A Few Poems by CJ |
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"May you always see the world through the eyes of a child." ~CJ Heck |
Full Circle
A little girl clops in mommy's heels,
her dress, a floppy hat.
The borrowed pearls she's chosen
dangle halfway down her back.
Her face a shining rainbow,
ruby lips, cheeks tinted pink,
blue splashes on both eyelids,
powder snowflakes in the sink.
She'll go twirling in a ballroom,
a princess with her knight.
Or better still, be mommy
out with daddy Friday night.
In a child's imagination
everything is crystal clear,
yet the truth beneath the surface
is revealed in mommy's mirror.
That little girl is all grown up,
clothes and shoes are now my size...
but the mirror of maturation
… is my own daughters’ eyes.
I Remember Mama
I remember Mama
blowing chewing gum bubbles
to entertain us while she ironed.
I was too young for school,
Sesame Street wasn’t invented yet,
the rain was pouring outside
and I was awed.
I remember Mama
sewing at her machine into the night
when she had to get up early for work,
patching my favorite pair of cutoffs
'just one more time'
or putting pockets on pants
because my little brother adored them,
and I still hear her words,
‘There’s all kinds of ways to say
I love you.’
I remember Mama
teaching us that beauty on the inside
was more important than on the outside.
‘A kind word to a stranger
might be the only kind word
that person heard all day’
and how good it felt
finding out she was right.
I remember Mama
telling us to hold onto our dreams.
Make them happen and never say ‘I can’t’
and how funny I thought it
when she said
the world was our watermelon
and all we had to do was
grab it and take a bite.
I remember Mama
who taught us best by example
with her unconditional love.
Love isn’t love until it’s given away
and it’s in the giving that we know
it truly does come back ten-fold.
I remember, Mama.
Choices
Life is full of crossroads,
hard lefts or rights and paths
going this way or that.
Each choice has bumps and
potholes, ruts and an occasional
hairpin turn. Choices are
chances to learn and grow.
Never alone, our guidance
whispers by our side.
Dusting myself off,
I've wondered at times
how my life might have
differed, had I taken
a different route.
Lord knows, I could have
used a few more straight
stretches along the way,
but at least I made my
choices, some good,
some not so good,
but each was perfect for me
at the time, creating the woman
that now is. How sad for those
who merely hitchhike through life
never daring to choose at all.
Healing Memory
The love I am came with me
like a shadow on my heart.
Love flows in and out
and through me,
of this love I am a part.
It whispers to my soul,
it awes and fuels my wonder,
and I seek that memory
of why I came thus under.
This is what my soul agreed:
help souls be more aware.
Allow the healing energy
to flow from my soul into theirs.
Waiting, waiting, waiting,
I can feel and I can see
vibrations growing stronger
for the healing memory.
Something's coming.
Something wonderful
is coming.
A Nickel for Thoughts of You
I wish I had a nickel
for every time I think of you
watching TV on the couch,
chin parked on your chest,
not sleeping, just resting
your eyes for a minute;
or with your brows furrowed,
chasing an errant whisker
on the face in the mirror;
or your hands on the keyboard,
and the amazing speed
of the intricate thoughts,
considering the size of your hands;
or you secretly watching me
from across the room,
and me secretly catching you
secretly watching me;
or your gentle touch
when you pass my chair,
just because you're glad I'm here.
Love is measured
in so many little minutes.
It's important we not miss them,
for who knows,
life might be metered in hours.
It isn't really about the nickels,
-- but it would be fun
to see the almighty pile of coins.
The Rose Tattoo
She had a tiny rose tattoo
just an inch or so in size.
After years of deliberation,
her courage finally materialized.
She's the only person
who will even know it's there,
unless, of course, she wanted
them to see it and she shared.
A tiny rose and nothing more
she chose to symbolize
a difficult and bumpy life
so please don't criticize.
The branch behind, her long lifeline,
its thorns to show what's past.
The bud is for what's yet to come,
some peace and hope at last.
The tiny rose is painted
deep red to show her passion.
Its petals soft and gently bloomed,
red for love, a celebration.
