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Juanita's Poems

 

Without You

 I am the little girl
who has found her way
without you there to guide me
how could I win my day
away from the anger, the fighting, the unjust
the hurting, the lying ...... the hatred in the house.

I am the little boy
who has found his way
without you there to guide me
how could I win my day
away from the homelessness, the addictions ..… the lost rent
the frightened siblings crying ..... abusive parents ...... police sent.

I am the young mother
who has found her way
without you there to guide me
how could I win my day
away from the despair, the deception seen insincere
the newborn babe lies dying, with fevered-wasted tears.

I am the fragile senior
who has found his way
without you there to guide me
how could I win my day
away from the hunger, the disability .... impaired fist
the trembled hand ..... misgivings - disjointed at the wrist.

Let the chimed bells toll ...... forever
we already have their song
lean towards a charitable, full labour
a new hope, a past wrong .......
rejoicing today in oneness, a continuity of rhyme
conscious the less fortunate ..... reflections of our times.

Juanita Tice Paulino

What is it about old men and radios?

 “What is it about old men and radios?” I asked myself one day
while our fathers and our husbands sit down on the couch to play-
their favourite radio station, silently listening with great intent
to the broadcast news and old songs, heads leaned over as they bent
over the blues and country music, to the latest headlines worn
out there in the Aussie outback or the New York lights of scorn .

“What is it about old men and radios“? I asked myself again
for the memories of those grey hairs, casting shadows as a pin-
drops on the night time echoes, from those bands of past delights

as the music transmits softly ..... to the waves of invisible sights.

Juanita Tice Paulino

Two Heads Bent Together

 The little boy in the wheelchair,
his mother so near
paused beside the rose bushes,
with a smell and a feel,
two heads bent together,
in a world of their own
mother's face was so loving,
injured boy not alone
just two heads in the rose bush,
how tranquil, how sweet
boy's hand near the armrest,
palm with mother's .... petite
my, how poignant was the moment,
how poignant was the love
two heads bent together ....
memories beckoned and sought.

Juanita Tice Paulino

Throw In A Horse

 The woman sat across from the medium
Silently on that day,
Nodding, she asked a question
A mere, moment away.

The old psychic glanced at the lady
Repeating with a smile
"William's with you in spirit
And has been for awhile.”

“T’is, your loving Grandpa,” my dear
Speaking with hushed pride
“Throw in a horse, listen closely”
“Doors are open, don’t hide.”

Hence, the poet penned about a horse
Somerset, was her name
Kelly girl, she did ride her,
Blazing, red ribbons and fame.

Noble, was once the horse
Now aging ... weary and lean
Kneeling by her grain bucket
She died ever so … serene.

Yes, Grandpa, times, they were splendid
When summer skies did beguile
Rider and horse, running fearless
Onto green, pastures … in style.

Juanita Tice Paulino

There Was A Kettle At Her Workstation

 There was a kettle at her workstation
and the computer was unplugged
in one day she was duly .… replaced
by a coffee and a mug.

It was so obvious .... to many
that she was no longer there
but it hurt her, nevertheless
that nobody seemed to care.

There was a kettle at her workstation
on her desk of several years
memories, sweated grime and hardship
laden sadly, with old tears.

As the day came when eliminated
from her job she'd worked so hard
finding now a porcelain kettle
desk space, feathery and tarred.

Juanita Tice Paulino

There Is No Money In Writing Poetry

 There is no money in writing poetry
it's so obvious, the critics would say
only a small select like it anyway
so don't waste your time and day ....
there is no money in writing poetry
try a novel, she was told .... again
a novel is where the money is
people pay for books .... it's the trend
yes, she knew she was not a novelist
but her stories all came in rhyme
and she was indeed, a story-teller
aware, each phrase would work in kind
in her own way .... she wrote her poetry
a manner of speaking easier to read
than the three-hundred page-worded novels
tearing the eye to words which lead
you down a garden-path of verbatim
exciting yes, but alas, to a few
her poetry carried tidings of gilded imagery
rhetoric eloquence penned on ..... parched residue.

