when trust shatters like china
dropped on concrete floors
and then the hard work begins
© Valerie Bridgeman
January 30, 2013
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
And the hard work begins
There is the moment
when trust shatters like china
dropped on concrete floors
and then the hard work begins
January 30, 2013
when trust shatters like china
dropped on concrete floors
and then the hard work begins
January 30, 2013
So What
So what that someone else
would be more than happy
would be jumping for joy
with what I got, with the life I live?
so what?
I ain't good with it,
and you trying to shame
me into being good with it
ain't making me
better.
February 2, 2013
would be more than happy
would be jumping for joy
with what I got, with the life I live?
so what?
I ain't good with it,
and you trying to shame
me into being good with it
ain't making me
better.
© Valerie Bridgeman
February 2, 2013
Smile in the Introduction
The day passes without writing
but not without the poem
the laughter, surround sound
as two people I love
look each other in the eye
for the first time, see each other
recognize who they see
smile in the introduction
{but I know you, they telegraph)
my insides warm
from the sun of smiles
the way they tell a lifetime
of stories with every look
the way they embrace
each other sitting across
the table from one another
the way they keep rhythm
in holiness church harmony
the stutter step clap
the cocked head
quickening
hand wave head shake
foot stomp way
they look at each other
and agree they are
free from holy ghost histories
and bound to them
with the telling
of these stories
and stories keep
pouring out of them
like oil from alabaster boxes
like wine at communion tables
like sweet tea at hot
July camp meetings
where deacons sway
to fanning mothers' boards
and choirs ring out
sweet hour of prayer
my sweet Jesus memories
of days that do not match
Sunday School versions
of life and my friends
look at each other
recognizing they got time
and plenty more
stories
Valerie Bridgeman
© January 30, 2013
[For January 29, 2013]
Monday, January 28, 2013
Words
There are words I wish
did not exist in human language
like words where we
repeat lies told to us,
about us, told in such
a way that they sound
reasonable
dispassionate,
even sensible
or the meaning behind them
not the words, but the way
they crawl in our liver
and make a woman feel
little, feel like shit, like nothing
when she's somebody
important and larger
than the world can contain
I hate those kinds of words
that work juju on tender nerves
make the past stand up and mock
a woman like she deserves it
like she ain't paid for it
over and over in her sleep
in her scrubbing toilets
and emptying bedpans
in her listening to old
white women call her
nigger like this is the right
word for her and always was
I hate the words that make
you wish you knew the language
of Saturn, those kinds of words
like you making too much
out of nothing, like why can't you
just appreciate what you
got, why you gotta complain
like who cares that you wanna be
cherished, want moans and
screams and "baby, yes!"
like it's not what lovers want,
like quiet is the way we do "it,"
all of "it" and the sex part is just
the part that gets left
out of it
I hate words that make a woman
believe that she's not enough
like she's doing too much
or she doesn't deserve
what she thinks she does
words like really, bitch?
who you think you are,
anyway?
January 28, 2013
did not exist in human language
like words where we
repeat lies told to us,
about us, told in such
a way that they sound
reasonable
dispassionate,
even sensible
or the meaning behind them
not the words, but the way
they crawl in our liver
and make a woman feel
little, feel like shit, like nothing
when she's somebody
important and larger
than the world can contain
I hate those kinds of words
that work juju on tender nerves
make the past stand up and mock
a woman like she deserves it
like she ain't paid for it
over and over in her sleep
in her scrubbing toilets
and emptying bedpans
in her listening to old
white women call her
nigger like this is the right
word for her and always was
I hate the words that make
you wish you knew the language
of Saturn, those kinds of words
like you making too much
out of nothing, like why can't you
just appreciate what you
got, why you gotta complain
like who cares that you wanna be
cherished, want moans and
screams and "baby, yes!"
like it's not what lovers want,
like quiet is the way we do "it,"
all of "it" and the sex part is just
the part that gets left
out of it
I hate words that make a woman
believe that she's not enough
like she's doing too much
or she doesn't deserve
what she thinks she does
words like really, bitch?
who you think you are,
anyway?
