Step into the elevator
I'm riding all alone
I wish that I was -
but I'm not going home
a quick short ride
down to the sixth floor
for a candy bar or two
maybe even more
Almond Joy and yummy Twix
chocolate for me to munch
fifty five cents of mine
out comes Nestle's Crunch
It's three thirty
and I heave a sigh
couldn't make two more hours
without a chocolate high
A.R.M.
08/06/01
Friday, October 9, 2015
Grounded
the closer I get to being grounded
the more I want to spread my wings
and feeling like that leaves me astounded -
the lessening of want for stable things
hand me the keys to our new house
don't open the windows - I'll fly
quick as that, I'll make like a mouse
chased by the cat - good-bye
"I know why the caged bird sings"
Maya Angelou has said -
perhaps, it too dreamt of stable things
and sing it will 'til it's dead
A.R.M.
08/03/01
the more I want to spread my wings
and feeling like that leaves me astounded -
the lessening of want for stable things
hand me the keys to our new house
don't open the windows - I'll fly
quick as that, I'll make like a mouse
chased by the cat - good-bye
"I know why the caged bird sings"
Maya Angelou has said -
perhaps, it too dreamt of stable things
and sing it will 'til it's dead
A.R.M.
08/03/01
For Sale
I sold my soul for a one night stand -
the twinkle of an eye, the touch of a hand.
The body to body warmth of delight...
no world existed but ours, that night.
For one single moment the loneliness ceased
as the kisses and caresses quickly increased -
just for now someone really cared
about my beauty or the stories I shared.
Laughter and whispers and wishes untold,
never knowing I was as good as sold.
And if I had the chance to do it all over again?
I cannot give you an answer you'd ever understand.
A.R.M.
07/31/01
the twinkle of an eye, the touch of a hand.
The body to body warmth of delight...
no world existed but ours, that night.
For one single moment the loneliness ceased
as the kisses and caresses quickly increased -
just for now someone really cared
about my beauty or the stories I shared.
Laughter and whispers and wishes untold,
never knowing I was as good as sold.
And if I had the chance to do it all over again?
I cannot give you an answer you'd ever understand.
A.R.M.
07/31/01
The Party
She walked him to his car, the happy aura of the party still surrounding them. They chatted softly, the click of her heels loud upon the concrete floor of the garage. When they reached the edge, he climbed atop the brick wall and turned back to offer her a helping hand. She accepted it and joined him atop the wall where their eyes held for a quick second. They continued the rest of the way to his car in silence. Finally she said something.
"I have your Christmas present," she said quietly, her eyes gazing at him discreetly. He looked so good all dressed up in a suit.
"Oh yeah?" He smiled, "What is it?" She handed him a little slip of white paper that she had been tucking away in the palm of her hand. He unfolded it and read the big, black letters scrawled in her familiar print. It simply read:
FREEDOM
At first he wanted to tell her that he didn't understand but he couldn't say it because he did understand. She was giving him his freedom.
"Isn't that what you wanted most?" She asked, not wanting to hear him say 'yes' but knowing he had to. He nodded his head silently, feeling guilty. "You didn't tell me what you wanted," she said quietly, her eyes fixed on the ground, "but I caught the hints." He wanted to do something ; hug her, apologize, anything, but he knew it was too late. "Merry Christmas," she said finally, kissing his cheek softly. She turned and headed for the house.
"Wait! I have to give you your present!" He called after her but she kept walking and was gone within seconds. He sighed, staring at the gournd upon which she had just been standing. "I'm free," he whispered to himself, hoping it would sink in before the guilt could. "I'm free," he said louder. "Damn it, I'm free!" He shouted. "I'm free!" He threw his arms out like a mad man, running in circles around his car, shouting, "I'm free! I'm free!"
He fell against his car after a few crazy minutes and tried catching his breath. He leaned against the door, pressing his flushed cheeks to the cold glass to cool himself. He caught sight of the gift in the front seat, wrapped in bright holiday paper topped with an elegant bow. Her gift, the one she didn't want. The one she left behind. His cheeks were now hot from the tears that he began crying. "I love you," he whispered, staring at the gift through the window. "And now..." he swallowed hard, "and now I'm..." He couldn't say it, he couldn't force himself to speak the word - the gift she had given him. The gift he had wanted more than anything, the gift he couldn't exchange, the gift that proved she loved him: his freedom.