Juanita Tice Paulino

My Dear Bike

 I rode my dear bike
called her Betsy by name
up and down gravel roads
riding .... NO HANDS, in vain
Geez .... how fast I could go
skidding down that darn road,
over sidewalks and curves
as an eagle takes hold
God .... how I loved that old bike
at first .… too big for me
but I grew and I grew
until finally, you see
I made it into the seat
whilst holding onto the bars
flying past the red signals
and the mirage of cars
looking back now, I realize
how dangerous .... was my feat
yet, I would not change anything
cycling was ..... such a treat!!!!!!

Juanita Tice Paulino

Mother Nature At Work

 Mother Nature boldly at work
on a cool, spring day
cleaning out her muddy gardens
just a mere rainfall ..... away
never-mind the grey skies
she's working at her best
Matron of grit toiled impurities
bravely shoring a windy vest
despair not, skies will awaken
soon all will be resolved
happily facing new dawns together
task completed, on the job.

Juanita Tice Paulino

Morning Train And The Lady

 "Just two more days", she said, train's wheels covering the track
"Just two more days", she realized, fingers counting all the facts
merrily rolling .... the black train quickly, sliding-round the yielded bend,
passengers sleeping side by side, would this journey ever end ....
the lady reading her favourite book, lifted .... her green, green, eyes
pondering a glance out the window, tedious routine - on the ride
weary …. she travelled daily, as the train-clanked o'er the rails
viewing out into the trees, flashing by her like a sail
of sequential, autumn colours camouflaging .... the early, red sunrise
leaving behind, warm home and family, as obligations met and tried
awaiting in the big city .... the train - slowly eased near exited norm
ringing the bell .... Ding, Dong, Ding .... morning train was in top form!!!

Juanita Tice Paulino

Mist In The Farmer's Fields

 Driving along the country road
it was so easy to see
mist in the farmer's fields
ghostly tides through-out the trees
floating in a transparent cloth
just sitting alone in a maze
watered soil before the stance
grazing softly in it's place
towards lowly marsh- trodden crops
April's early morning spring did find
mystic earth - tones by and by
as the country's roads did climb

To the.......
Mist in the Farmer's Fields

Juanita Tice Paulino

Government

The poor stare at their pay stubs and
what do they see ;unjust government taxes,
thievery and more robbery.

Let us awake now and firmly … stand up
together, for our rights; poverty and abuse
prostrated to corrupted heights.

Juanita Tice Paulino

Spiders in the bathroom

 Crawling, crawling up the wall
Silk-lined shelters beset a fall
To catch the insects on which they prey
Spiders, spiders are here to stay.

Take a walk and don’t come back
Children yelp, so does the cat
Spiders, spiders here to stay
Bathroom corners, wet and frayed.

Get me a broom as soon as I can
Spiders, spiders… you are banned!

Juanita Tice Paulino

My Mother's Face

 She looked into the mirror, and what did she see
Her mother's dear face, looking …. diligently
A lipstick of red, a kind word or two
A finger to teach of past dreams so true -
How easy it was, to say no and turn back
How easy it was to say, yes and be smart
Oh Mother, Oh Mother, how could you leave me
For I am your daughter, tears flowing and free
Oh Mother, Oh Mother, I am lost at sea
Without you to be there, my face is just …. thee.

Juanita Tice Paulino

Little Red Shovel

 Slipping - sliding on the walk,
little red shovel
digging, she fought …..

Small, white footprints trampled deep
intertwined silently, as …..

two hearts beat.

Juanita Tice Paulino

She had a three Martini lunch

 She had a three Martini lunch
as she morosely walked away
since the three Martini lunch
hastily forced her to say ….

"I think I have had enough"
but, she sat down again
for the three martini lunch
solemnly was about to begin …

Another story of her sadness,
another story she should write
living with a dupe, unwisely
wasted daily in a fight …

So the lady tried attempting
to find a haven in her tears
for the three Martini lunch
alone … quieted her fears.

Juanita Tice Paulino

Remembering Kathleen

Oh ... sweet angel, Kathleen
to take your young life
so alone and afraid
over tormented strife
a puppy stolen from you
jeering jests as you cried
a father carried to jail
police blindness in stride.

