Friday, September 28, 2012

Four Poems from Childhood


Ten years old
I started throwing parties
for the neighborhood kids.
Two weeks before,
my bottom dresser drawer
emptied out for party things.

A tablecloth, cut-up colored paper for confetti, old toys
for prizes and favors. Hand-drawn cards for games.
Candy squirreled away from the church event -
not by me only,
but my brother and the neighbor boy, too.

Ten dollars from my Grandma, who always
sends us ten dollars exactly on our birthdays;
the final judicious trip
to Wal-Mart. Each cent counted
for cheap soda, balloons,
Skittles, Little Debbie.

“Mystical Myst”

I remembered today
that I used to have a story
called Mystical Myst, and I
was a slave girl named Mearta.
In all my drawings she
had short dark hair, could handle
a sword. I think maybe
I still try to look like her
without knowing it.


I wasn’t rebellious
as a child. That is,
I didn’t run away
(properly) or smoke
or throw fits. I got along
with my parents
for the most part, listened
except when Mom read
a book of instruction
for girls (then I hid
my head under the couch
and plugged my ears).
The one rule
I remember really
hating, really yanking
to disobey was
don’t wear skirts
in tall grass.


I was eleven.
It was time
for a H.A.S.O.P. –
a Heart And Soul
On Paper. Diary
to the nth degree.
So secret I didn’t even
want the boys to steal
and hold ransom my black
notebook filled with writing
so small even I
could barely
read it. 

1 comment:

  1. mystical myst!

    And you threw FUN parties.

    Great memories, for those of us who can share them with you.