He stood there in the cold December night, he and his freedom, the wind rustling the dead leaves, sounding so much like the rustle of her dress when she danced in his arms that night.
A.R.M.
12/16/91
"I have your Christmas present," she said quietly, her eyes gazing at him discreetly. He looked so good all dressed up in a suit.
"Oh yeah?" He smiled, "What is it?" She handed him a little slip of white paper that she had been tucking away in the palm of her hand. He unfolded it and read the big, black letters scrawled in her familiar print. It simply read:
FREEDOM
At first he wanted to tell her that he didn't understand but he couldn't say it because he did understand. She was giving him his freedom.
"Isn't that what you wanted most?" She asked, not wanting to hear him say 'yes' but knowing he had to. He nodded his head silently, feeling guilty. "You didn't tell me what you wanted," she said quietly, her eyes fixed on the ground, "but I caught the hints." He wanted to do something ; hug her, apologize, anything, but he knew it was too late. "Merry Christmas," she said finally, kissing his cheek softly. She turned and headed for the house.
"Wait! I have to give you your present!" He called after her but she kept walking and was gone within seconds. He sighed, staring at the gournd upon which she had just been standing. "I'm free," he whispered to himself, hoping it would sink in before the guilt could. "I'm free," he said louder. "Damn it, I'm free!" He shouted. "I'm free!" He threw his arms out like a mad man, running in circles around his car, shouting, "I'm free! I'm free!"
He fell against his car after a few crazy minutes and tried catching his breath. He leaned against the door, pressing his flushed cheeks to the cold glass to cool himself. He caught sight of the gift in the front seat, wrapped in bright holiday paper topped with an elegant bow. Her gift, the one she didn't want. The one she left behind. His cheeks were now hot from the tears that he began crying. "I love you," he whispered, staring at the gift through the window. "And now..." he swallowed hard, "and now I'm..." He couldn't say it, he couldn't force himself to speak the word - the gift she had given him. The gift he had wanted more than anything, the gift he couldn't exchange, the gift that proved she loved him: his freedom.
He stood there in the cold December night, he and his freedom, the wind rustling the dead leaves, sounding so much like the rustle of her dress when she danced in his arms that night.
A.R.M.
12/16/91
Work in Progress
Have you ever felt like an outsider looking in?
Like you weren't allowed to play with other kids
because your soul was laden with sin?
But what have you done that others before you didn't do?
Given false words when you could have spoken true?
Kissed another's lips that did not belong to you?
Did you lay in a bed that was not your own?
Reveal more of your heart than you should have shown?
Sold your soul because it was the only way to get by?
If you call that sinning,
then my dear,
so have I.
A.R.M.
07/10/01
Like you weren't allowed to play with other kids
because your soul was laden with sin?
But what have you done that others before you didn't do?
Given false words when you could have spoken true?
Kissed another's lips that did not belong to you?
Did you lay in a bed that was not your own?
Reveal more of your heart than you should have shown?
Sold your soul because it was the only way to get by?
If you call that sinning,
then my dear,
so have I.
A.R.M.
07/10/01
Stained
I have a pair of old jeans that I adopted as my "work" jeans to be worn when gardening, moving, washing cars, etc. They are too big for me so they hang down low on my waist but they're really comfortable and ratty enough that I don't care if they get stained. These are the jeans I wore most during my weekend in Michigan and now they serve as sort of a living diary of my time there...
I spilled hard lemonade on my jeans when we went on the hayride. And the hay itself left a lingering odor. That was fun... riding through the dark woods, feeling young and carefree again. The boys were shooting off bottle rockets and the girls were commenting on how silly the boys were being. And someone's three-year old daughter helped my cousin drive the tractor and we all told her what a good job she did. I felt invincible. Like nothing bad could happen to me right at that moment.
