—Poetry by Linda Klein, Playa Vista, CA
—Artwork Courtesy of Public Domain
MY BOOK
Each day I write another page.
If the outcome is inevitable,
why are the pages so important?
They are all I have.
The pages are my meaning and substance.
I must not leave even one blank.
They speak of who I am.
I feel no urgency to conclude this book.
May I linger over every page,
until it is finger-smudged and tear-stained,
until its corners are dog-eared and its edges frayed.
The ending is dull and predictable.
It is the pages of a book that are unique,
each one from the other,
and all of them like no other's.
Tell the publisher to wait,
I have so much more to say.
My exuberance exceeds his greed.
Each day I write another page.
If the outcome is inevitable,
why are the pages so important?
They are all I have.
The pages are my meaning and substance.
I must not leave even one blank.
They speak of who I am.
I feel no urgency to conclude this book.
May I linger over every page,
until it is finger-smudged and tear-stained,
until its corners are dog-eared and its edges frayed.
The ending is dull and predictable.
It is the pages of a book that are unique,
each one from the other,
and all of them like no other's.
Tell the publisher to wait,
I have so much more to say.
My exuberance exceeds his greed.
A ROOM
She wanders the streets,
worried when people look.
Can they tell? Does she smell?
New at this, only a week,
all her clothing gone,
thrown out on the curb.
She left it, took her purse,
in it a few dollars, some change.
Would she be like the others she saw,
dirty, crazed, picking food out of the trash,
begging from strangers?
Maybe she would find the others,
the colony of the lost.
Would they take her in?
Could she trust them?
Being a woman made her vulnerable.
They would use her, take advantage,
steal from her, not likely to help her.
She didn't know what to do.
If only she had a room.
It didn't have to be much,
four walls and a ceiling,
a place away from stares of disdain,
shelter from cold and rain.
She would flee there and hide,
embrace humility, forgo her pride.
That room would protect her
forever from harm, hold her
like the cradle that was
her mother's arms.
She wanders the streets,
worried when people look.
Can they tell? Does she smell?
New at this, only a week,
all her clothing gone,
thrown out on the curb.
She left it, took her purse,
in it a few dollars, some change.
Would she be like the others she saw,
dirty, crazed, picking food out of the trash,
begging from strangers?
Maybe she would find the others,
the colony of the lost.
Would they take her in?
Could she trust them?
Being a woman made her vulnerable.
They would use her, take advantage,
steal from her, not likely to help her.
She didn't know what to do.
If only she had a room.
It didn't have to be much,
four walls and a ceiling,
a place away from stares of disdain,
shelter from cold and rain.
She would flee there and hide,
embrace humility, forgo her pride.
That room would protect her
forever from harm, hold her
like the cradle that was
her mother's arms.
A BEAM OF LIGHT
Three yards of yellow nylon chiffon,
the shade of delicate daffodils,
the dressmaker wrapped
my nearly twelve-year-old torso in it,
brought the fabric around my shoulders
and tucked it in on the other side,
pinning here and there to keep the material in place.
"Hmmm," he uttered through the pins
he held between his meaty lips.
He was either humming or speaking.
We didn't know which.
I stood in front of a long, gold-framed mirror
as he worked, cutting and pinning
the waistband with precision and flair.
Mom sat behind me, for the moment, relaxed,
in a plush velvet chair, the color of mustard.
I could see her expression was pleasant, but unsure.
She wanted to buy my dress at a department store.
It was I who chose Mr. Schneider and yellow.
"I don't know why you want yellow," she said.
"I love it. It matches my hair."
"Hmmm," Mr. Schneider interjected,
frustrated by our chatter. I hoped he wouldn't swallow a pin.
“And where are you going to find yellow shoes?" Mom went on.
"You buy white ones, Mom, and they dye them.”
Mr. Schneider lifted the chiffon shift over my head
and placed it on his sewing table next to a Singer machine.
He left mother and me alone while he went to the back room
to choose a bolt of taffeta for the under-dress.
I stood restlessly in only a half-slip and undies,
doing something that resembled a Charleston in the mirror.
