Pink Lattes and A Slice of Poundcake

Behind the mask she sheds the tears and feels the racing of her heart because of his explosions yet again bellowing from deep within because of the dollar bill that he claims he has not enough when he makes more than they did together So she wears the mask and silently bears the blows that never show and holds on until 2022 hoping to be alive to live anew and one day he loves her and says she is great and the next he is yelling because of the dinner she made and goes on about a shirt he never wants to wear anything, everything, always to jab and destroy her soul and no one can hear the cries that come from deep within because she wears the mask

tears sinking to the floor in a heap felt momentary despair like that of Sylvia empty and sobbing missing and wanting wail until the torrent ended mourning loss like a death shoulders heaving and body swaying and drops falling down cheeks weep no more for what once decided never meant to last seasons for everything sob a last time over missed chats and presence cry away a lost friend

Twice  asked Three times implored wondered what you were doing there one day, one month, one year, a decade vacant space, chasm like an ocean expanse spread wide the gulf stream conscious unconscious four times turned to the back facing me silence enveloping no answer to the plea why leave why stay why back why today never knew, never got an answer when you walked out except that child carried in me gone a year and eighteen months not a hug or a glance then once and another child carried in me and empty the space again when pondered and queired told was crazy told needed help while more and more it was you you you  you you tore the heart and threw it away and stomped on the soul so why now why back for you to say you were there no touch just a mound facing me back like a wall no bricks coming down hard to sleep wanting answered silence the night four times queried seven times asked silence met the wind and the expanse of the sea grows even

Adorned in shiny brilliance cut, clarity,carat given heart's desire Save one most--cherished --craving of soul Love's fine jewel --The Heart

Poet-to-Poet Talk With Lori Widmer Lori, welcome, thank you for chatting with me today. Thanks for inviting me. J Let me begin by saying we are both explorers of the MOOC platform, having virtually met in Modern and Contemporary Poetry taught byProfessor Al Filries of the University of Pennsylvania.   Tell us what drew you to this ModPo13 class? I’ve had an interest in poetry since I was young. In fact, my first “work” was a poem. It was about a salamander. Hey, it was sixth grade—that’s as creative as I could get! But I loved the idea of studying poetry formally. When this course appeared on Coursera , I couldn’t avoid it. In fact, this is my second time through the course. A salamander! My daughter is a writer in 6 th grade, that sounds like something she would write about.  Tell us a little more about yourself…are you a professional writer? Poet? What do you do? I’m a freelance writer and editor, and my concentration is business writing. I have over 15 years

The world is a small and beautiful place when the wonders of technology allows two women, both mothers and both writers, to connect in a MOOC called ModPo13 (coursera.org) and discover a certain beauty in the words they share.  The following is a guest poet from said encounter. Mother’s Change by Lori Widmer Maybe it was heat altered her, or maybe it was life led through others, those children Husband to whom she’d given too much. It was Change in her, one revealed loss of her Self heightened by empty spent feeling flashes sweating reminding her Age was winning, her curves now took different Paths. She fluffed clean sheets over tired bed, beating back heat inside her, wondering if she’d ever feel cool again, if young friend of her daughter, one who flirted shamelessly with her, found her sexy or if he thought her ridiculous for flirting back for wanting to be wanted she having watched her husband relishing his temper in private, channeling en

They despise  you when you refuse to be their token They loathe you when you speak the truth They hate you when you walk out

donning the tuxedo to wait in anticipation for her to meet you hand out hand in taking one out to bring in opening the heart and keeping the space that is made for her to wear the family name

Perhaps I have always been alone trying to make sense of a world where I was never meant to be navigating and triangulating through space and time wanting to be seen and heard in a maze not my own voices surrounding me but deafening the silence of the one desperately trying to be heard still sitting there alone

