That Word

I do not want to hear it spoken,
that familiar, yet unfamiliar word.

She's not there anymore,
but then again, she never was.

I used to believe,she was real.
But now I realize I was living off hope.

I woke up one day,
and decided I was done,
I couldn't say it.

The sensation of comfort one should feel,
has been replaced with a permanent emptiness.

So please don't ask me to say it,
or use it, because I have no mother.

Old Wooden Fences

Old Wooden Fences

One of my favorite things to photograph, are old, wooden fences. I feel lucky to find those that are barely standing with several missing posts. I like their fragility and strength, their ability to stand alone and proud, through empty fields of wheat or uncut grasses, and their weathered wisdom of watching decades pass. Their foundation is strong, their wood sturdy and solid. It is evident that no one has paid them any care, and yet they don’t ask for any. They still function as a divider, but without the harsh, prison like, feeling of ten foot high metal fences, or fort-like wooden spears pointing to the sky. I sometimes wonder if these fences, their worn posts, and rusted nails, were ever painted over in white or dark brown. Did the land-owner build them himself or did a local carpenter come and construct it. Most of all, I am grateful that they still stand, that no one has yet knocked them down to replace them with more offensive and isolating walls. I hope one day, to buy a house, with an old wooden fence, which I’ll let stand just as it is.

On Becoming A Lawyer...

I am in my first year of law school. In fact, exams are this next week. This poem will be entirely boring to those who aren't in law school...for which I apologize in advance.

What if we are all just lost,
misguided, and searching for something,
anything to fill up time.

We are all here, eyes wide,
sitting on the edge of our seats
trying to remember the
standards of care,
types of possession,
and all the other law bull that
we are now required to know
but don't give a shit about.

Our only female teacher
has lost her mind
and trys only to please everyone
with stupid jokes
until her paranoia takes over
and she starts repeating herself
and telling us to pay her more attention.

From time to time,
I look down this long dark tunnel
of what is my life now...
to wonder if I made the right decision
or if I'll become another unnecessary shark
in all too shallow waters. Or perhaps I'll
start telling bad jokes
about contracts and torts.
Oh wait, I already do that.

Inadequate

"I'm here to see Dr. Lewis."
The woman behind the counter
scribbles something, presumably my name,
and directs me to the chairs
in the waiting room.

I can hear the woman across the room,
breathing. Her heavy sighs signalling
some great unknown burden.
In an attempt to avert my eyes,
I reach for a magazine.

Turning the glossy pages
of models in cute sweaters, shoes,
and short skirts,
my hands begin to sweat like a school girl
on the first day of ninth grade.

I feel the heat rising
from chest to cheeks,
as if I have done something wrong,
terribly wrong. But I'm just sitting here,
waiting to be called.

My eyes remain fixed
on these images, fixed on
the delusion that one day
I'll look in the mirror
and see someone different.

Sometimes I forget
just how old I am,
remembering the days
I used to brag
about how big I'd be.

I look down to my hands,
realizing now
that I have been tearing at a hole
in the fabric on my chair.
It looks much worse now.


~Ella
written on 11-16-05

When Books Find Us

It's funny how some poems instantly speak to you-their timing running perfectly parallel to whatever it is that makes their content relevant-as if the author had you in mind. Often it seems that we don't find books or poems or films, but they find us. They magically sense those in need of their medicine. Managing to place their pages underneath our noses, briming with excitement, until our eyes get caught in their soothing words and phrases, and at that moment they know, they have found us.

What Life Brings

No one to wipe your nose
when it's running down your lip.
That salty taste of infection
is now your reminder, that she's not there.

You're all grown up now-
and you worry about taking care of her,
now that she can't take care of you.

Wishing, just wishing you could go back.
Back to the days when she brought you soup,
warm and steaming, with crackers and juice.

The hands that tucked you in and wiped your tears
are three thousand miles away
and need some help, getting through the week.

Please let me return, for a moment
to that warm pillow and bowl of soup
before the roles reverse and I can no longer
be the little girl.

Just Fall In

Sometimes you need to fall-
break a piece of yourself,
just to regain feeling throughout the other limbs.

Sometimes you need to collapse-
come face to face with the pitiless earth,
find yourself struggle to stand
and embrace the challenge to breathe.

Because that feeling, of oxygen pumping
back into your muscles,
the rush of blood to the head,
and the bruises left on your shins
are all a reminder
that you can survive it all.

Stay Here

Stay here with me,
my ear to your chest,
and the weight of the day
lifting.

I want to remember
your features, soft in the light,
and your breath warm
with a faint smell of sugar.

I cannot let go,
until the morning mist rises
and the sun beams
gently dance on your cheek.

In that moment I'll know,
your love is as real as the pain
I no longer remember
feeling just hours ago.

In Those Hours

In those hours,
just after midnight
when I feel the strain of the new day
quickening my breath
I think of you
and all I've missed
in the years between.

I'll never get back
that time
filled with anger
when I said so many things
without you in mind.

And the only thing
that keeps me from shivering
is to know
that you understood,
years before I could begin,
and your strength
has carried me through.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I dedicate this poem to my parents, and the years between refer to those years after the divorce, when we were all "separated" in many ways from one another, and before we (my parents and I) reconciled with eachother after years of bitterness. I think that they, as much as I, wish to get those years back.

Her Tired Hands Are Beautiful

Her tired hands are beautiful,
their sharp cracks and wrinkles
smoothed under the lotion
she applies before bed.

I'm too old now,
to nestle in the warm spot
between her shoulder and chin,
and fall asleep.

With tear drenched cheeks,
I'd look to her, and know
her smile would chase away
all my fears.

For all those years she raised me,
I was too busy to come home
raise my sleeves,
and dirty my hands.

And now all I taste
is the sour tears of guilt
running down my throat
making me sick with regret.

After years of running
as far as my feet could take me
I only wish
to click my heels and return home.

~Oct. 30, 2005

I wrote this thinking of my mother, who is the strongest woman I know.