© Valerie Bridgeman
January 28, 2013
Sick
Fever
Chills
Crackers
Ginger Ale
Whining like the child
I wish I could be
could crawl up
in my mommy's lap
could lay my head
on her shoulder
wrap my arms
around her neck
whimper how sick
how sad I feel
Feel her stroke
the fever away
kiss the chills
goodbye
tell me it's all going
to be okay
make me believe it
© Valerie Bridgeman
January 27, 2013Saturday, January 26, 2013
Cleaning House
My friend laughs at the notion of the "one dust bunny" she says is in the one corner of my house when in answer to the question, "what are you doing?" I say, "cleaning my house."
I clean, sweep away
miniature cobwebs
dirt dragged in on
dog's paws and padded shoes
conscious of how it
accumulates slow
without notice
until its time to wipe
it away with cloth
or tears
I clean the bedroom mirror
see my reflection
the earnest way I have
chosen to move my hands
in circles
over every inch
pay attention
to the spots that
get missed because
I am going too fast
I clean in ritual
praying to Clorox smell
self-cleaning oven
windex streaks
Murphy's oil on
wooden floors
my knees/back bent
fingernails split from too much
water without rubber gloves
I am spent from making
it shine, livable
until it needs water,
cleaner, elbow grease
again, until I can
see where the dirt
has accumulated
or start cleaning
whether I see
it or not.
© Valerie Bridgeman
January 26, 2013Looks Like
love looks like
you with paint roller
in hand wearing
old, torn Jazz Festival
T-shirt changing
the color of the basement
landscape
singing a new song
into the walls,
turning over the hue
like leaves, treating
the motion of painting
with the care of
holding a baby, or me
love looks like you
moving the canister
from spot to spot,
you concentrating on
the minutiae of
paint, roller, pan
the movement
from pan to wall
a deliberate dance
of the paint with
its next destination
© Valerie Bridgeman
January 25, 2013
(draft/in progress)
Friday, January 25, 2013
Little Girl Work
"My little girl is afraid and my grown-ass woman self can't seem to step up to help her..." (me to a friend)
(Valerie)
I climbed the crab apple tree
in Gran Gran's back yard,
without skinning my legs
or scraping them across the bark
my cousins watched
my agility to reach
the highest branches
without getting scared
and when I reached
thin branches, I jumped
from one limb to the other
with no hands to prove
I wasn't afraid as Ron
and Esther and Kevin
looked on before they joined me
(they wanted to make sure hands' free tree climbing was possible)
Ron
taught all the other McKinneys
and Scotts and Bridgemans
how to walk the rails
and jump off trestles just before
the train turned the bend
he was the thrill seeker, the rest of us
enamored by his fearlessness,
how crazy it was to risk
life and limb on the highest
section of the tracks near
Mr. Gross's farm and how
landing in a sea of cotton looks
soft, but it's brutal the way the
bolls prick open skin and we
left our DNA, red, on white rows
my little girl/grown-ass woman
try to remember grasp of wood
tremble of rails underneath
nimble feet and strong hands
the decision to climb or jump
fearless
January 24, 2013
(edited for first person (Valerie) on January 27, 2013)
(Valerie)
I climbed the crab apple tree
in Gran Gran's back yard,
without skinning my legs
or scraping them across the bark
my cousins watched
my agility to reach
the highest branches
without getting scared
and when I reached
thin branches, I jumped
from one limb to the other
with no hands to prove
I wasn't afraid as Ron
and Esther and Kevin
looked on before they joined me
(they wanted to make sure hands' free tree climbing was possible)
Ron
taught all the other McKinneys
and Scotts and Bridgemans
how to walk the rails
and jump off trestles just before
the train turned the bend
he was the thrill seeker, the rest of us
enamored by his fearlessness,
how crazy it was to risk
life and limb on the highest
section of the tracks near
Mr. Gross's farm and how
landing in a sea of cotton looks
soft, but it's brutal the way the
bolls prick open skin and we
left our DNA, red, on white rows
my little girl/grown-ass woman
try to remember grasp of wood
tremble of rails underneath
nimble feet and strong hands
the decision to climb or jump
fearless
© Valerie Bridgeman
January 24, 2013
(edited for first person (Valerie) on January 27, 2013)
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
The Busyness of Lonely
I cannot bear the silence
of you not being here with me
in this sea of chocolate,
a comforter that does not
comfort me in this
moment, the TV news anchor
provide back up noise
to the chair, empty
from when you sat and
looked over the backyard, green
with envy that you were
here with me
I am alone, and lonely
these are not always the same--
they rarely are the same
but today, no gentle touch
no tender press to bless
my brown skin lying up
against this brown cover
and I miss the heavy breathing
of your sleep, the way you
sprawl across a bed
the way you wrap yourself
mummy like and remain
available too--how do you
do that?
