Betty Bleen's Poem - 俄亥俄新聞OHIO CHINESE/TAIWANESE AMERICAN NEWS

俄亥俄新聞OHIO CHINESE/TAIWANESE AMERICAN NEWS

I'M HAPPY AS A CLAM

2/8/2019

If I had a daisy I'd pull off each petal, repeat
under my breath, he loves me, he loves me not.
Today it seems. he loves me. We are riding in
the back seat of his friend Teddy's car. Teddy's
girl Patti is on the passenger side. She is as pretty
and petite as always and usually I envy her slim legs,
her perky pony-tailed hair. I'm nine months pregnant
and about ready to pop. But today I'm not consumed
with jealousy, I'm happy as a clam.

I don't know what possessed you to take me along.
Or put your arm around me and every now and
then steal a kiss. I must have pulled the he loves me
petal today or there is some voodoo magic working in
our midst.

Whatever it is, I'll take all I can get. We don't
usually have tender days like this. It almost feels
like, God forbid, a date. I shut my eyes and lean into
you, savoring these moments together, riding this petal
as long as I can, before it is taken by the wind.

© Betty Bleen 2019
www.toocutetoboop.com

A Better View

1/15/2019

Each time we talk on the phone the conversation
becomes mundane. You think everything is better

in the west. According to you, sunrises are brighter,
sunsets more flamboyant, skies more blue.

And just last night, we even had an argument over
the moon! You should see the moon tonight, it's so

bright and clear, was how it started. I said that from
my vantage point the moon was so bright I almost

needed shades and that it was crystal clear. Well,
you said, it's sitting above the mountains, offering a

spectacular view. I said my moon seemed to be
balancing right on top of a downtown skyscraper and

that was what I called a view! And so the conversation
went, ending in yet another fight. After we hung up

the phone I looked up at the moon and couldn't help
laughing. Arguing over the moon, how idiotic!

I think I even saw the Man in the Moon laughing.

© Betty Bleen
www.toocutetoboop.com

Forever

12/3/2018

He walks into the kitchen
And she is standing there
His cup of coffee ready
Beside his favorite chair
He smiles and gazes upon her
For time has not erased
The love he sees there shining
Etched across her face

As he strolls across the floor
She smooths her graying hair
Rushes to his open arms
And he holds her near
She's missed him every minute
That he's been away
His kisses say I love you
More than any words could say

Balls, blocks and baby dolls
No longer clutter the floor
Children and the busy years
Have wandered out the door
Through all the years of loving
And storms that they have weathered
They've clung tightly to each other
Vowed to stay together

They're living out their twilight years
Happy and content
Having no regrets
For the years that they have spent
Leaning on each other
Never growing apart
A lifetime of sweet memories
Shared between two hearts

© Betty Bleen
www.toocutetoboop.com

GRANDMA’S STRUDEL

11/11/2018

I used to watch my grandmother roll dough
paper thin.
It stretched across the old wooden table,
hung drape-like over the sides.
From the stove she retrieved cabbage and onions,
fried in butter.
Other days it was an apple-cinnamon mixture
or a concoction of butter, sugar, raisins and
poppyseeds.
Whatever the ingredients, she'd toss the mixture
onto the dough, spread and smooth it down
with her weathered hands.
Then she'd gently tug and roll the dough into a log
and place it on a baking sheet to bake till
golden brown.
If I shut my eyes, I can envision her
in that checkered apron,
gray hair tidy in a bun at the back of her head
as she took the pan out of the oven and
presented it to her family with pride.
Grandma's strudel,
I can almost smell it still.
hot from the oven,
baked with love.

Betty Bleen © November 2018
www.toocutetoboop.com

A LETTER TO AUTHOR DEAN KOONTZ

11/3/2018

I have been reading your novels Dean, since the early years,
beginning in the late sixties when you were trying to find your

niche, writing under pseudonyms. Your thrillers lured me in
with words like beveled glass and bougainvillea flowers,

which spoke to my poetic heart. Your stories engulfed me
in suspense, taking me down dark alleys to places I never

in real life would venture. I took you to bed with me, after
first ensuring all doors and windows were securely locked,

often sinking reluctantly into sleep, goose bumps covering
my body, tension aching in my jaws.

It was the thrill of being scared, that dipping of my toes into
the surreal that kept me returning to you again and again.

But now you've gone and done it, Dean. You've written a
thriller so horrific just reading chapter one is enough for me.

I can't go on any further, terrified to find out what happens
next, afraid of nightmares invading my dreams.

I regret Dean, that we must now part ways. It's been a long
scary ride but the bus stops here.

So take your Breathless, your Black Seed, Strange Highways,
Dark Rivers of the Heart, your Intensity…

I have been permanently scarred. Thanks to you I will never
again get a good night's sleep.

And I will never look at words like Whispers, Breathless or
Strangers in the same light.

I assure you, it's nothing personal. It's your stories Dean
which leave me no choice.

I have to get out now, while I have my sanity, before the
wolf comes knocking on the door, before it’s too late.

Betty Bleen
www.toocutetoboop.com

THE LAST TREE OF FALL

10/14/2018

At a fork in the road you catch my eye,
a straggler,
magnificent in saffron.

All the trees around you fail to compare.
Already, they have been stripped bare,
their knotty limbs like skeleton fingers
grasping at the air.

