Betty Bleen ~ poet - Archive

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

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!

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.

Spell Check

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

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.

Collectible Things

October 30th, 2011 | Posted by bbleen in Growing old | Reflections | Sadness - (Comments Off)

The Hilltop Home for Men collects old men,

like my freckle face grandson collects marbles

in a burlap sack, butterflies in a jar.

There they congregate in tiny rooms waiting

as patiently as hamsters for their turn to

come around at the wheel.

Their days are spent gazing longingly out of

picture windows, staring at a world whizzing by,

one that continues to revolve without them.

On a sunny day you might find them settling

old bones at weathered picnic tables where

they serve up past lovers or stories of war,

reiterating to each other how it was back then.

Rehashing all the could haves and should haves

and that devil of all clichés, If only I could live

my life over again…

Night begins the death watch and sleep eludes

them as they smoke the day’s last cigarette,

groan and strain for compatibility with sunken beds.

Hours are spent staring at walls, bare but for a big

numbered clock, which beats to the tune of their

failing hearts, their rattling worn and rusty pipes,

as partners in time they wait for that final tick-tock.

Dismal Solution

In the pet store

my granddaughter is squealing,

reaching her tiny hands,

delicately touching soft fur.

Pairs of blue eyes stare

crystalline clear,

brimming with intelligence,

weighing her every move.

My granddaughter is ooh-ing

and aah-ing, unaware…

of Grandma’s eyes

brimming with tears.

As memories awake

of burlap bags

of flickering motion,

gurgling sounds beneath

piles of wet stones.

Of my sisters and I wading in

the creek in front of our house,

stumbling onto their watery graves.

My grandfather’s solution

to every new litter of kittens.

In the Photo

In the photo my mother is beautiful.

Though it is in black and white,

I picture her cheeks to be rosy as pink Chablis.

Her hair cascades thick and wavy

to meet the soft slant of her shoulders,

covered demurely in a dark dress

I imagine, a shade of red.

She is smiling coyly for the camera,

as if she is the keeper of some secret,

about to spring a surprise.

The couch she sits on is smattered with

clusters of tiny white blossoms.

Behind her, the wallpaper is enmeshed

in huge leaves pointing skyward;

between each two leaves is a single flower.

The floor’s linoleum is a characteristic nineteen fifties pattern

of multicolored and sized diagonal stripes.

In the photo my mother is a constant,

in surroundings I can only describe as busy,

and so she has been for most of her life.

The photo was taken after mine and my older sister’s birth,

before those of our siblings.

It was long before school days, dating, marriages,

children, divorces, grandchildren,

and all forms of crises imagined or real

which have transformed her once vibrant brown hair to gray,

strand by strand.

Long before wrinkles claimed her face,

Arthritis wreaked havoc on her joints,

Osteoporosis settled in her bones.

In the photo my mother is beautiful.

She is poor but happy,

innocent and trusting,

hinging on a promise,

glimmering with love.