It's just a tiny rose tattoo,
an inch or so in size.
A tiny rose, that's all it is,
her whole life to symbolize.
A Butterfly's Lesson
Oh Mama look, a flutterby!
(her tiny hand held out to me)
She'd grasped it firmly in her fist,
afraid to set it free.
Lovingly I showed her
one of life's most painful tests ...
sometimes the ones we love the most
we hurt more than the rest.
The butterfly was still alive,
although its wings were bent
this tiny miracle of grace,
its rainbow all but spent.
The magic dust was there to see.
Tears welled up in her eyes.
I hugged her to me and explained
that real love never dies.
We spoke that day of letting go,
of holding love less tightly.
To hold it gently in our hearts
shows love much more, when lightly.
That day when she was very small,
we more than mourned a butterfly.
We shared a magic, tender moment.
I'll always thank the flutterby.
Taps for My Soldier
A gentle breeze chatters the leaves
as birds sing their greetings.
The sun shines, a day like any other,
and yet like none before.
Two mirrored rows of uniforms
line up like blue dominoes,
white gloves holding rifles at the ready.
A lone bugle cries. Twenty-four notes.
Each note, slow as a tear,
blankets ears and heavy hearts.
In the silence between,
nature holds its breath.
Gone is the breeze.
Gone are the bird songs.
Gone is her hold on composure,
all lost in the bugle's lament.
Solemnly a soldier approaches.
White gloves present a tri-fold flag,
and in one final mournful note,
legions of silent voices unite
to call a comrade home
… and a young wife weeps.
Websters Dictionary: Changeling: (noun):
1. One who, or that which, is left or taken
in place of another.
The Changeling
At dawn, I looked
with eyes wide open.
The color of his hair had
snow-stormed
to winter gray,
the dark crowded out
to who knows where,
perhaps to join
a master work
in perfect granite,
his finite features
raisined to roadways
buckled into nose
and cheek and brow.
Somehow spared
by nature's cruelty
are steel blue eyes,
eyes that walk my dreams,
and lips that taunt and tease.
Where was I
when all this happened?
Here, a changeling, too,
and robbed as well?
Today, when morning
slipped inside
to kiss my eyelids,
I felt blessed
it reached across
to touch his too.
My Other World
There's another world I visit
in my sleep where the day's
constraints unbutton and unzip
to crowd the dirty clothes
in the hamper. My pillow,
a giant sponge, sops up all
stress and worry, spilling from
an ear or my cluttered mind.
There, life is fair and good guys
finish first, and my number
always wins the prize.
I fly on dragons, a super hero,
or take magic carpet rides,
reading minds and casting spells,
solving problems, even mine.
In my other world I'm safe,
and time stands still. Wrinkles fade,
varicose veins are beauty marks
and mirrors are kind. They tell me
I'm the fairest in the land
and they never show me silver
in my hair. I have genies
in my lamps who grant every wish.
Oh, that world is a haven,
and I live in fairy tales,
like Peter Pan in Neverland.
And as I sleep and dream
I watch as angels weave
magic into love and happy endings.
The Song
I can't remember
the last time
I heard that song,
only that I cried then, too.
It's not a sad song,
but the tears fall
just the same,
as though yesterday
was caught in my throat
and today is gum
stuck to my shoe.
I wanted to yell
at the guy in the car
to roll up his window
and have a heart,
because he was
breaking mine.
I only walk down this street
every now and again.
Please, someone tell him
tomorrow would be
a kinder day
to drive around
playing that song.
Little People
Footsteps on the staircase
handprints on the walls
tiny fingers dripping things
up and down the halls.
Voices all in unison
calling out my name
arguing and pointing
and saying who’s to blame.
Dishes in the sink
couch cushions on the floor
clean and dust, then fall in bed,
tomorrow will bring more.
Those times are etched in memory
the children now are grown,
but I’ll gladly have it all again
when the grandkids all come home.
Rockin' the Boat
Fishin' is a lot like marriage.
Both are great things to be doin'
and the rewards are
well worth the time spent,
but you can sure get into
a lot of trouble with either of 'em
by rockin' the boat ...
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