It may shock any readers of this blog or even people who know me (of think they do) that I write poetry, but I do, so get over it! I'm not saying I write great poetry, but there are times the mood hits me for whatever reason and I feel compelled to get some thoughts down via poetry. Sometimes I want to capture a moment, sometimes it's a feeling, and sometimes I just feel the need to let out my smart-ass side in a way it wouldn't be expected. I've attempted a couple times to submit poems for publication, but I haven't yet had any success with that, so I'm saying "Shtick This!" to the standard way of publishing poetry and simply offering up some of my pieces for you to read right here. I hope you like them, but if you don't, oh well. More to follow, though, if I get any positive response about these.
Poncho-clad child
Poncho-clad child of the seventies
proudly enveloped in the hand-knitted
product of a grandmother’s love.
Pink and white and fringed,
patterned in jagged stripes,
punctuated with buttons of tightly
packed thread. Worn as a child and
pre-teen before being discarded for
purchased jackets in the newer styles.
Packed away for thirty years and then
plucked from storage by another girl -- the
pretty daughter of that 70’s child -- who
puts on that forgotten poncho,
prized possession once again.
Preening before her mother’s mirror, she
pirouettes to watch its flare, and then
pauses to admire her reflection --
Poncho-clad child of the present.
By: Tammy Marshall
Home is . . .
A good book,
A deep laugh,
My family anywhere,
A dear friend,
A loving dog,
My reading chair,
A rainy day,
A sunny beach,
My inherited
chinaware,
A long meal,
A kiss good-bye,
My memories we share.
By: Tammy Marshall
One More Glimpse
My daughter walked down the
street
to play at her friend’s house
today.
I watched from the window as
she
tromped through the slush on
the road,
sliding her feet as if she
were
skating over the icier
sections
where the plow hadn’t scraped
low enough.
She clutched her coat around
her,
preferring that to actually
zipping it up.
The breeze brushed her hair
back
from her face and out of her
eyes,
allowing her to avoid the
many puddles
of melted December snow.
She walked away, and I stood
alone,
following her every movement
until
she turned the corner and
disappeared
behind a house, but I waited,
knowing
she would reappear,
momentarily,
in the space between that
house and
the next -- one more glimpse
of her
before she slipped out of
sight.
All too soon, I will stand
alone at
this same window hoping and
waiting for one more glimpse
of her
and wishing I could return to
this wintry day of her youth.
By: Tammy Marshall
Clicks
The first call awoke my
roommate.
She plunked the phone on my
bed.
“It’s for you. Him.”
Instantly awake at three a.m.,
my voice sang out a “Hello” to you.
You slurred one in return,
then mumbled
“I Miss You” and
“I Want You to Come Over.”
Not “I Love You” or “I Want You
Back.”
Come over? To do what?
You?
Disbelief. Hurt.
Silence.
A drunken apology for calling
and a click.
No more sleep for me that
night.
Tears, my only company.
The next call came a few weeks
later,
once again in the wee hours of
the night.
This time, my roommate ignored
it
until I roused enough to
answer.
Same routine – until the
end.
This time there was no real
click.
A fake hang up? Why?
To listen to me cry?
To hear me beg for your
return?
Then, finally, the real click,
the click that stabbed my
heart.
The click that showed there
was no going back,
even if I wasn’t yet ready to
accept that.
Another call a month later
–
almost the same as the others,
but with less crying on my
part and
more inebriated sexual
pleading on yours.
One more attempt to lure you
back.
One more refusal from
you.
One final, pitiful, sob from
me.
Again, you pretended to hang
up.
I waited in silence; your
confusion grew.
Finally, in a rather
sober-sounding voice,
you said, “Good-bye,” Click.
Dry-eyed, I lay awake,
listening –
the winter wind wailed for me.
The last call came a few
months later,
a little past sun-up on a
Saturday morn.
Perhaps you’d struck out all
night, so
in desperation, you called me,
your cast-off.
I asked, “Are you ready to try
again?
Can we get back together
now?”
“No,” you said. “I’m so happy
without you.”
I sighed and asked, “If I made
your life so miserable,
why do you keep calling me?”
Uncertain silence. Prolonged silence.
Another fake hang-up. Muffled bated breathing.
No need for either of us to
wait anymore.
Click. That time, it was me.
By: Tammy Marshall
In the Absence of . . .
In the absence of insults, I gain confidence.
In the absence of ridicule, I try more than once.
In the absence of malice, I smile again and laugh
aloud.
In the absence of discord, I sink into peace.
In the absence of selfishness, I search for love.
In the absence of bitterness, I taste life’s
sweetness.
In the absence of jealousy, I stretch my wings.
In the absence of laziness, I seek out new
challenges.
In the absence of slovenliness, I organize my world.
In the absence of pettiness, I see the big
picture.
In the absence of deceit, I learn the truth.
In the absence of his absence, I find great
company.
Absence
makes the heart grow and grow.
By: Tammy Marshall
#3
The birthstone
sapphire ring from my youth
. . . no longer fits.
The gold
monogrammed 1986 class ring
. . . lies neglected in a drawer
somewhere.
The pearl ring
gifted to me at graduation
. . . reminds me of a broken
promise.
The diamond
engagement ring I once prized
.
. . is of no value to me now.
The plain wedding
ring is gone from my finger
. . . though its indentation yet
remains.
(That, like the
regret encircling my heart, will fade.)
My finger enjoys
its freedom after all these years –
flaunts its
nakedness, soaks up the sun, and sometimes,
to be daring,
throws on something large and gaudy—
but now, and
forever after, it will remain independent.
Others may call it
my ring finger, but to me
it’ll be known as
“finger number three.”
Live free, Number Three!
By: Tammy Marshall
If I
could choose a slogan for my life,
“It’s my
time,” is what it would be.
Time for
a change and time for me,
No time
like the present to start anew.
I’m done
doing time – now, I’m free.
Called
“Time!” cuz I’m my own referee.
Threw
him out of the game – too many fouls.
The team
works better as us three;
We’re
winning now as all can see.
I’ll
have me a whale of good time,
From
here on out I’m saying “Whee!”
And
laughing until I hafta pee.
No more
“Once Upon a Time” bullshit – enough!
It’s my
time! Mine! All mine! Hee hee hee hee . . . .
By: Tammy Marshall
If a Friend . . .
If a friend cheers you when you’re blue, then
laughter is the perfect pal.
If a friend lends an ear to your woes and a
shoulder for your tears, then a Teddy bear is the pleasantest playmate.
If a friend lifts you up and helps you soar to new
heights, then a colorful kite on a windy day is the coolest companion.
If a friend shares words of wisdom and advice when
you most need it, then a well-chosen book is the smartest sidekick.
If a friend bolsters you in whatever you do no
matter the wisdom or folly, then a form-fitting bra is the surest supporter.
If a friend provides great company without saying
a word, then the sound of waves gently lapping the shoreline is the sweetest
soul mate.
If a friend gives unconditional love and
attention, then a dog is the best buddy.
And if a friend does all of the above and then
some, then she must be you, my dearest, bestest, truest, greatest, belovedest,
and foreverest friend . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Silvia.
By: Tammy Marshall
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