Grow

Grow My Son

Built strong house

Built raised beds

Built joyful life

But babies grow

go

Name Steve crows

at five months

 a teenager

Runty and persecuted

chick became a house pet.

Gradually re-introduced

to the flock, by night

black hoody ski mask

no children? 

lost dog or a cat?

heart like that?

 Husband barred me

from the door while 

baby cried 

read psyho babble

tough love book of 

bubbling spring sleep,

but pain's a watershed

Dialed 911 in days 

when people had home

phones, husband ripped

the cord from the wall

Stinking cry baby

escaped that man

Divorce doesn't end.

Name Steve is number 901

of miscarriages, children,

and adopted pets.

Morning free

range time and coffee. 

Call Name Steve to snuggle. 

He ignores.

Turns his back.

"Act like you don't know me lady,

 I'm deep under cover."

Yes, I recall, Pick me up from

school Mom, down the street

Pussy willows for sale

Goat sallow in spring

Plant echinacea 

under forsythia

golden health

Bloom my son 

find your joy

Miss you

Love Mom

Copyright Caroline Gerardo 2/5/2016 all photographs and poetry rights reserved

Baths 5 Cents

Baths Five Cents

Water off last night

River drys up, you crave more.

No cheese for Lent, dream of cream.

Fortunately the weather is cooler.
Fog in the morning for the rodeo.

Jackie is pregnant, again...
Promise puppy photograph

Hadn't heard from him a month
text arrives plans made and fail

Am I better off not missing  
tub soaks to drain cares away?
je crains la rivière
nettoie votre chanson

Caroline Gerardo  Baths Five Cents Poem Copyright August 27, 2016

Fog Lifts

Seed Catalogs pile on the coffee table. 

Not throwing them out with the clutter purge, yet.

By this time of year I clone roses, clematis vines, 

and hydrangeas. Winter is seeds purchasing time. Start them in sunny

kitchen windows, then move gradually to the "greenhouse." 

Greenhouse doesn't have heat. Normally in Coastal California nights

don't freeze. Last couple, however; harsh dry winds and 

cold threatens to burn tender projects. Mild freeze turns chartreuse new

sprouts to red. Frost makes the cells turn to mush as if desiccated

then liquidated. The tingling feeling in fingers when exposed

to snow too long. 

Since the plan is in pen to sell and move I haven't traded seeds on

heirloom seed swap and garden web seed exchange. 

In the garage sit paper bags full of smaller brown parcels of seeds. 

An idea came to mind to plant them in my Mother's 

and sister's gardens in hopes they bloom

and produce seed for 2017 

when I plan to be settled in a new home. 

I'm downsizing from a huge high maintenance castle. 

I plan to rent for six months to a year.

Find the ideal cottage with a small yard. 

Everywhere I lived I changed an ugly plat or acreage into a stain glass church of flowers.

Come over before the smell of paradise disappears.

Will I stay here? Perhaps renting is a change that frees time.

No longer will I be weekend warrior.

Scrubbing the pool tile, painting ceilings or repairing plumbing. 

Did I tell you about the six foot glass panel shattering over the

pansies Sunday? I'm still picking up bits. 

Save Honey (Golden Retriever) from harm with tangled contraptions.

Will this give me the desire to fly? 

After living in suburbia and owning a ranch to give my children a great

life start maybe I will move to New York or back to London or Mumbai?

My necklace clasp hits cross and hair entwines. 

It's a sign.

Morning fog lifts. 

Time to pray for all.

Cells below fingernails have minuscule shards of glass.

Becoming a part of my spirit

It's not like sand in eye scratching.

It's that missing feeling when I think of my son at college.

Or when someone mentioned Lacrosse on Facebook.

No more running to High School games to work the stats.

But it's in my heart.

Fog before hiking Yosemite 2016 Caroline Gerardo

morning Yosemite snow and fog Caroline Gerardo

Chain link fence and morning sun

Caroline Gerardo Copyright 2/6/2016 

Empty Nest Thoughts

Missing

MISSING

A familiar mug.

Not a tea cup. 

A sturdy arm.

Old boyfriend

threw it away.

Kids blamed

missing toys

on Tidy Bob.