I am slow to rise from it
the not-comfort of the bed
to the not-comfort of hot tea
mint infused prayers
busy days brushed up
against busier ones
I am not ready for the
shower heat, the scrubbing
sound of teeth cleaning
the foot against wooden floor
my hand on faucet
the crank of car
the busyness of lonely
January 23, 2013
of you not being here with me
in this sea of chocolate,
a comforter that does not
comfort me in this
moment, the TV news anchor
provide back up noise
to the chair, empty
from when you sat and
looked over the backyard, green
with envy that you were
here with me
I am alone, and lonely
these are not always the same--
they rarely are the same
but today, no gentle touch
no tender press to bless
my brown skin lying up
against this brown cover
and I miss the heavy breathing
of your sleep, the way you
sprawl across a bed
the way you wrap yourself
mummy like and remain
available too--how do you
do that?
I am slow to rise from it
the not-comfort of the bed
to the not-comfort of hot tea
mint infused prayers
busy days brushed up
against busier ones
I am not ready for the
shower heat, the scrubbing
sound of teeth cleaning
the foot against wooden floor
my hand on faucet
the crank of car
the busyness of lonely
© Valerie Bridgeman
January 23, 2013
Promised Myself
Because I promised myself
that everyday I would think out loud
put it in verse, in cadence
tell some truth I couldn't
bear to tell, make my hands
move across the keys
everyday, even if I thought
the results were shit, I'd do
it beyond trolling Facebook
or chatting with friends
or lovers or people I
wish loved me
because I promised myself
that I would beat back the doubt
and silence the critic in my own head
that I would say, "you're lying"
every time I heard from
somewhere in my belly
that no one cared what I had
to say
I care. These words can't die inside
They could, but that would
be a grave unworthy of them
and if no one but me knows
what these words mean
or why they're important
I am One person enough
because I promised myself
© Valerie Bridgeman
January 22, 2013
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
History
History today
King, honored
Obama, sworn in
a second time
me, preaching
a connection
between them
in Hartford, CT
Gun violence
Face it, fix it
(City father Colt
provided
fire/arms for
the Civil War/
both sides/
as in Colt .45)
in Hartford, CT
Gun violence
Face it, fix it
(City father Colt
provided
fire/arms for
the Civil War/
both sides/
as in Colt .45)
people, sit forward
on seats
listening, planning
next moves
we, the people
saying yes
saying no
to first one thing
then the next
because we must
decide everyday
who we will be
what we will do
whether we will choose
the right
choose life
community
Beloved
everyday
walk together
children
the journey
is long
don't get weary
in times
where tired
is kin to work
we, the people
hope with
no evidence
to bear it up
obligated to hope
we do it like
walking
like praying
like we have
no choice
like history
is calling
© Valerie Bridgeman
January 21, 2013
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Deadlines
Books piled up on my bed
as if I have read them all
but most of them are only a signal
of my plan to complete a task
8 books, sprawled
across papers that need
to be filed
I lie to myself about my capabilities
too often; think I can finish things
on a timeline that does not work
but this is the way scholars live
their lives: one writing/researching
lie at a time
And sometimes,
the deadlines
are met.