The red stains on the legs are from when I wiped my hands on them while picking raspberries in my Grandfather's raspberry patch. Growing up we'd pick the fruit for Grandmother to make jam, or to mash up for a topping on ice cream. But that wasn't going to happen anymore. The house was going up for sale immediately and this would be the last time I'd ever pick raspberries in the garden. I wasn't even saving them up for eating later, I just picked them fresh off the vine and popped them into my mouth. And if the juice got on my hands I just wiped my hands on my jeans. I hope the stains don't come out when I wash the jeans because it would be nice to have a keepsake of the last time I ever got to pick raspberries at my Grandparents' house. The last time I got to be a child there.
The grass stains on the knees are from wrestling in the yard with my nephews. They'd run up to me and tackle me, sometimes one at a time, sometimes two at once. They'd tackle each other, too, but they always came back to tackle me. I'd fall back on the grass and let out a moan, as if they'd really knocked me down. When they get older they probably won't remember playing in the yard with "Aunt A" but I will, and if the grass stains don't wash out, my jeans will remember too.
There's dirt and sweat from moving antique furniture out of the basement and onto the trucks. Bit by bit we took apart my Grandparents' home. I went down into the basement where I saw my Grandfather's workbench. I went up into the attic where my mother and aunt used to have a room. I went into the garage and picked through the things in there. I looked around and realized there was no coming back.
If you sniff really closely (like my dog did when I got home) you can probably smell the fried chicken dinner we ate at my Uncle's Sunday night, when we all sat around the big dining room table and told jokes. I felt like I was home... around all my family, as if this was the cocoon that I was safe in.
There are tears, wiped carelessly onto my jeans from when I was crying at my Grandmother's house, realizing this was the last time I was going to be there.
Raindrops from the bad weather on the long ride home.
There are probably a million more smells and smudges that reveal the things I did over the weekend, the emotions I felt. And like the stains that are left behind on my jeans, there is a stain upon my heart for each one. Stains that can never be cleansed.
I said good-bye to one of my "constants" that I've talked about before. No matter where I went, how old I got, or who I "was" in life, one of my constants was my Grandparents' house. My Grandmother and Grandfather sitting in their chairs, the portrait of my cousin above Grandfather, the one of my sister above Grandmother. Or was it the other way around? The raspberry patch. The endless trinkets from all the trips they've made around the world. My Grandmother. My Grandfather. There. In that house.
The stains may wash out of my jeans after all. But the memories will remain in my heart always.
A.R.M.
07/05/01
I spilled hard lemonade on my jeans when we went on the hayride. And the hay itself left a lingering odor. That was fun... riding through the dark woods, feeling young and carefree again. The boys were shooting off bottle rockets and the girls were commenting on how silly the boys were being. And someone's three-year old daughter helped my cousin drive the tractor and we all told her what a good job she did. I felt invincible. Like nothing bad could happen to me right at that moment.
The red stains on the legs are from when I wiped my hands on them while picking raspberries in my Grandfather's raspberry patch. Growing up we'd pick the fruit for Grandmother to make jam, or to mash up for a topping on ice cream. But that wasn't going to happen anymore. The house was going up for sale immediately and this would be the last time I'd ever pick raspberries in the garden. I wasn't even saving them up for eating later, I just picked them fresh off the vine and popped them into my mouth. And if the juice got on my hands I just wiped my hands on my jeans. I hope the stains don't come out when I wash the jeans because it would be nice to have a keepsake of the last time I ever got to pick raspberries at my Grandparents' house. The last time I got to be a child there.
The grass stains on the knees are from wrestling in the yard with my nephews. They'd run up to me and tackle me, sometimes one at a time, sometimes two at once. They'd tackle each other, too, but they always came back to tackle me. I'd fall back on the grass and let out a moan, as if they'd really knocked me down. When they get older they probably won't remember playing in the yard with "Aunt A" but I will, and if the grass stains don't wash out, my jeans will remember too.
There's dirt and sweat from moving antique furniture out of the basement and onto the trucks. Bit by bit we took apart my Grandparents' home. I went down into the basement where I saw my Grandfather's workbench. I went up into the attic where my mother and aunt used to have a room. I went into the garage and picked through the things in there. I looked around and realized there was no coming back.
If you sniff really closely (like my dog did when I got home) you can probably smell the fried chicken dinner we ate at my Uncle's Sunday night, when we all sat around the big dining room table and told jokes. I felt like I was home... around all my family, as if this was the cocoon that I was safe in.
There are tears, wiped carelessly onto my jeans from when I was crying at my Grandmother's house, realizing this was the last time I was going to be there.