"Tossed shit

on trash day"

Sneak stuff

out when the 

truck comes.

Miss that mug.

Our Halloween

decorations sit

in a landfill.

Breaking down

compost into

sunflowers in 

a new vase. 

sunflowers

graveyard hydrangeas

bridge to past

burned motor home

Poem and images
 copyright 2016
Caroline Gerardo

Missing Poem

I started this letter before. I wrote in the steam in the shower glass. Often triggered by experiencing a place we shared, reaching for my moleskin notebook, then only looking at the paper. My eyes waited to read the words. The page remained empty. I have the gift of haruspicy. You live in another place and time, wearing eye glasses that blank out the entrails. Vision is clouded.
I exercised, painted and drank bottles of wine. I read. I prayed in my library. Nothing expelled the specter.

Your platitude, “time will heal.”

I gave it years.

The sore needed wound care. Finally it did seal up jagged.

At three in the morning it would awaken me pounding.

Turned the lights on, there was no bloody hole. Only arrhythmia playing tricks on the amount of oxygen to the brain.

Why are love songs about hearts? Better off with emotions in my feet to help me use that animal flight instinct. When I met you there was another contender. I stopped admonishing my soul. I’m great at stock picking. I conquer adventures.

My children are scarred. Tricked by a tin wind up box with promises, they don’t offer keys.

Splashing over writer’s block, diving from the platform without fear, swim up for my life.

I am at fault. A priest gave me absolution, but that Ash Wednesday cross is tattooed on my forehead.

Time does not heal. Time gives us perspective. The choice to forgive and love again.

I hope you have joy.

Still missing poem.

Photographs from my iphone Boston College Library

Barry Crowther MISSING

Georg Baselitz

It is rare and far between I write a review, but this one you must read.

Barry Crowther’s   Missing

We enter the novel, “Prison does strange things to a man.”

Matt Spears is a man trying to hold it together. Things at home with the wife are on the edge of divorce. He is barely surviving on the business inherited from his father, the Buffalo Collections Agency, when two cops arrive ready to pin a wrap on Spears.

The setting is Manchester England, not the dark Victorian River Irwell but a contemporary crime riddled city of pornography and gangs. Crowther uses the smoky backdrop as Raymond Chandler employed Los Angeles with grace and a bit of humor.

Spears is insulated by his forensic accountant cold sidekick, Nathan Draper, and his trusted office assistant Trudy (not drawn as either the typical blonde bombshell or matronly aid). Spear makes a deal with the devil, the gangster Vincent Barbour (no relation to my ex-husband). Spear must uncover what happened to Barbour’s niece Emma. The cast of strange characters pins the book in the reader’s hands until we uncover what happened to Emma.

Crowther saves us from describing the long legs of the porn victims with mastery. I do not need to hear it and he uses the depravity to add to the suspense. I am reminded of Expressionist paintings of Georg Baselitz with spellbinding threats looming over Spears. Crowther nails the noir thriller to equal Larsson’s trilogy with our flawed hero in the center. I suggest another parallel to a Scandinavian writer of the same title, Karin Alvtegen’s novel Missing. Her is not similar in plot or story, but in the fireworks. Crowther’s charged language masterfully ignites slang and rapid sentences upon the reader. Crowther’s is a gorgeous use of words.

I started this novel on a Sunday afternoon and remained awake until complete.

Unsent Letter

You + Me Aspen Tree

   I wanted to tell you a list of things. Call this a love letter of sorts. I can't send it but I can write it as flash fiction, not poetry. This is a casual note you might find in your pocket.

   The tests are back on the roof tiles. There is no lead, my design plan for rain gutters to gather enough water for a garden, sun shower and the whole budget is less than $2100 in materials. Adding water that is previously untapped and free feels independent, that is how I would describe it to you in a bouncing up and down Charlie Brown Christmas dance.

   I keep you in my prayers now when rain showers seem to cross my path. This incredible rainbow popped this afternoon. I asked Him to make you my Superman, the strong man who leads.

   Four of the poems and paintings I made for you of your ranch are complete. They are missing the magic. The images give a glimpse of the wonder.

   I regret one thing, not writing our initials in a tree. I needed your permission to make that leap.

