Rosary

 Poem © 2013 by Joyce Mason
All Rights Reserved

The men I’ve loved

are beads

interconnected

heart amulets

strung together,

beads I’ve prayed over

since my first love

in Catholic School.

He was my sign

of the cross

made with the cross

of the rosary itself:

start on my forehead

follow with

the chaste ritual kiss

on the cross

before the litany

of repetitious prayers.

First love, my passion

sacrificed so young

all the others

carried and continued

the loss.

No wonder to this day

I still sing the requiem Mass

spontaneously

the Latin words bursting from my lips

at the most inopportune moments

religious Tourette’s

a sanctimonious, musical tic.

Most of my men

were the Joyful,

Sorrowful and Glorious Mysteries

all rolled into one.

The Church taught me little

practical

about how to deal with any of them.

Thank God I disobeyed

about birth control

and didn’t drag

any children

into my

learn by burn

my hell

on Earth.

Now even with the cosmos

the only God big enough for me

I work so hard

on loving myself

as much as all those men

and every living thing

I still crave

the rhythm

of the rosary

the linkage

of all my loves

with a Bigger Love

the love

that now must start

and end

with me

on my own tongue

where I receive

Communion.

~.~.~

Photo Credit: © Pietro D'Antonio – fotolia. com

Present Peace

Santa surprises

merry mischief

candy cane kisses

love eyes glitter

Italian lights

dark fades

for the light of the world

hearts beating

one loud rhythm

one song

Silent Night

holy

a nanosecond

of illusive calm

in children’s eyes

in adults’ eyes

the child

stacked presents

steps of love

climb to touch heaven

bring peace down to earth

in the silence

finding

no need

to reach.

© 2010 by Joyce Mason

All Rights Reserved

joycemason.com

Photo Credit: Christmas Love © Les3photo8 | Dreamstime.com

Angry Young Men

old lovers

long friends

angry young men

now depressed

on fast forward

aging

corded to my heart

draw optimism

and healing

ask first

without ever saying

the words

or knowing they want it

treasure my life force

touch my chi like thin china cups

of immortality

so gentle

their souls are tissue paper

to wrap the present

their sadness, losses

touch me

their view of the finish line

of life

I’m grateful

to live

grateful to give

grateful to honor our history

to be there for them.

© 2010 by Joyce Mason

All Rights Reserved

joycemason.com

Photo Credit: Cup of Tea © Diavata Dreamstime.com

No Cry But a Quicksand

I threw myself down

buried my head

in a caseless pillow

A primordial ooze

melted down my cheek

in death    procession    pace

my face gorged in mascara molasses

crawling too slowly

down my arm

no cry but a quicksand

of gooshing

melodramatics

The Good Angel shouldered a smirk betting the devil
which drop would win.

© 2010 by Joyce Mason

All Rights Reserved

joycemason.com

Author's Note: No Cry but a Quicksand  is part of a three-poem trilogy I call The Sanity Poems, which also include Today I Saran Wrapped My Sanity and The Glass Blower and the Goat.

Happy Birthday

Born on the brink of fall
of mother in spring of life
Virgo on the cusp of Libra
Taurus Rising
seven-pounds-some
of cosmic energies.

Writhing in the will to live
cast-off and bastardly
big-eyed baby
and waiting.

Doctor Diameter
finished his errand
ran off
left only his name
on a forgible
formality.

Certified Live Birth

means I AM!

Accident

surely a New Year’s Eve spree

Origin Unknown.

Good sisters mothered me

just till my mother

was properly dossiered

prepped and suspensed.

Loved me I loved her

scars and all

lantern eyes found

what they searched for

in the dark.

There in a pile of red tape

a mother was born

a daughter legitimized.

No one noticed the outcome

of the abortion controversy

when she cried:

WE GOT OUR BABY!!!!!!!

© 2010 by Joyce Mason
All Rights Reserved
joycemason.com

Photo Credit: Beautiful Children in Autumn Leaves © Marina Maslennikova
Dreamstime.com
 
Author's Note: Happy Birthday is from my collection due out this autumn, Thick Water: Poems on Bonds of the Heart.

Arousal

Marriage aroused me

long before you leapt

into my life

knocked me down

with over-enthusiasm

panting

breathless
from all that commotion.

The intimacy:

two-across-the-table

watching two touch

tongues

fingers

thighs

At dinner

I watched us

like I’ve watched

so many couples before

high on connection

And even before the lobster melted
on my palate
so did I
in your eyes.

Later, when your lips
were cinnamon sugar,
I laced my legs through you
in order to keep my feet on.


© 2010 by Joyce Mason
All Rights Reserved
joycemason.com

~~~

Photo credit: Intimate couple close-up © Alexandr Stepanov |Dreamstime.com

Wordmonger

You called me a wordmonger

with great affection,
an endearment.

I knew when you said
I was your favorite writer
you meant it,
not just because you were
my husband.



But it’s ironic
like calling
a fat person Slim
or a short person Stretch.

Wordmongers toss words around
willy-nilly.
Mine are so deliberate
stitched and hand dyed
Turkish rugs perfect on both sides
suitable for kneeling in prayer.

The term conjures
fishmonger.
I imagine myself:
an open market
selling vowels, consonants
and assorted punctuation
weighing whole sentences
at a dollar a pound.

The scent of fish
transports me:
Jesus multiplying
loaves and fishes.

I just want to feed the world.

Wordmonger.

~~~

Photo Credit: Wine jug and food © Photowitch | Dreamstime.com

© 2010 by Joyce Mason

All Rights Reserved

joycemason.com

Taking Back the Poems

You held me at gunpoint:
Emotional bullets
invisible fingers cocked at my temple
harmless on the surface
lethal to my spirit

You fired.

The poems were decimated.

Ink ran every where.

They died instantly.

“You dump all your anger into your poetry,”
you said
(or something like that.
It sounded like criticism.)

I was terrified to cross you
while you held a gun to my head;
so, I dropped them.

The thud echoed in the chambers of my heart,
a duet with the empty pistol.

Sixteen years later,
our marriage long dead and gone,
my life rounding the finish line
to Wholeness:

I am taking back the poems!

I found your ransom note
crumpled in my notebook.

“Your poems or your life,” it said
(as if there were a difference).


~~~

Photo Credit: Closeup of a fountain pen © Hpphoto Dreamstime.com




© 2010 by Joyce Mason
All Rights Reserved
joycemason.com

"Waiting Is Fullness"

A quote from Robert Heinlein's Stranger in a Strange Land. 

Stitched Verse will launch with its first official post on Friday, August 13, at 8:28 pm PDT.