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


© Valerie Bridgeman

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.


© 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?


© 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, 2013

Saturday, 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, 2013



Ten Thoughts On Being Mentored


Most mentors worth their weight in gold or salt are busy. That means they don't have time to take your calls 24/7 and if they do have that kind of time, they're not worth their weight in salt or gold. Tips on being mentored:

1. Read what they write
2. Go where they are; listen and observe from afar
3. Wait to be invited to the table; do not bogard your way to the "front of the line"
4. Volunteer if they run a non-profit; make yourself useful
5. Pray for them and seek their highest good
6. Follow advice you solicited and don't ask for another piece of advice until you do that last thing you asked them about (or at least give an accounting for why you decided to go another way--mentors are not gods, but they are wise and if you thought enough to ask for their advice, you ought to give it due diligence)
7. We learn from mentors by coming along side them, not sitting down with them (for the most part)
8. If a mentor is "too busy" for your liking, learn from that too. If you have time to pout about their level of busy, maybe you're not busy enough. And, if they really are too busy, maybe they are not your "close" mentor
9. Mentors come in all ages and stations of life; don't miss one because you're so bent on another
10. Be interested in life: theirs, yours, life in general... consider the ant... and learn from it... be a learner and mentoring will happen in the flow of your life

#asyouwere
#thatisall4now

© Valerie Bridgeman
January 26, 2013

In response to someone on how to approach mentors

Looks 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



© 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


© 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)
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,
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. 


© 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


© Valerie Bridgeman

January 17, 2013