AllWebCo Website Template

Poetry written by Susanne Updike-Waite

Mourning Michaela

I mourn the loss of my child

never conceived

with a bankrupt heart

hollow and crushing in

my tearducts rebel and

allow rivers to run

down my face leaving

embankments of foundation

and eyeliner delta drips

Fuzz of velvet blonde hair

topaz pools of eye

or hazelnut vision

with Oak bark hair

It would not matter

But I will never know now

I cannot hold this child

The blanket I stitched two

years ago sits idle in a bag of dust

Am I being selfish?

Self-absorbed?

Stupid?

I am not the one who is sterile

I will never have children

of my own philosophy,

biology, integrity

My nurture and my discipline

deserted with the diagnosis of

Spinal-Bulbar Muscular Atrophy

The loss of your legs’ movement

And the loss of my will to live

are an odd pairing

but they have found each other

I thought I could ignore the

warm peach that yearns to grow

and shove her into the

black hole that is my heart

I cannot She keeps rising and revealing

herself in my tears that flow

no more

My wishing-well has run dry.

[1997]

Palm's Promise

Emerald persistence pokes through the pavement;

Half-brown, bent frond waves in a tire-rushed wind.

[1995]

Forgive Me, My Fever Hasn’t Yet Broke

Crack led your life for too long

in the cramped shadow apartment in Venice and

those cockroach rooms in Hollywood.

6’7", we couldn’t drag you away.

So high, flying, oblivious to the surrounding filth.

I remember the pock-marked face

and walking stick skeleton - I thought you had AIDS.

I, straight as a fishing rod before

a prize catch, have nothing to be ashamed of.

Mom, the two-headed myth:

Bitter. Sweet. Mother. You must

jab your sword to the left to distract

the bitter one to extract the sweet one.

Crazy! But she never abandoned us.

She stayed, hating every minute of it,

she stayed.

I, brainwashed to be the supergoodone,

have nothing to be ashamed of.

No caresses for my eternal love until

primitive desire drives me to denounce my

vows of celibacy. Sometimes, he remembers

to hug me. Sometimes, I remember to hug him back.

And I, workaholic, running like a train and all

its hours, have nothing to be ashamed of.

The terror father instilled in me to see it all

and say nothing. The protected spectator

of Gladiator blood sport. The welts left

on my heart are so much larger than those

on your body. The bruises of my insecurities

are not like the ones long vanished

from mother’s skin.

And I, cowardly, crouching (always) in the corner,

crying, have nothing to be ashamed of.

[1997]

Los Angeles

Paper white crumples blow

to the curb where Gabriel, a homeless

man, washes the smog from his face.

Chain linked lots, protected from lawsuits,

allow a new crop of crabgrass to protrude

on the sidewalk where the immigrants wait

for city chariots to bus them to their jobs.

Breezes too impotent to quell the heat

blow their trumpets silently. A man wearing a

yellow Yamaka stops to listen for only a moment

then ascends up the asphalt.

The sun-faded flag waving over 43^rd Place

may be frayed, but the people standing below it

have hope and vision and good hearts.

Arteries, clogged with steel that becomes

useless after we become one

with the Earth, flow slow.

Dull and dingy walls clinging to windows

allow Mariachi and laughing to escape

lighting up the alley.

The counterfeit leg of a wheelchair bandit

insists I give money to its owner. Charity

must be decided upon.

The infected sea, forsaken beach, and

suicidal surfers pray that the bacteria

count is down.

Glass panels mimicking the sky in downtown

reveal the clouds from which we are all

watched.

[1997]

(Haiku)

With each step I take,

I walk towards a better World,

one in which I will fly

[1997]

Swept out to Sea

Swept out to sea,

You are gone from me,

Never to be seen again,

Never to be touched again,

Our minds will not meet any longer

Nor will our eyes.

I have lived for love,

Now I love for life,

But the weight of love

Is a heavy burden tied

To my mortality.

The sorrow in my soul,

Swells around my ankles

Like the waves crashing

At my feet.

The tide steals from me

What I can never have again

And my spirit is lost in the

Movement of the ocean.

I stare out to the horizon line,

Longing to see it again,

Its disappeared in fog

and my heart is heavy,

The blissful years we’ve had,

Are now awash

in the turmoil of the ocean,

Swirling through the deep green coolness

I sing to the sky,

A tearful melody,

I fall to my knees in the sand

And pray that you will suddenly

Walk right up to me, take my hands

And run down the strand with me.