The world seemed to stand still in the rush of morning activity. Bookbags were hurriedly stuffed in the car, breakfast barely consumed, jackets hastily donned against the unexpected cold.  The promise of the day was unfolding as the engine made its roar to life and the blast of the car exhaust let out a poof of steam against the wind of this new day. Turning the corner, hoping to catch the light, coffee sipping and backseat chatting about the hope of seeing friends and discovering new things under the watchful eye of the teacher in the front.  The music softly played, NPR an afterthought, hands turning over wheel, lights on against the dawning mist, a new day of activity forming ahead. Pulled to the brick edifice of learning, little legs jumping out the door pushed open, grabbing the backback slung over one shoulder, "bye mom," in jubilant excitement, dashing off to 4th grade, waiting and meeting friends to go stand on line until the time to go inside, feeling confident

wounded my heart killing my spirit but I refuse to give up hunting me down strangling my soul because you can not handle my light doesn't seem fair not stopping fighting back with every keystroke you will repay

You, mysterious you, visit my writing and enter the space of my mind dwelling in my heart, peaking into my soul You read the words that tumble from my spirit hands on keys, pen on paper and you come back for more Some one time, some four hundred times you follow in the shadow, your identity secret come out, come out, come out you mysterious one Open wide the hidden spaces and lend me the moment, the pleasure of knowing you you know me, you read me Come and like the words I utter, follow me to the places I journey, speak to me speak back to me,. tell me your name

feeling a bit like totally unmoored as if punched in the gut unexpected unwelcomed unwanted news news can not use what news is that not again ENOUGH

I've known a hunger so gripping in its vise, so uncaring in its choice The kind that makes your head pound with the signals your brain can no longer comprehend When a pack of Ramen Noodles was the meal of the day and you prayed for enough money for Kraft Mac-n-cheese The kind that makes you sip the last spoonful of Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup so your kids will not go to bed starving Yes, I've know that dread and fear that your stomach was beyond the "oh, I missed lunch" pang and had entered into the truly 40-days-and-40-nights twist and thud of emptiness that made you realize you had entered the world of STARVATION It has written itself on the doors of a long ago memory Those days when a box of Rice-a-Roni was split between four people and the treat was Minute Maid for breakfast if it could last the entire week. Moments when the only concern was food and thinking what you would not do to get it, even as your skinny frame was dropping below 100. I've

I remember not your face except to look in the mirror "you look just like her." But in my mind's eye, no image conjures I remember not your voice except to hear my sisters "you sound just like her." But in my heart's ear, no sound comes I remember not your hands except to look at my own "you write just like her." But in my soul's touch, no feeling emerges I remember you even as I hardly knew you Your essence fills my space touches my face sings in the shadow place Poet's note: Birthday tribute to my late mother she died when I was only four Being a motherless child has defined every moment of my existence for decades Her born day is May 16

If the loves that last are the first loves then does that mean there is no more love? What if the first love is your's and not his and his heart belongs to another but you don't know that because you are only seventeen? If the loves that last are the first loves and there is no more real love then is it ok that you simply walk away from the one who says he loves but does a few too many tokes of that 70s drug? If the loves that last are the first loves so that the real loves are a mystery and you stop looking and just be with the one that you love and loves you but doesn't bring the fire like the others do? If the loves that last are the first loves and there is no more love that the rest of us are not finding do we just walk away and stop trying?

Determined to be free and live authentically. Writing the way and penning the path. Others want to silence the voice and the words. But pushing through the door and breaking down the walls. Never going to stop reaching up and higher. Breaking chains that bind and hold. Speaking a truth through keys and screens.