I cannot help but stare,
for you are wondrous in your simplicity.
The sinking sun casts you in crimson rays
and you shimmer,
aflame.

A late bloomer, you have come of age.
Once a mere tree, you have been transformed.
You are beautiful.
Divine.

© Betty Bleen
www.toocutetoboop.com

WHAT TO KEEP AND WHAT NOT

10/1/2018

I've gotten used to the white dishes with the tiny blue flowers
in the kitchen cupboard and I'm okay with the cast iron skillet
of which she's surely cooked thousands of meals. It's broken-in
and we both know, cast iron skillets like that are hard to find.

The chandelier in the living room still casts light as brightly as
when her hands polished it. On each end of the fireplace mantle
her pillar candles with ribbon bands still cozy up to two busts of
Victorian ladies with real feathers in their hat.

It doesn't bother me anymore that photo of her as a young girl
or the one of her sitting on the couch surrounded by all the dolls
she and you collected. I hardly notice them tucked away as they
are in a corner on that small antique table that you say she loved.

I've gotten used to all the paintings she did that hang on every
living room wall. I've even grown fond of the one in our bedroom
of the ballerina at her vanity and being a cat lover all those paintings
showcasing various cats that you and she have had over the years.

My clothes occupy the same space in the dresser as did hers and
hang in the closet on hangers she must have used as well. And I can't
help but wonder if she ever slid open the closet door, as I do, to
retrieve one of your old long-sleeved white shirts to wear to bed.

It took me a few years, but I finally asserted myself and asked you
to pack away those porcelain tragedy masks that she hung on every
kitchen wall and in the hall because I couldn't bear the blank eyes
that seemed to stare and follow me from room to room.

If only I could get you to toss those old check registers that bear her
handwriting, those weathered greeting cards from friends and
acquaintances I will never know, the ragged pot holders and dish
towels and countless other things that you hold onto from the past.

I can't wait for you to box up all these things, give them away to your
family or the thrift store. And I dream of the day when you finally
remove those dry-rotted flowers in that pink vase on a table in the
basement that have been there since her death, going on fifteen years.

Betty Bleen © 2018
www.toocutetoboop.com

What Matters

10/1/2018

Early September
and the leaves are falling.
They crunch beneath my feet
as I walk the dogs through the park.
Scattered on the lawn
they've become brown and brittle,
fragile as my heart.
Soon they will be trampled and forgotten,
as if their existence in nature
never mattered,
as if life never coursed through their veins,
with no thought, as to how they played
in the scheme of things.
Too often we forget,
little things that once mattered,
hearts,
leaves…
it's all the same thing.

© Betty Bleen
www.toocutetoboop.com

ANTICIPATION

9/30/2018

The woman looks out the sunroom door
through red-rimmed eyes.
How many tears will be enough?
Her daughter had called, concerned.
Mom, she said, let it go. You have
to move on!
But she didn't tell her how.
Outside the trees are changing. Their leaves
have taken on a summer green yet tinges
of yellow betray the encroaching Fall.
For the woman, nothing changes. It's as if
time stands still. Looking into the courtyard
all she sees is loneliness.
A hint of a smile betrays brooding lips as she
remembers their wedding day, how he had
picked her up, carried her through this very
door. Together they had watched seasons
come and go, the years flying by with shared
laughter, good times, an occasional sorrow.
She sighs.
How many tears will be enough?
So many questions unanswered. Why did he
leave? Where did he go? Is he now making
memories with someone else?
She peers outside as if the answer will appear
solid as the tree, as if she could slide open
the door, reach out and pluck it from the air.
She peers outside, firm in her belief that he will
return, the anticipation on her face belying her
red-rimmed eyes.

Betty Bleen © 2018
www.toocutetoboop.com

WHAT WAS BROKEN

8/4/2018

Recently I heard of the Japanese method of Kintsugi,
the art of fixing broken pieces.
Immediately came to mind a Cronin-blue tea pot
we had growing up,
one from which we drank tea when Mom,
veering away from serving a traditional supper,
made us bacon, eggs and toast instead.
I loved that tea pot.
On the front of it was a little Dutch boy and girl
facing each other, reminding us of Holland,
a city far away from our small town in West Virginia.
The tea pot sat on a metal holder above a warmer
which held a lit candle,
to keep the tea hot for the duration of the meal.
It was a special time for my sisters and me,
memory-making time with Mom.
Oh, how I coveted that tea pot!
Years down the road when I had a family of my own
Mom gave the teapot to me.
In a cramped apartment with little kitchen space
I stored it with various glassware
on metal shelving in the living room.
It sat there in its Cronin-blue glory until one fateful day
my husband's buddies came over,
got a little too drunk and a fight ensued.
As if in slow motion I can still see his friend staggering
from a shove and crashing into the shelving,
my beloved tea pot teetering then falling and breaking
into several pieces on the floor.
I muttered only five words, get them out of here!
Somewhat apologetic for his friends' behavior,
he swept up the pieces and threw them away
as I sat crying on the back-porch glider.
If only I'd known then about Kintsugi,
I might still have my teapot today,
not worse for wear but made more beautiful,
each jagged piece cemented in glittering gold.

Betty Bleen (C) 2018
www.toocutetoboop.com