Point-Seven

*For my friend, seven years sober
got that chip! congratulations

how many times
did you roll yourself
in sheets to keep
from using anything other
than your will... 
choose not to drink
while all around you wine
flow, beer guzzle
rum, cognac the choice
and you 2,556.7 days
"clean and sober"
I know that point-7 is just
as important as 
the two thousand
five hundred
fifty six
the 84 months
of choosing to show
up in the world, alert
even if in pain
fractured in ways
you didn't imagine
could happen and still
be alive, the 365.242 weeks
of breathing sometimes
shallow, sometimes deep
of talking to yourself
or bolting from a room
to keep the clock
ticking in your favor
the 61,360.7 hours
and I know that point-7 counts
I honor you
for showing up for your life
for choosing to be sober
for showing me how
for every point-7
to come

© Valerie Bridgeman

February 27, 2013

Poet for a Friend

For Jaha (I love me some you)

We find ourselves
savoring each others words
as we listen to the details
we would leave off were
we talking to a less interested person

we're telling stories
about our lives--things
we've said before--what
we're eating, the up-and-down
love affair with our bodies
run or sleep--take your pick
we each know the way
this story turns in our minds
and so we can say
out loud we
google the wrong people
stress over the right mistake
and think less of our
own challenges because--
really--we haven't suffered
enough to complain

(that's the lie we correct for each other)

I hold on to your words, you repeat
after me when you like a phrase
tonight our stories seem
more meaty, like
we can sink our teeth
into them, taste
the possibility of freedom
as we both ponder ways
we've surrendered to 
take care of everyone 
except ourselves--
we fortify each other 
for the decision to write poetry, 
to run or walk to the nearest exits,
to star in our own drama, 
make it a one-woman-show 
tell the others actors, 
this play has no role for you--
and mean it.

Wink at each other 
across the country--
west coast love, 
east coast comfort
talk poetry and love
and paying bills
moving and being still
we hold each other
accountable
to our self-love

you understand me
I get you
DId I say? I'm glad
you're my friend.

© Valerie Bridgeman

February 27, 2013

Quvenzhané Wallis

*hover over her name the first time it appears to read an interview with Fearless actress, youngest ever nominated for an Oscar

Quvenzhané Wallis is fearless
"even more fearless than Hush Puppy"
she says, little girl locked in film

and those who are lazy or racist 
or sexist or all of the above 
refuse to say her name:
Quvenzhané Wallis

but she is fierce enough
at nine-years-old to demand
they get it right
"say my name"
as she repeats... slowly
so you get it right
the second time
and "no, you
can't call me
"Annie" because
I am not the character"
nor orphaned of who
I am; I have a name
Quvenzhané Wallis

say my name
strong/click the Q
just so, feel the
power in the third
syllable and finish
your pronunciation
with flair... think
catfish/fries
and hush puppies
on New Orleans
Catholic Friday nights
think double-dutch and lollipops
and puppy dog hand bags
think sassy grin and "proper
English" and home training
think Quvenzhané Wallis
("Qui-ven-ZHEN-ay"): Learn it
repeat it in your dreams
wake up saying it, include
it as a mantra in your prayers
don't hold back, say it with power
expect her to appear
every time its uttered
shout until the mountains
ring back: Quvenzhané Wallis

Quvenzhané Wallis
We call you forward, womanish
Quvenzhané Wallis
We call you forward, strong
Quvenzhané Wallis
We call you forward, brave
Quvenzhané Wallis
We call you forward, wise
Quvenzhané Wallis
We call you forward, fearless
Quvenzhané Wallis
We call you forward, "even MORE fearless"
LEAD
Quvenzhané Wallis
LEAD
Quvenzhané Wallis
WE SAY YOUR NAME: PROUD