"I won't see my dad again,"
anguishing in your sleep
mother led away as well
pregnant sister to keep ...
the family in tow

until parents came back
unwarranted arrest of her father
no apologies ... a fact.

Little money for the funeral
Kathleen loved ... going to church
"Go back to your reserve"
bullies yelled as they lurched
upon the innocent and defenceless
Kathleen, please rest in peace
injustice towards our aboriginals
the law should not repeat.

Juanita Tice Paulino

911 America

 Four, suicidal planes flew towards them
In defining, a planned course
A grisly, tragedy upon all
Only closely marked by force.

Clouds of doom, foretold gruesome details
Militant terrorists closing into … death
Destiny looming on the horizon,
Trembling desperation soon met.

The bombings, rattled tumbling … in quietude
Collapsing, grey walls and fallen leaves
The horror-blowing, dusty skies
Historical remnants to weave.

Fledging, sharp cries did surrounded them
Panicking, turmoil and warm shoes
Dropping clothing, falling downward
People … dying and confused.

Red lights flashing, as terror seizes
Strangling life-lines cast in fright
Children aloof now, arms extended
Orphans destitute … from flight.

Religion and politics met the defiant
Seemingly to cast … predictions in tow
Valued citizens, senseless lost lives
Graveside crosses dug in rows.
As more stories, are vainly written;
“We’ll will this war;” they said
Feeling pain … as numbers multiply
Mourning, grieving … for our dead.
Fearing horrible, telling details
A country’s pathos … as it fights
For our tragically, sinned America;
A millennium of plight.

Juanita Tice Paulino

Quiet House

She desolately lay upstairs on her bed
He miserably sat downstairs, on the chair
Neither, did speak, since the past had read ...
Bitterness, at each awakening day and fallen night
Alas, sadness dwelt, curdling in their solitude
For love was broken with shear dislike …
Festering alone, in the quiet house.

Juanita Tice Paulino

Time

 How fast the time has gone
when I was just a girl
running freely through the yard
treasure-seeking … a lost pearl;
how fast the time has gone
when I was just a bride
wearing a ring of diamonds
efferent passion's … rising tides;
how fast the time has gone
when I was just a mother
baby held close to my breast
bonding … nurturing as no other
and how fast the time has gone
when I was just … alone
fever grandeurs of my youth,
grand passages of time, reborn.

Juanita Tice Paulino

A Woman Needs Pleats

 A woman needs pleats
or so it would seem
her legs are too short
her waist is not lean
upright folds are expansible
they move to and fro ....
it's easy to hide hips
casual pockets are low
hitch up the hem-line
or lower the front
a person won't see .... then
those well-hidden humps
likened bygone, folded pants
skirts please stay in style
for without pleats .... one's butt
would be on the aisle.

Juanita Tice Paulino

After The Game

 The golf players looked at their own scores
as it was a good game .... ti’s true
three gentlemen of athletic prowess
though, none of them grander than you.

A manicured tract of land
played with a good set of clubs
deceptive strokes missed, so beguiling
in it's infinite disquieted hub.

Hit the ball, of course with a swing
like a bird that is ready to drink
nine or eighteen holes trudged later
after the game, t’was time to sing.

Juanita Tice Paulino

Summer Clothes On Her Bunk Bed

Summer clothes on her bunk bed
a mess quite unlovely .... no doubt
green garbage bags just waiting
for stuffing into spouts
of blue baskets and cream boxes
another season had flown by
replaced by autumn's longer grey-coats
eluding, ladies with a .... sigh.

Juanita Tice Paulino

I Am A Lonely Poet

 I am a lonely poet
plaintive words do not become
tears and sorrow spilling ..... somewhere
while lowly masses do ..… succumb
upon towering asphalt's cement lines
where people frantically rush to work
babies left home with a stranger
bellowing fellowship has now evoked.

I am a lonely poet
please look into my soul
mother bird nestled in her solitaire
as commonly, old men die ..... alone

money, travels in it's circles
and the poor get poorer too
can we see when it is over
courage bent ..... among the few.

