[Critique Group 2] Pieces for 9-26-2017

[Abbie Taylor]

###1. Brad Corallo’s Poem

Middle Child
© By Brad Corallo

In memory of Marie Corallo:

Middle child, who am I?
Who should I be?
Sweet Marie?
That’s not me!

Growing up in the shadows of shining siblings-
older sister, younger brother
with parents, volatile and passive.
Love, fear, resentment!
Desperately trying to define identity.

Incisive intelligence, not recognized by many!
She excelled at office skills,
dropping the vowel ending her name.
A secretary on Wall Street.

Two best friends
married two brothers, recently returned
from the chaos of The Great War.

Establishing their household,
first child, a daughter arrived.
A move to their own home
bought on the GI bill
Two sons followed. 
The American Dream?

But the black dog stalking her from a distance,
at first.
Calm waters troubled by relentless 
waves of waxing anxiety. 
Cocktails, cigarettes, religion 
of no avail against the black dog.
Stealthily padding closer and closer.

Two kids, great depression era;
too scarred, unable too fully relax
in their own skins.
The specter of economic ruin,
an ever present fear.

Panic, mortal struggle,
medications, treatments, break down!
Hospitalization, reassembling herself
transformation, something lost, something gained.

Never a “girly girl” mom
more like one of the boys. 
Yet, kind and gracious to all;
pets, children, hoboes and kings.

My hands, my eyes, my best friend for so many years.
Her support, through three universities and
my own Hellhound dust up.
Respected and loved by my friends
opening up our home to waifs and strays. 
Ultimately retiring to a beautiful place 
with her husband of 40 years,
well equipped at last!
She always said,
“I just want five years in the sun!”
She got twenty five in stead
The price she paid?
The last two years of her life
a living nightmare!
Frustration, pain, rage! 
Her husband, her rock 
being eaten by dementia.
Then a merciful blessing.
she began the next stage of her journey
just twenty eight days short of ninety two  years. 

###2. Valerie Moreno’s Poem

High Lonesome

Stream of words 
clear and profound
touch and paint the
reality of your undenyable truth.

In scarlet and purest blue,
you flow through the gaps,
trails of glittering gold
as well as envelopping night.

Known by all,
defined by love and pain,
light in darkness,
wounding and binding
of sorrow...

you are resolute, 
universal

###3. Leonard Tuchyner’s Poem

Sketching My Way through a Poem

When I was little I used to draw.
Problem was, I couldn’t copy what I saw.
Thus I skittered out tiny, tentative lines
who went where they were willing to go,
rather than showing in one smooth flow.

I believe the words sketch and statistics
are intimately, strangely related.
With many baby stitches I can choose
which ones collectively happen to trend
towards my wayward capricious intent.

My poems and tales are winding trails,
carried on the back of tenuous faith
that all will rise to a meaningful form
in its journey through inscrutable time.

These tales don’t entirely write themselves,
but then again aren’t totally by me.
It’s all for the best that things work this way.
When story lines are perfectly set,
I only learn what I already get.

Do we live life,
or does life live us?

###4. ⠠⠁⠇⠊⠉⠑ Massa’s Poem

NOTE: 

Emily Dickinson’s Heather and Mine

by Alice Jane-Marie Massa

“But, know I how the heather looks ....”  --Emily Dickinson

(Stanza One)

>From Amherst came two quatrains
from Emily, of course.
Thanks to Mabel Loomis Todd,
the world relishes the poetic source
from where I grasp my favorite line—
the one that did foretell
the name of my creamy-colored Yellow Lab
who guided me so very well.

(Stanza Two)

Through this Leader Dog,
I learned how Heather looks
through all seasons of life,
in tactile photographic books.

(Stanza Three)

Large, strong, muscular Heather--
who walked over drawbridges with me,
who lay by my desk as I taught,
who cuddled near my theatre seat
as I listened to musicals and Maya Angelou,
who guided me up the stairs
where Lincoln had lived,
who saved me 
from being hit by a falling icicle,
who learned to walk down a special ramp
when she could no longer descend our back stairs,
who easily befriended her successor Zoe 
for the final thirteen months 
of Heather's season on Earth—
softened with age,
but strengthened my heart and hands.

“... and what a wave must be.”  --Emily Dickinson

(Stanza Four)

>From Amherst, with her red tresses and white dress,
Emily wrote these words of the sea;
however, they apply to a Midwestern me
as I tearfully wave and wave,
like whitecaps, again and again,
good-bye, good-bye
to Heather, so missed,
my second guide, my valorous friend
who now remarkably rests and runs 
with Keller, Chelsea, Chico, and Prince,
and all who came before.

"...as if the chart were given."  --Emily Dickinson

* * *

###5. Abbie Taylor’s Poem

VEAL AND TELEMANDE

Alone at a mahogany dining room table,
the teen-ager eats veal medallions in wine sauce,
mashed potatoes, asparagus, salad,
a meal his father always enjoyed.
He listens to music by Telemande,
one of his father’s favorite composers.

Later, he will visit his father,
in a hospital dying of cancer,
the boy’s mother at his bedside.


Abbie Johnson Taylor, Author http://abbiescorner.wordpress.com
http://www.abbiejohnsontaylor.com
abbie at mysero.net
Order my new memoir at http://www.abbiejohnsontaylor.com/memoir.htm