© Valerie Bridgeman

February 26, 2013

On Our Way

here, on our way

to nowhere in particular

we speak of what could be,

of heads pressed close

in laughter and breath

prayers laid bare

and the pause of space

between us as we reach

for one another

missing, fingers laced

we let the air bear

the full of unspoken words

weight of yearn

leak into seats behind

the driver’s chair

there are no middle

in front seats of cars

anymore

you hold the wheel

direct our hearts

manage the

blanks between us

we are old now,

missing is a part of life

like missing middle front seats

or six-year-old grins punctuated

with space where teeth

once stood, we have

missing things too

that may, or may not,

return

© Valerie Bridgeman

February 25, 2013

(The poem that was embedded in “I Have Come to Love You” and “I Have Come to Love You II”)

Nothing is Forever

I have no storage space

for all these memories

things that need 

discarded

thrown away

I wish I remembered why

I believed they

were important

before, this vase

these cards

letters you wrote

so long ago

the meaning

lost in the fog

of time

These knickknacks

have stories I would

have to invent

since the reasons

I have kept them

are lost in the dust

that surrounds

them, along with 

the files whose

names I no longer

recall

I am sure I thought

I would never forget

when I tucked

them inside a book,

pressed against

my heart, sure I swore

allegiance, that

I would keep each one

always

but I am poised

over the basket

that will take

pieces of my life

to a landfill

that will clear

another corner

and remind me:

nothing is forever

© Valerie Bridgeman

February 24, 2013

I Have Come to Love You II (edited)

*this poem is an editing of one written January 13, 2013 (and shown beneath it):

I have come to love you 

with all my flaws and insecurities, 

with my history of making
irreparable mistakes 

and trying to mend
what cannot be repaired, 

but I have come anyway, 

hoping you will accept 

my tattered life, bruised 

on crags of overcommitment

and broken promises 

trying to make do
when "make do" 

offends the living
and the dead

I have come to love you 

with an offering, whole, burnt, 

full of wide-eyed daring

to believe in the face

of undeniable betrayals

and words fall

hard on floors

made of wishes

and still, I have come

in all this silence

with these stories

and failings

while we lean head

first into a future

awaiting

our arrival

© Valerie Bridgeman

February 24, 2013

(turns out it was two poems in one; took out the trip)

I Have Come to Love You

I have come to love you with all my flaws
and insecurities, with my history of making
irreparable mistakes and trying to amend
what cannot be mended, but I have come
anyway, hoping you will accept my tattered
life, bruised on the rocks of overcommitment
and broken promises and trying to make do
when "make do" is offensive to the living
and the dead too

I have come to love you with an offering
whole, burnt, full of wide-eyed daring
and the comprehension of what
the last conversation between us could
possibly mean if we were not
afraid of our own hearts, or why
that last hours-long car ride felt so full
of moments past, crowding into the seats
behind us since there is no middle front seat
in cars anymore--we are old now
and like missing middle front seats
or six-year-old grins punctuated with
missing teeth, we too have missing
things that may or may not return
but the missing of them is acute now
and still

I have come to love you

DRAFT/UNFINISHED POEM
(c) Valerie Bridgeman
January 13, 2013

IF I WERE BRAVE

If I were brave
in this moment
I would tell you that it's toxic
that it makes you crazy
because it's crazy-making
and that you deserve
so much better
so much more
but that would mean
you might believe
I wasn't being
supportive of what
you care about
though I am

If I were courageous
I'd tell you that
you have sold yourself
short, that Love 
was never meant
to be this painful
that people who love
us don't make
us feel small
don't judge us
harshly
make us
hold our breaths
waiting on the
hammer to
fall

If I were brave
I'd tell you to leave
to take your heart
and make it home to you 
to protect yourself
I'd tell you that
your senses
are warped
by a little girl's
memories
who has
always tried to
make everyone
else ok

