to mate with drones- the lazy bees who make no honey,

their sole purpose to mate then die.

The Question Begging an Answer

October 30th, 2011 | Posted by bbleen in Classic Cars | Romance - (Comments Off on The Question Begging an Answer)

The words seemed to pop out of their own accord,

a surprise even to me, the one who asked them.

So much so that I instantly regretted the question,

afraid this time for sure I had over-stepped the

boundary of what is yours is ours.

Yet, I saw a smile curve the corner of your lips.

Could it be that you were actually pleased I had

slipped so easily into your classic car passion,

that I was so taken with your 1948 Dodge that I

would ask you to leave it to me in your will?

It wasn’t that it was especially unique, just one

of many classic cars, but something about it

struck a chord in my heart. Made me think of

bobby socks, poodle skirts, pony tails and young

love, of kisses under myriad stars.

More than anything it had style, from its hood to

its white wall tires.  It was a dingy blue-gray

hunk-a-hunk of love that seemingly begged to

be touched.  And I wanted to touch it, curve to

curve, let the aromatic leather titillate my senses.

I could envision us riding through the country-

side, my hair tied up by a silk scarf which would

be blowing ever so glamorously in the wind.

You would have on your black cowboy hat,

looking so chic, so debonair.

On hot summer nights we could lay our bodies

against its cool surface to gaze at the night sky.

Or cruise leisurely through the night, just to listen

to its hissing carbs, the crackling spark plug wires,

the beating of it’s metal heart.