© Valerie Bridgeman
January 20, 2013
Under a Gaze
I
have never let go of our friendship
Even
when it felt so absent to me
We are attached in ways
that cannot be easily explained
I
have nothing to offer
Beyond
laughter, a little bawdiness
Serious
conversations and a tender
Glass
of wine with sip and hands cluttered
With
details of travel, of speaking engagements
Of
lost and lasting loves
We
know the little things about each other
People
say we’re loyal to a fault
Pawing
at each other like little kittens
Clawing
at balls of yarn and
Playing
with our food
I
need a belly rub sometimes
But
these are just some of the details
That
have nothing to do with the substance
Of
the end of connections, the beginnings
Of
new adventures
The
combination of relief-grief-disbelief
No
one signs on for things to end
Things just end sometimes
maybe the move into midlife chaos
Is
as good a time as any to
Clean
the corners of our lives,
To
start from another place
We
never really start over, do we?
I
am at the end of this leg of the journey
And
everything is under a gaze of whether
I will I keep It, put it in a box to pull out and reminisce,
I will I keep It, put it in a box to pull out and reminisce,
Throw it away—too small, too old, too useless
Everything
is up for questioning
©
Valerie Bridgeman
January
19, 2013
Friday, January 18, 2013
Dragon
We have awakened love
like the dragon hibernating in her lair;
and Love has awakened ravenous
hungry and full of desire
sniffing the wind for the direction of prey
We are both hunted by and hunter of Love
That our hands want to taste this gift;
that our eyes want to smell every inch of one another;
that our mouths want to see the deepest caverns
of our beloved are the consequences of
the pangs our bellies growl.
For we have awakened the Dragon
and she is hungry.
January 18, 2013
Written from notes from a 2011 journal
like the dragon hibernating in her lair;
and Love has awakened ravenous
hungry and full of desire
sniffing the wind for the direction of prey
We are both hunted by and hunter of Love
That our hands want to taste this gift;
that our eyes want to smell every inch of one another;
that our mouths want to see the deepest caverns
of our beloved are the consequences of
the pangs our bellies growl.
For we have awakened the Dragon
and she is hungry.
© Valerie Bridgeman
January 18, 2013
Written from notes from a 2011 journal
Bug Socks
I want to live the kind of balance
where the checkbook is not as funny
as the bugs on your socks... the ones you got
from the children's section because they
were more interesting than anything in
the grown-up clothing department
I want those socks with their silliness
to counter my serious need to handle things
or maybe bunny slippers or a onesie for grown folk
a balance of passion and play
of dedication and abandonment
I want to be wide awake
my ancestors are healers
yours are storytellers
and when we found each other
it made perfect sense that
I was writing stories
and you were laying hands
on someone for healing's sake
you think I'm brave for learning to swim at 50,
for facing what frightens me and
I think you're wise to climb rocks with your nephew
so he can listen to your wisdom unafraid of your
words as he hangs by the slimmest of threads
We remind one another of our beauty
because it's easy to forget
when you're not use to looking at
yourself through the eyes of someone
partial to your life
We owe this much to one another
I am awake to this friendship
January 17, 2013
as the bugs on your socks... the ones you got
from the children's section because they
were more interesting than anything in
the grown-up clothing department
I want those socks with their silliness
to counter my serious need to handle things
or maybe bunny slippers or a onesie for grown folk
a balance of passion and play
of dedication and abandonment
I want to be wide awake
my ancestors are healers
yours are storytellers
and when we found each other
it made perfect sense that
I was writing stories
and you were laying hands
on someone for healing's sake
you think I'm brave for learning to swim at 50,
for facing what frightens me and
I think you're wise to climb rocks with your nephew
so he can listen to your wisdom unafraid of your
words as he hangs by the slimmest of threads
We remind one another of our beauty
because it's easy to forget
when you're not use to looking at
yourself through the eyes of someone
partial to your life
We owe this much to one another
I am awake to this friendship
© Valerie Bridgeman
January 17, 2013
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