   The aspens whispered to me. Remember I asked your ancestors connected to sing a little and let go a few golden leaves, they cooperated so merrily. They saw my dangerous heart. It gives everything and loves forever. Though this is problematic, with no way to turn it off when attacked. I learned to stay apart from those who cause harm, not to stop caring.

   The Doctor said my arrhythmia is worse than last time I was tested. You didn’t ask how the results of the EKG, stress tests, and blood work came out.

   The final draft of the paper book of The Lucky Boy is done, even have the ISPN number just waiting on the cover blurbs for the back. I am hopeful for the future.

   I’m writing for Nanowrimo, and you would make that funny face not recalling what it is- write a whole novel in the month of November. Today I made it to 14201 words since the first. This is makes me feel strong and I wanted to share all with you. But you are gone. Not a far as my father now dead twelve years, I still talk to him in my dreams. I need a tape recorder for my brain when sleeping to remember what he tells me.

                  Today I feel filled with grace and joy sending you this hug to share.

Love,

C. G.
copyright 2011 all rights reserved we prosecute
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0064FOCZO

Sparrow Sings for Michael Jackson

House Bird for Michael

All the jumbled stories about his life aside,

 remember this sleep never ends

The story, the Doctor,

made me think of you, not a bad song.

It is a nasal sparrow tsip whispering in the brush.

A ghost lives in the canyon.

I tried to capture his song

but like Michael it

is threading a recording
through a telescope.

You might not care about

the sparrows facing extinction,
but it makes us sorrowful as

mist creeping over a protective glass.

It is coming soon.

I protect the nest.

It is only a house sparrow you think.

We miss the songs

I Want You Back,

 Never Can Say Goodbye,

And I’ll be There

A sparrow can understand

Twit twack calls,

Or a human if they care

Caroline Gerardo Copyright 2011

Thanksgiving Mourning Wing Sounds Poem

It is Thanksgiving in Canada,

there is an opposite season in the world.

October sunflowers return on the hillside in random rows.

Seedlings from my colossal variegated propped up blooms.

A cherry tomato gone wild is more elegant than Monsanto’s.

I was honest last Thanksgiving,
but he holds his own version story.

How long will the healing process take?

How should I know?

My life has an egg timer, there are three mouths to feed.

After years of caring, the heart does not want

 to let loose the guide rope so easy.

A hot air balloon unattached to the basket

mid-air mid-life wanting to stay connected.

Missing the sound of the girlies wings.

Pruning of my hybrid teas does not change

ramblings of climbers & stray hummingbirds.
I am happy in my soul.

I stopped filling the feeders,

 I gave up the trail with old haunts,

until my fingers bleed at the cuticles,

but still that sprout gets into my dreams.

Awakening

photograph Caroline Gerardo Copyright 2011

MISSING

Caroline Gerardo Copyright March 2011

Pain exists on my lips. I do not feel it. The upper is not cracked or bleeding, the scar tissue is from the grief. I cut my finger with new Fiscar gardening shears. I see bones. I stitched it myself.

How long must I pull thorns from my mouth? Is there a measurement when I will no longer miss you?

Did my father die yesterday or in the Devonian Period? In dreams, he is a young man telling me penance things.

I awaken. I write down the words on a yellow stained notepad next to my bed. After little rest, in the morning I cannot read the language. The words are in ancient Panjabi, not Farsi. The handwriting is poor from not wearing glasses. I drink clouded moonlight. What did he say?

Tasbeeh phiree par dil ni phiriya Kee lena tasbeeh phair kay Hu- Throw the rosary beads away if your prayers remain unanswered. When the cross on my necklace meets the clasp I recite the whole rosary. This happens several times a day. It is beginning to suck up my waking hours.

I started sleeping with the blinds wide open. This allows peeking reflections off the swimming pool. A snow goose hit the mirrored surface. No, it was an owl. He has a pearly wingspan. A soothsayer who purposely hides the truth from those he loves.

I left the door open to the surf. I wake up at two and three and four. I look over on your pillow. You are not there with your hands on your chest. I believe I prefer the earlier trick of just going back to dream and seeing you in my head wound.

Awakening: A Sufi Experience