If I were a good friend
I'd risk losing our bond
to tell you the truth

I want you whole
with or without me
I'd hope  you'd know 
that I'm not pulling
for anyone

but you

© Valerie Bridgeman

February 23, 2013

I Listen

I listen because 
that's what friends

do; I want to do 
so much more

like hold you, 
stroke your face

say "it's going 
to be alright" 
even

if I don't 
believe it

I listen 
because you 
ask me

to listen 
for more than
the words you use.
I can hear 
your heart

cracking, 
hear your soul

whimpering 
under the weight

of feeling 
insane, thinking

you're unable 
to fix it

and you're not because it's not yours to fix

loyal to the end 
and pushing 
the "end"

as far as you can
because that's 
who you are 
and I'm listening

because that's 
all you want 
from me, can 
stand from me.... 
plus,

I'm a poor 
substitute
 for who you

really want, 
who's not available

and this isn't about me anyway

just that I'm here

and want to be 

for you, available

to hold the rant

the want tos

the wish I hads

the what did I do wrongs

the is it mes

the I feel crazys

the W... T... Fs

and the prickly

don't hold me 
I need you 
to hold me
don't you dare 
you'll make

it worse 
because

I don't want 
your love 
to heal

any place 
of this pain

right now, 
it's mine

to hold... 
don't you

dare

love 

me 

like

this

© Valerie Bridgeman

February 22, 2013

The (Drowning) Dream

It's a party

hundreds of people

on a veranda

and a patio

in a huge backyard

overlooking a pool

that flows into

an ocean

I am in the pool

there are others

I know everyone there

but I cannot tell you

their names--they

are a part of some future

I have not come to

I go down, drowning--one time

I am flailing

the party goers all turn

and watch... once I bob

back up, they turn back

to their conversations,

their drinks, their dance

I go down, two times

desperate

the party goers watch

again, interested but

not moved, they watch

I surface, they return

to conversation, second

drinks,  hors d'oeuvres

I sink, a final time

three-time strikes

they watch once more

and when I'm gone

 never to surface again

they turn, laughter

hors d'oeuvres, dance

conversation, plans

to unfold without me.

© Valerie Bridgeman

February 21, 2013

Heroes

For the Beautiful are the Feet Honorees

of the Samuel DeWitt Proctor Conference

February 2013

Allen Boesak, Amos C. Brown, Iva Carruthers, Mack King Carter, Cain Hope Felder, Bernice Powell Jackson

We sit in a room full of heroes

ordinary women and men

who by consequences 

of the times are called 

to live large before us

and they answer

the ages, stand up

and are counted, they

keep on coming, keep on

saying yes, saying yes

here, in this room

we honor them for doing

what they could not have 

refused to do, for refusing

to turn back from the

wounding world, from

being scarred

they do

not allow scared to

stop them and they

are our heroes

exemplars, witnesses

of what happens

when divine ferocity

and human will

collide, produce

the answer to human

ills, push back against

death, demonic doings 

Their lives flash before us

large, pregnant 

they show us 

what is good

their wounds open to us, 
we see their guts

and your glory

© Valerie Bridgeman

February 20, 2013

Ship of Dreams

"The Titanic was known as the ship of dreams, and it was." ~ Line from Titanic, the movie

The dark oak doors are heavy on the seas
the sea, roiling at the turn of rudder
the rudder, steady in its churning of the waters, 
the waters, ready to be a watery interment,
the bodies waltzing across
mahogany floors, unsuspecting
the journey's end

The mahogany floors, gleaming from the hard-fought shine
the shine, the work of galley servants 
longing to be free, 
the freedom, cast into the sea like bets
the bets, lost to arrogant dreams

The Titanic the symbol of hubris
of human yearning for what always
is one step out of reach
and still, the ship of dreams
gets built time and again
in hopes this time
it will not sink
in shame

© Valerie Bridgeman

February 19, 2013
DRAFT

The More the Words

Ecclesiastes 6:11: 

"The more the words,
    the less the meaning,
    and how does that profit anyone?"

Words have run aground now,
banked against the torrent of silence
lapping on the edge of meaningless
and what would it profit
either of us to talk or write
except to find a way to
fill the blank unanswered
spaces, dam them up
with beaver's work
and keep the water of
our distress at bay

The more the words, the less
the meaning, so says the Preacher
of Ecclesiastes and he has been
known for wisdom centuries
before we barged upon
these shores

© Valerie Bridgeman

February 18, 2013
1 am CST/Dallas TX