Juanita Tice Paulino

Columbia Crew

Space is endless and undaunted,
grief mercifully is not,
the beginning of the end .....
National mourning ; we have stopped
to remember the Columbia crew
on a brave, Saturday morn
under a blue, Texas sky
the doomed shuttle tragically burned.
In an elegy of reminiscence,
praying as we all feel
tribute to the astronaut heroes
a lost dream so surreal,
Columbia Crew we are saddened
sparks streak and intimidate
dire sorrow shadows .… over-whelming
drawing scope‘s destiny of fate.

Juanita Tice Paulino

Glittering Capes

 Silver laces descending o'er the trees
bountiful branches, glass trinkets to thee
glittering capes; how beautiful art thou
white-covered tresses of winter's bough

Glistened reflections on sparkling, chilled lakes
glass-goblet snowballs ... dancing iced cakes
antiquity dressed above a frozen bouquet
wings of former glacier's ... crystal parfait.

Juanita Tice Paulino

Illinois Central

 She drove the car tediously down the old passage
past the whipped, corn-fields and tired houses
where horses grazed on the newly-grown grasses
and flowers, bloomed on gravelled shoulders

clippity, clack went the tracks creaking under the weight of the railroad cars as they swished their way along the worn boulders,
the white blooms on the old oak, swaying with the ease
of the train bent in it's past glories to travel homeward
while the lady drove on, near the side-road's trees

just as the procession burst ahead
straining in it's journey to complete the day's burden
ever-encompassing beneath it's fractured bed ...
of the Illinois Central.

Juanita Tice Paulino

Court Baseball

 Five little school boys
playing with a bat
"let's be New Yorkers"
said the blue cap

Run for the ball
now second and third
"Strike one," the tallest
"Don't hit the bird"

Five little players
on the paved court
tennis used as baseball
flying, high don't hurt

Imagine soaring green ball
up, up and away ......
to the last base line
squared, chalked and grey

"You guys are losing"
point two against four
no cheating, no swearing
whilst getting quite bored

Let's finish the game
"I'm not getting ..... that"
the youngest was tired
known fondly as brat

"Watch the parked cars"
the father yelled twice
"Remember the rules, kids
young men and not mice"

Game over ..... they sat
on dry lawn to think
bring out their scooters
old game gone .... blink ..... blink.

Juanita Tice Paulino

Colour

 I see a lot of paintings,
drawn on landscapes every day
also, brushed by our children ....
tender moments while at play
it does not matter what colour,
our skin-tones do display
equal standing with each other,
and learned common-sense ...... should say
we all can make a big change,
by treating mankind ..... the same
complete respect for the individual,
accepted dignity for the name .....
please let us make a difference,
I am a child too
wearing spectrum shoes on my feet,
clearly ..... Inkblots marked in dew.

Juanita Tice Paulino

Afghanistan

Demolition of Afghanistan
bombs dropped by the enemy
greater heights than Vietnam War
Human Rights fall on their knees ....
taking place in populated areas
intended targets, miss the mark
hitting adjoining apartment buildings
hospitals, offices .... masses blocked
into places where congregated
starving, innocent die of disease
deeply routed in Afghan society
displaced children, burning trees
impact deaths caused by the bombing
making headlines every day
Middle East a centre of activity
suicide bombers dance their way
control of the oil and gas resources
geographical position .... transit route
Afghanistan's significance is exported
greed and deceit, greatly ..... pollutes.

Juanita Tice Paulino

Index To Poetry

 The old grey book stood alone, leaning on the shelf,
in its contents secrets did lie …. a fellowship of wealth
Macavity, the mystery cat, viewed thee cryptically and felt
captive amongst shielded-pensive thoughts …. to which one has held.

Puck’s song, Sunrise on the sea; since eyes looked everywhere,
Macbeth, out, out, brief candle, the silhouette chasten stared ….
indexed in every sourced page, the grey book laid steadfast
referenced a thousand catalogues, skillful poetry…. rose to the task.

Juanita Tice Paulino

If Only

 If only our astronauts in space,
marked down for all to read
the global warming by mankind's haste
red rivers ... bleeding towards the seas.