Swept out to sea,

Am I to never speak your name?

To never think of you again,

To avoid the pain?

I am as unsettled as the rolling waves,

And turbulent undertow. My shadow is tossed

Around, fighting to be free, being pulled

Below the strong water. Dragged

Through the sand, brushing my face.

The rocks are steadfast and wise.

I only wish I could be so unmoved

And quiet. Yet still, I

Sing my woe to the world.

I am an empty shell,

Calling out for you,

You don’t answer,

You ignore my voice,

I continue to sing

My song to the sea.

My life is breaking,

I have no path,

Just like ocean water

My emotions

cannot be controlled.

Without you, I have no way to go.

I cannot bear to think of life

without you,

Which way to go?

The water beats upon my feet,

A rhythmic melody, luring me,

Calling my name,

The wind laps my ears,

Asking me to stay.

Swept out to sea…

I want to be swept out to sea…

[2003]

Suburban Poetry

August breeze caresses my naked

legs, sun blocked by my two

story tract home.

Lounging in my patio chair

umbrella down, feet up

in a second chair, sod mature

waving to me and rose stems reaching

out to Waltz. Contemporary poet in

my hands. Comprehending his

world during the eleventh poem.

God damn it, I’m trying to read poetry

and industrial civilization intrudes again:

The weed whip eating, then the riding

lawn mower, I can see you fat man, too

lazy to walk your mower on my north.

West sounds of wet saws slashing

flagstone to bits for a newfangled patio.

Airplane engines echo from above, Can’t

you take a different flight path?

East splashes and screams in the

pool. Those girls are out there all hours

of day and night.

South is that Labrador barking. I know the one,

it pees on my front lawn.

Thank God, the saw grinds to a halt,

the mower has been vacationed in the garage,

a Lab has napped to quiet,

girls have vanned to McDonald’s,

and the plane has sauntered out of my sky.

Restless audience interrupted

of thought and focus

Poet still in hand,

the mood has been broken.

I’ll continue this reading

in a bubble bath with Schubert

in the cd player.

Tribute to a Single-Working Mother

How was it that you possessed

iron gripped strength

and I, a product of you no less,

cannot even bear semblance to

your steadfast, hold tight emotion?

How did you go to work,

function? I want to know.

You kept it together - knowing

a prison of two children awaited

you at the end of the day. Tired

and hungry you bound your way

home every night, sober. You

tried your best to make us secure.

You were there for us. At least

half of you was there, I know

another half wished to be free.

You cooked us dinner, albeit,

everything came from a box or

a can, but it was edible. We always

had milk and bread, clean clothes,

baths, and heat. You made sure

of that.

I hated wearing my cousin’s hand-me-downs.

I hated waiting for my layaway coat at Kmart;

By the time I got it, I had outgrown it. But

I never said anything. I was so happy to have

something new. I tried not to ask for too much.

I knew we didn’t have a lot of money. Did I ask

for too much?

I remember when you were a full

time mother who could walk us to school,

cook us breakfast from scratch, and braid

my hair.

I missed you on field trips and at softball

games. I wanted you to help me with my

homework and paint my nails.

Thank you for your dedication. Thank you

for your wisdom. Thank you for

always being there.

I could ask for things to have been

different:

But I would not ask

for a different mother.

[1996]

California Winter Rush-Hour

Innumerable headlights float east, blistering like stars.

Obstructing golden orb lingers in the west

enticing our exasperation, mocking our annoyance.

Motorists crawl domiciled, thin-lipped.

Reckless days of summer departed

when together we accelerated

like a school of dolphin braving the blue-gray.

Endless torch-bearing citizens stalk my

rearview mirror, eager to storm the castle.

Crimson tail lights hunt one another

as we edge towards our destinations

contesting violent kinship, combating

vicious contemplations.

[1997]

1912

Icy wind stings the metallic sides.

Blue-gray depths call to it,

Come. Come to the deep.

Waves sip from the ship’s bow,

swallowing what can no longer float.

Lifeboats leave some for the dead bottom.

Mountains of ice silently

drift by in mourning,

cursing the guilty one.

Silver fog hovers

nonchalantly, without surprise.

It’s buried misery before.

Dapper suits and handlebar mustaches

disappear for the millennia.

Gone.

[1998]

Why?

Why you may ask of me,

do I attempt to write poetry?

I do not have time to be,

recollecting in tranquility.

Is it merely for self-therapy?

Or is it pure hyperbole?

So, as you can see,

even I ask me,

Why?

[1996]