"Yellow will make you look sallow." Mom wouldn't give up.
"Yellow is cheerful," I countered. "My corsage will be
yellow roses with pink tips." "Those are pretty!" she agreed.
"You have always had a mind of your own," she said,
"I guess that's a good thing."
Mr. Schneider returned. Fitting the under-dress,
he confided. "You will look very grown up."
Graduation was held at Loewe's movie theater
on Sutter Avenue almost a month later.
I walked to the theater with my parents,
my little brother, and my Aunt Doris.
It was a big, dark, dank auditorium where
we had seen many movie shows, but
now it was lit, although dimly.
The only lighting was from wall sconces.
Inside, I left my guests sitting in the back section
and joined my classmates, front and center.
I noticed that I was the only one wearing yellow.
The other girls wore mostly pink or blue dresses,
and the boys wore navy blue or gray suits.
I sat with them, beaming from the top of my blonde head
to the toes of my yellow-dyed shoes, honestly believing
that I was lighting up the room.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
WHAT ONCE WAS
—Linda Klein
To see the future
would not be
my choice.
Instead I would
fall back into
loved-one's arms.
They, alive again,
seeing me
as I am now.
I would linger
to decide if
I might remain,
regress in age
and begin
it all again
to savor what once was.
______________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Linda Klein, from sunny Southern California, for spreading beams of light in the Kitchen today on this misty morning!
Three yards of yellow nylon chiffon,
the shade of delicate daffodils,
the dressmaker wrapped
my nearly twelve-year-old torso in it,
brought the fabric around my shoulders
and tucked it in on the other side,
pinning here and there to keep the material in place.
"Hmmm," he uttered through the pins
he held between his meaty lips.
He was either humming or speaking.
We didn't know which.
I stood in front of a long, gold-framed mirror
as he worked, cutting and pinning
the waistband with precision and flair.
Mom sat behind me, for the moment, relaxed,
in a plush velvet chair, the color of mustard.
I could see her expression was pleasant, but unsure.
She wanted to buy my dress at a department store.
It was I who chose Mr. Schneider and yellow.
"I don't know why you want yellow," she said.
"I love it. It matches my hair."
"Hmmm," Mr. Schneider interjected,
frustrated by our chatter. I hoped he wouldn't swallow a pin.
“And where are you going to find yellow shoes?" Mom went on.
"You buy white ones, Mom, and they dye them.”
Mr. Schneider lifted the chiffon shift over my head
and placed it on his sewing table next to a Singer machine.
He left mother and me alone while he went to the back room
to choose a bolt of taffeta for the under-dress.
I stood restlessly in only a half-slip and undies,
doing something that resembled a Charleston in the mirror.
"Yellow will make you look sallow." Mom wouldn't give up.
"Yellow is cheerful," I countered. "My corsage will be
yellow roses with pink tips." "Those are pretty!" she agreed.
"You have always had a mind of your own," she said,
"I guess that's a good thing."
Mr. Schneider returned. Fitting the under-dress,
he confided. "You will look very grown up."
Graduation was held at Loewe's movie theater
on Sutter Avenue almost a month later.
I walked to the theater with my parents,
my little brother, and my Aunt Doris.
It was a big, dark, dank auditorium where
we had seen many movie shows, but
now it was lit, although dimly.
The only lighting was from wall sconces.
Inside, I left my guests sitting in the back section
and joined my classmates, front and center.
I noticed that I was the only one wearing yellow.
The other girls wore mostly pink or blue dresses,
and the boys wore navy blue or gray suits.
I sat with them, beaming from the top of my blonde head
to the toes of my yellow-dyed shoes, honestly believing
that I was lighting up the room.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
WHAT ONCE WAS
—Linda Klein
To see the future
would not be
my choice.
Instead I would
fall back into
loved-one's arms.
They, alive again,
seeing me
as I am now.
I would linger
to decide if
I might remain,
regress in age
and begin
it all again
to savor what once was.
______________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Linda Klein, from sunny Southern California, for spreading beams of light in the Kitchen today on this misty morning!
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