If only scientists gathering data ... learned
critical changes, descended their good deeds
as we realized the robust land burned
on our tiny planet with lost keys.

If only one could fully understand
past harm that fools have done
growing pollution, and tree-cutting bands
where once proud ancestors ... did run

If only.

Juanita Tice Paulino

I wished I was still a kid

 I wished I was still a kid
she said in her wistful way ...
ten days off for Christmas
a haven, in those days.
Ohhhh …. to be a kid again
embracing the fun
hunting for those dark chocolates
at Easter- time and ... run
quickly over to the barnyard
where all the sweets were hid,
behind the old, wood timbers
squeezed in between the bins.
Ahhh ... how poignantly melodious
past memories, cradled today
as another year dates December
to the calendar in May.

Juanita Tice Paulino

Snowman

Figure stood with white, packed snow
Little snowman how you glow
In the moonlight, a man’s form
Eyes of coal … be not alarmed
As little Snowman in the yard
Makes the snowflakes settle hard
On his outstretched twigs so thin
Snowman, Snowman how we grin
Carrot nose and toque hat too
Blackened buttons, just a few …
Till the Springtime when it shows
Snowman, Snowman ... out you go!!!

Juanita Tice Paulino

My Mother's Face

She looked into the mirror, and what did she see
Her mother's dear face, looking …. diligently
A lipstick of red, a kind word or two
A finger to teach of past dreams so true -
How easy it was, to say no and turn back
How easy it was to say, yes and be smart
Oh Mother, Oh Mother, how could you leave me
For I am your daughter, tears flowing and free
Oh Mother, Oh Mother, I am lost at sea
Without you to be there, my face is just …. thee.

Juanita Tice Paulino

I Can Write

 I have no famous body of work
that has earned several awards
I do not have biographical notes
nor, publications in the hoards.

Yet, truly, if one writes clearly
jostled by our brilliant …. sunrises
yielding , may one find another dawn
of scripting ….. dancing off my eyelashes.

Juanita Tice Paulino

Never, is a long, long time

never is a long, long time
you have nothing more to say, only no, no
with your darkened aged spots on your hands and your frail countenance
these are the gestures which I live with everyday
we do not sleep in the marriage bed, your snoring and twitching disturbs me

disheartened to be so near and yet so far away, we both are distant
when I look over to you, your gestures portray anger
shall I close my eyes in distaste
once, we were two roses, clinging together on the vine
now the thorns are between us

and we cannot stop the bleeding, bleeding
never, is a long, long time
how our lives have unfolded
there is not a spark of fire left
your openness is now closed with reliquiae hate

painfully, my body yearns for another time
a place when I could smell the scent of a man beside me
for the winter is upon us and spring–time no longer is ripe
on your lips with the essence of your smile
ever beckoning, when nothing in my life had equalled your passions

which I now yearn, feeling incomplete and tarnished
as death approaches us both and we find ourselves
questioning the mortality of life
the power of our energy enclosing our physical beings
sadly, remembering our youth and the promised oath of till death do us part

my voice now pondering and questioning
the sobriety of nevertheless, as I ask:
my lover, my husband where are thou,
loosely, my heart threads into fragile boughs.

Juanita Tice Paulino

Opera At Sea

 Composition of waves, formed
dramatically- splashing below the keel
dancing, curved swells on a surface
spraying cascades directly and surreal
as we visualized the white caps of
watered turbulence, reverting the eye
while swaying vibrations of emotions
masked the sails’ performance at high:

Undulation of an outline,
spiralling into the ship’s flag
likewise, the blowing wind moved forward
crying harsh sounds … with a brag
heightened waves on liquid boundaries
enhanced the rainstorm falling free,
alas, finally displaying a crescendo,
orchestrated as the … Opera At Sea.

Juanita Tice Paulino

Limestone Brick

 The beloved family homestead sadly, had fallen into unruly disrepair
Duly, recited openly with delightful stories … surely one might truly care
Now, beset with peeling, flowered wallpaper; tattered furniture inside
Where, the limestone brick once had displayed a stated elegance with pride;

Nearby, as the tree-lined stream ran down slowly easing from the pond
So too, did the limestone brick house carry a relinquished, abandoned song
Echoing past timbered vibrations in old flooring, cracks in tin panels too
Country’s rustic homespun character filled with Victorian, charmed hues.