Raindrops from the bad weather on the long ride home.
There are probably a million more smells and smudges that reveal the things I did over the weekend, the emotions I felt. And like the stains that are left behind on my jeans, there is a stain upon my heart for each one. Stains that can never be cleansed.
I said good-bye to one of my "constants" that I've talked about before. No matter where I went, how old I got, or who I "was" in life, one of my constants was my Grandparents' house. My Grandmother and Grandfather sitting in their chairs, the portrait of my cousin above Grandfather, the one of my sister above Grandmother. Or was it the other way around? The raspberry patch. The endless trinkets from all the trips they've made around the world. My Grandmother. My Grandfather. There. In that house.
The stains may wash out of my jeans after all. But the memories will remain in my heart always.
A.R.M.
07/05/01
Angel
I want to be perfect for you
so you won't find fault with me
and leave.
I want to say the right things
to make you smile
to make you cry
to make you glad you love me.
I want to do the right things
to make you feel safe
to make you feel like you belong here
to make you glad to be near me.
I really am afraid of losing you
and what's worse is I am afraid
that showing you I am afraid
is unbecoming
and that it will push you away
when what I mean to do is pull you closer.
"Be yourself" is so much easier said than done
when you're afraid that being one's self...
won't be good enough.
A.R.M.
05/02/01
so you won't find fault with me
and leave.
I want to say the right things
to make you smile
to make you cry
to make you glad you love me.
I want to do the right things
to make you feel safe
to make you feel like you belong here
to make you glad to be near me.
I really am afraid of losing you
and what's worse is I am afraid
that showing you I am afraid
is unbecoming
and that it will push you away
when what I mean to do is pull you closer.
"Be yourself" is so much easier said than done
when you're afraid that being one's self...
won't be good enough.
A.R.M.
05/02/01
Rememberance
Time heals all wounds or so the story goes.
But time has forgotten me, my broken heart does know.
And misery will dine with me and sorrow will stop for tea.
After all, I've got the time since time's forgotten me.
And loneliness will bed with me since you no longer do,
and tomorrow nite I'll dance alone or perhaps invite the blues.
And all the world will bow its head and cry with me a tear or two,
for they know that time's forgotten me just as you did, too.
A.R.M.
01/26/92
But time has forgotten me, my broken heart does know.
And misery will dine with me and sorrow will stop for tea.
After all, I've got the time since time's forgotten me.
And loneliness will bed with me since you no longer do,
and tomorrow nite I'll dance alone or perhaps invite the blues.
And all the world will bow its head and cry with me a tear or two,
for they know that time's forgotten me just as you did, too.
A.R.M.
01/26/92
[untitled]
I painted my nails, shiny and pink –
tied a yellow ribbon through my hair
and made my way up Second Street
at noon – he was not there.
I waited ‘til quarter past one
before I had admitted defeat
realizing that he would not come –
I left, a yellow ribbon in the street.
He had promised me a splendid life,
filled with laughter, love, and joy.
He promised to take me as his wife –
what a fool am I! And he, a cruel boy!
A.R.M.
06/16/96
tied a yellow ribbon through my hair
and made my way up Second Street
at noon – he was not there.
I waited ‘til quarter past one
before I had admitted defeat
realizing that he would not come –
I left, a yellow ribbon in the street.
He had promised me a splendid life,
filled with laughter, love, and joy.
He promised to take me as his wife –
what a fool am I! And he, a cruel boy!
A.R.M.
06/16/96
No Cure
When I get a broken heart I really wish it’d break
that way I could mend it with a piece or two of scotch tape.
Or perhaps I’d stick it together with a dab of Elmer’s glue
or maybe I’d stitch it up again to make it all brand new.
But whenever my heart breaks I try to heal the pain -
I care for it and protect it but my efforts are in vain…
for it always breaks again.
A.R.M.
01/31/92
that way I could mend it with a piece or two of scotch tape.
Or perhaps I’d stick it together with a dab of Elmer’s glue
or maybe I’d stitch it up again to make it all brand new.
But whenever my heart breaks I try to heal the pain -
I care for it and protect it but my efforts are in vain…
for it always breaks again.
A.R.M.
01/31/92
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