Words from the Heart

  Women's Int ernational League USA - 19 22 National Photo Company [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons   Greetings, Women of the World! Today is our day!   Well, at least that is what it says on the calendar. So, in celebration of women everywhere, I thought I would share some poems, mine and others, on women. This first poem was written several years ago in praise of a dear friend, who loves in such a way that everyone feels as if they are her best friend. HANNAH’S VALENTINE Everyday is Valentine’s For those within her world. Like her colonial red door with it’s heart shape window - Shining, Her heart is open - Always. Inside her kitchen’s Filled with warmth And recipes to nourish - Body and soul - A pinch of love, A dash of joy, Heaping cups of hugs! Everyday is Valentine’s - Hannah makes it so!   ©1991 LMRN This poem, my mother read to me as a little girl. The poet captures the life of many women in such a few lines. ...

   Still My Momma's Baby (circa 1990's)   I have written, often, here about my childhood, about my crazy dysfunctional family and about how my passion for the written word has kept me whole.  Recently, as I responded to a comment made during an interview I gave for the blog, Writers in Business , I was flooded by memories. Like a movie camera being clicked into action, I began seeing myself at the kitchen table with Momma reading poetry and then, curled up on the couch with her as she recited from memory, The Charge of the Light Brigade .  I could practically hear her repeating the words from Frost's Mending Wall . The last image that came to mind was opening the letter I received from the Horn Book Club for Children telling me that, while the submission I sent wasn't accepted for publication, they wanted to congratulate me being a poet and writer. Momma didn't say so, but I think she was very proud. Me, 1960 - Writer and Poet!   It is possible that w...

Often, I have used poetry as a means to heal. Something about reading words that paint a particular picture of life resonates with my heart and soul, quelling pain like nothing else will do. Several poets have this ability for me - Edna St. Vincent Millay, for instance. Her poem, " Tavern ," in which she writes about "grey-eyed people," always reminds me of Momma. The last lines tell our story, "Aye, 'tis a curious fancy --/But all the good I know/Was taught me out of two grey eyes/A long time ago." Tears well up in my eyes each time I read this poem. Not simply because Momma had grey eyes, but because it places Momma beside me in a way nothing else does. It is as if she is reading the words, again, with me...I can hear her and feel her presence. It is balm for my grief. Perhaps it was because Momma was so sick that poetry was a passion for her; a passion she gave to me. I have often wondered if her doctors had been poets would she have received b...