Deep and worn pebbled laneways also, were daily travelled by and by
As brown horses drawn with buggies befitted a grandiose carriage- high
Manner of gait, gaily trotting, steadily climbing whilst riding to the walk
Lively visitation amongst peels of laughter, carried far above the talk:

Fondly, recalling such cherished memories, way up there - upon the hill
While Nana’s homemade pies lay cooling … on her kitchen’s window-sill.

Juanita Tice Paulino

Again the wind is speaking

 again the wind is speaking as
I rush to my daughter’s bedroom
her sleeping head, all but covered,
except for a small opening
for my child does not hear the rumbling
above the rooftop as the trees swing
in their moods of contemplation
there are no changes, my eyes are calmer
but the wailing continues outside
and my fear is climbing again
to the bundle under the covers
where my daughter lies sleeping, sleeping
the horses neigh in rude abandonment
while the barn door claps and claps on
cautiously, mice hide easily under the straw
left carelessly by the piglets feet
and the big oak at the front of the house
bends over as I prayer for a reprieve from the
howling wind as my beauty lies sleeping, sleeping
through-out … the storm continues to brew outside
away from my daughter’s haven
of sweet dreams and candy cane wonders
dancing to the excited imaginations
of her pending womanhood
she lies so innocently …sleeping, sleeping
as only a small child could.

Juanita Tice Paulino

If You Only Knew

 Tired indeed, I was
Listless, as the deadened fallen leaves on the trees
When I say, alas they are dead
For the cat who sneaks up on the unforeseen bird
Gradually closes into a warped death bed
Mindful of the certain inevitable silence
Just as my lover’s tears leave behind,
Another year of peril and surrender
Indeed a trillion light years of disorder
While the humming bird’s blur
Circles and hums around the fallen petals
Of forgotten youth, the lasting shreds
Mixed with autumn’s colours and when
All is spoken in a whisper
Under the grasses of relics to send
Messages where my body will lie by the willows
If you only knew.

Juanita Tice Paulino

As Moonlight Is Shifting

 What judgement doth prevail in the midst of night
Awakened in my heart, now savaged with flight
A love in lamented gut-wrenching shouts
Cradled dispersions, revealed and such cast on my doubts …
A misery that is but masked to life’s rhyme
As moonlight is shifting through-out the torn blinds.

Trust me, to render to another time and place
Whereas my anger, bludgeoned doth cut on my face
In disregard, with eyes closed and sealed with regret
Quivering hands folding … reach out and beset
In Heartache towards my solitude , cry out demons, cry out !
For thee, lost lover, chastened and pure and devout.

Leave you, oh forgotten lover, leave you, Oh damn divine
As moonlight is shifting through-out the torn blinds.

Juanita Tice Paulino

Angel Hair

 I wondered if there ever seemed
A cloud as wispy as your hair
With waves as full as starlight’s beams
Beside my arms in rapture fair -
Continue as the heavens above
Transcendent and illuminate as one, beloved.

Angel Hair, how soft it does feel, yet I
Hold some regret for my haste to flee:
Cannot a romantic, tempt to try
To rejoin the loving in grand company.
Oh Ernest, oh Ernest, with such little care
What future doth hold us; alone in your lair.

For often, when on my bed I do lie
Beset in my lonely or forsaken stare
Your face doth hinder bespoken my sigh’s
Upon your loving body so bare;
Alas, as my past creeps up so surreal
Angel hair, I surrender the night; Oh gentile!

Juanita Tice Paulino

Spatial

Kathryn lay across the made bed in her worn-out pink housecoat; her pink, matching slippers sprawled beside the bed. She was bored and slightly depressed. The remote control flipped back and forth in her left hand, her head lying to the side also on the two worn pillows. Kathryn was out of work. She had been for the past year, and her Unemployment Insurance was running out. “Dear God”, she muttered to herself, as she did repeatedly for the past few months. "What am I going to do? " She had applied for many jobs, and no reply.