More constant than a friend Satisfying like no other These cherished tomes set on tables and chairs Ever present to journey and escape Intimate treasure and forever companion Poetic affair to last the years Sitting waiting open to that favorite spot Giving living breathing being Forever admired and deeply experienced These present lovers in black and white

The journey of life has not been an easy one for Myla.   She knew there was something different about her, about her life, but could never understand the sheer impact of all that she had endured until she stepped out on that stage. "Hello, my name is Myla and I am a survivor." The crowd roared into claps before they even heard her raspy voice speak the words and read the passages of her book.  This was her first tour, her first speaking engagement, her first opportunity to take back her power. "My story is in some ways not unlike the story of many women, many of you sitting in this room right now.  I was born to parents who loved each other and subsequently loved me, their baby girl. I was raised in the praise of their affirmation of my brains and beauty, taught to be tender and caring, to be loving and kind, to believe in the best in all people, and to strive for my dreams.  I was taught of my virtue and my worth and to pursue my education.  My father

It is funny to me How people always want to know "how long has this been going on?" When it has been happening right in front of them. Are you paying attention? Listening? Can't you see the downcast of the eyes? The quiet in the answer? The uncertainty in the thought? Why does it matter how long? The very fact that it has been happening should make them want to help do something help do not just sit there and say "I just can not believe he would do that." When the things she says are stranger than fiction yes, he did not, he is doing that, he is that

not the housekeeper or maid or the caricature drawn of me never will be ever gonna be the slave you want of me cleaning your floors washing your walls seeing your dirt know more than you think wiser than you assume deeper than your fears built this house you try to take greater than the crumbs wipe that table clean not your house slave greater character than you will ever be

Twenty bags of chips in the trash can Shiny vacant promises in silver lined packages Crumbs in the bed sound of the crunch Tasting any of it munch munch munch Disarray uncontrol stuffing mouth Twenty bags of chips in the trash can

I am a writer.  I always have been. I always will be. The pen and I are connected, my hand moves with it connected to my digits and spreads out the thoughts in my mind, bringing ink in colors of blue, black, pink, and purple on paper of white.  I am a writer. When I was nine or ten years old, my late father gave me a stack of Big Chief Tablets and a pencil and told me to go write down my stories.  I wish I still had them today because it was one of the purest moments of creativity, my imagination took flight and the words reached paper.  My late father relished in them from my tale of the Irish Potato Famine that took off from me gnawing on a pencil in class to my coming-of-age-story of a young girl in the big city, I wish those stories and my father’s deep baritone was still around to encourage me, all these decades later. I write poetry, essays, and one day, that long awaited memoir.  I also write professionally as a consultant, marketing professional, and educator.  I earned

Who can own the sea? Who can own the waters deep? Who can own the river's flow? Who can own the calm of the bay? Why keep the ocean from me?

A Brother’s Plea I am sitting here in this cell, afraid and alone, Can't play my music or talk on my cell phone I wonder how I got here, my personhood assaulted Smart in school, now my possibilities halted My life will never be the same In some ways it is over because of this prison game I cry to myself so the fellas won’t hear Too many years ahead of me in this place without care My life has not been easy, no crystal stair When all I ever wanted was a chance to be someone to live anywhere It was the accident of birth they say I had no control over my DNA My mother tried hard and worked every day My dad paid the bills and with her he stayed My nightmare happened in school you see I had a young blond teacher who was afraid of me I studied hard and turned in my work But she was afraid of me and when I moved, she jerked My friends told me to be careful in high school The cops were always ready and waiting to load you in that van pool Off to

soaring through the sky creating my winter melody snow capped mountains sing to me waiting for me to fly This poem is dedicated to someone very special to me and his lady love, as well as his snow bunny friends who took it.  Crisp air, singing their ski song.

"Standing On The Side Of The Road" I am standing here on the side of the road -  Trying desperately not to be seen It is the middle of your busy day You do not notice me with your latte Guarding against the cold wind- Frozen inside outside walking here and there No mansion or house to put my belongings, no one to care- I am standing here on the side of the road- Not the trash you just tossed away That latte and uneaten muffin, my only meal today Standing here, shivering in the city alone No one to shelter and love me in the biting cold You are busy, I know, but see me please Life is not pleasurable or one of simple ease I once had a home and a family too Rushed through life, busy like you Forgotten and discarded in the corner cafe Wishing for more than your morning latte My only hope, made it last all day Trying hard not to be in anyone's way Standing on the side of the road It is where I live, where I grow old Please remember when you rush by T