Countless resumes and no takers. Kathryn was the sole supporter of her family. She was married and had been the only bread-winner for the past twenty-five years. Now, she was tired. Very tired. Writing was her passion, poems to be sure ... and she had a few published. But, she wanted to get her manuscript, published and it was all very confusing. So many publishers out there, but they all wanted her money first; what-ever happened to a writer getting her work published and the publishing company paying for her writing? She was a good writer, many liked her work, but with every failed effort to find the right traditional publisher, she became more and more hesitant to continue. Maybe, she should just forget about her dream to be published with her own book out there in Never, Neverland.

Her daughter, rarely read her work and her husband told her that her “writing was zero”. In fact that was his exact words and she was very troubled by his years of verbal abuse. Kathryn had failed in many ways, in her career direction, but one thing she was certain of and that was she would “over her dead body” never work in a bank again. My God, how she hated the 9-5 life working for someone else. “I need to finally do what I want to do”, she said, to herself, as she had said to herself many times in the past. “ I just can’t go back to that life again.” Kathryn believed she could make it in the literary field, if only she had a bit of luck and personal grit to carry on. Something inside her, told her to not give up yet. Her web-site was good, and she had spent the past eight years, since her father died building her writing up into a manuscript. Endless money orders and submissions for contests and Publishing Houses. She was running out of time, soon she would be forced to be on welfare.

Kathryn, actually just had another interview for a postal clerk, part –time, but it only paid $8.05 an hour and she made more on Unemployment Insurance. Her daughter was talking on the phone, as most sixteen year olds do, and she could hear her chatting and laughter in the background. “Oh to be sixteen again”, she thought. “ I certainly would handle life a lot differently. I was too much of a bum- magnet and had low self-esteem. Always, trying to please everyone but myself.” More self-doubt, sometimes she thought of just “ending it all”, but that wouldn’t be fair to her daughter, her beautiful, lovely daughter. Kathryn loved her daughter with all her heart, and tried to be a good, caring mother. It wasn’t easy living with a man years older than her, from a different culture and a binge-drinker. Not, that Kathryn dwelled all the time on her misfortunes, it was just not an easy life, that’s all. Maybe that’s why her writing was so unique and good, she knew it was good. She just needed a bit of luck that’s all, just a little bit of luck. Kathryn stared into space again, not moving on the bed. She was definitely not herself.

Juanita Tice Paulino

Socks

 Have you ever had leg socks
rolling down with a roar,
crumbling, undone and wrinkled
sliding ... folds to the floor;
white socks with black loafers
a no-no, 'Tis true
staring down to the ankles
nagging mysteries to you.
we hate those loose stockings
knees lengths and much more
one cannot keep them up
dismissed ... as a bore;
wedged between the washer
I fear we shall find
a mirage of lost socks, LEFT
in the laundry ... behind.

Juanita Tice Paulino

Memoirs

 She stood by the window,
and reminisced of her life
suffered sadly through misery,
due dire pathos and strife;
written between her memoirs
the love and the hate
abused and yet hidden
lowly, abashed beyond the late-
evening of passion’s sunsets
alone in the pale room;
she recalled so sadly
when, life was … full-bloom
now, laden with despair
amongst her frail, tender limbs
past actions came flooding,
as if in a whim …
of untold, unabated emotions
held ... quietly, into her heart
only knowing the hardships,
kept her optic mind apart-
from regaling the truths
as truths could be told;
whilst composing her memoirs
could she be … so bold ?

Juanita Tice Paulino

Yellow shoes in the old bag

 Yellow shoes in the old bag,
I found shuffling, one day,
my dear mother's favourite
alas ... she has passed away
yellow shoes in the old bag
lying there, deftly all alone -
forgiven, solely worn at
each soliloquized new dawn;
yellow shoes in the old bag
beset, how solitude you lay
remember ... sweet mother's bending
o'er you tirelessly each day
she stepped, into your whitened soles
nestled onto her small feet
yellow shoes, yellow shoes
tell me, her message is now ... complete.

Juanita Tice Paulino


copyright 2008