| Exerpts from Mrs. Raffaele's Books |
| Oscar I was just a little girl when we moved to the seashore. At age thirteen a tsunami wiped out our home My little delight was a seal pup. Oscar’s eyes, expressive, round and brown with long black lashes, melted me. He knew my voice when I called for him He would swim from inside the aquarium out into his out door pool. I would stand close to the chain link fence looking through two holes Hoping that he would come close my nose. Oscar grinned and barked, happily slapping his fin on top the water. When a tidal wave destroyed his man made home, I pictured him being swept out to sea and into the vastness of freedom, other wise I could not bare it. It was a devastating event in the small coastal town back in 1964. We lost our home, some friends and barely escaped with our lives Now, over forty years later I am walking along the same shore. The wind gives me an earache As I stop and dig my toes into the wet sand, loving how the water feels as it pools around my feet. A little red Japanese crab scampers sideways from underneath a piece of driftwood, As I admire the design on a twisted gray log. I look toward the dock where the old "Sea Wonders Alive" once was and wonder, was I the only one back then who loved Oscar so? Comfortable Love I met him, his brown eyes melted me. They smiled all the time, I least when he looked at me. My lips curled up, captivated. I couldn’t help it, something coming from him, was drawing me in. It was summer, and I could stroll the two blocks to tease him a bit. It felt right to be in his space. Nothing was strained or awkward. We could talk and joke easily. It was hard to believe that he was new to me. Hadn’t he been there all my life? Even his last name felt like it was mine. Time passed, we hadn’t touched or kissed- But we were deeply in love and best friends. He would call me everyday. “ Did you take your vitamins?” He would say. I got so I wouldn’t take them unless he called. I longed for him to take care of me. A little thing like that was like a crazy obsession. Then he went away to the army. I went into automatic pilot. Taking care of what I needed into, with him smothering my thoughts. He was pulling me to him. The first time that I drove to Fort Lewis I worried that he may rethink things And… He took me in his arms like a vice. He was down on one knee. I was laughing so hard. He didn’t need to ask me, Marriage was the only thing we could do. He came down on leave in the cold of winter. We were married with four people At our little ceremony. That was over thirty years ago. I still love to stand close to him. In his space. Manic Creativity This thing whelms up in my thoughts as I rush to the boxes of stored paints splashing color onto a hexed canvas. Later- I viscously punch keys as I revel in flying words. Then- When the moment has ebbed, I stand back, take a look at the mess and like a potter, I slowly hone and smooth until it resembles a recognizable intent. Until- Like a Jack- In- The- Box, I spring out and scare myself again. Summer Fruition Oh cyan sky, Black corn-silks, Sweet maize Linear green stalks Lend me rows in which to hide. Weighted branches, Honey bees swarm, Over ripe windfalls lay furry skin, orange meat, red centers, juicy peaches. I relish the sweet nectar. Of summer’s fruition Adultery He walks in, she looks up, their eyes connect. His composure disarming, voice vivid, low, pained- yet determined. Unable to behold his gaze, She stares at the floor. She stands as stung, broken. The foolishness of her adultery, crashing mercilessly in on her like twisted wreckage. She hates him, yet loves him with a strange passion, but- He is too honorable, staid. She was bored, desired him, yet- just once, unbridled, raw, wild. Vulnerable, her face blotched, She opens her mouth and tries to blame him- she glimpses his pain, then goes silent. With head aching, throat tight, she feels naked, exposed. He turns his lean back then walks away, with that familiar wide gait. Before she arrived home, He had showered, shaved, packed his rig- hidden behind the house. The sound of the engine loud at first, then drifting away, taunting. Now- His scent lingers, haunting like a stinging slap. The image of his sad brown eyes and anguished face, torturous. She goes to the bathroom, His toiletries are gone, damp towel, lying on the floor, a puff of shaving cream and stubble still stuck to the wet marble sink- Where she vomits. Stormy Horizon Crashing thunder rumbled a flash of raging fierceness. Atmospheric pressure dove from a pleasant high to a spiraling low. The icy rain fell angled, cutting. Screams into the howling wind could not be heard. Light turned to smothering blackness. he had placed a crushing beam across her chest. “Why did he leave me?” Choking, she caught her breath which caved away into sobs. Sinking, she looked to the horizon, north - east- south -west and saw no break in the squall...ever. American Man We drove through a tunnel, High upon a craggy cliff. The day was sunny and breezy; The Pacific Ocean glistened, bouncing diamonds off her surface. Tall firs, cedars and alders clung to the eastern side of my view. I looked at my husband, His Italian American face sculptured. Beautiful and strong, I thought. Then half way inside the tunnel, Hewn out of solid rock I saw them. Ruddy- tanned- black- brown- sweating. Flannel shirts, sleeves rolled up, Denim jeans, leather work boots; I felt a surge of pride speaking a silent thank you to them. I smiled at every railroad track, I noticed every pole and bridge, and the curvy highway we traveled. Some ancient, created from muscle. Then I thought of the softness. How the rough fingers of a lumber grader, pinched my fat cheeks. How he laughed when I whined, Daddy! When he held his first grandson, Walking him with a proud strut. I thought of our soldiers, I turned away and looked out my window. My husband driving along, oblivious of my thoughts. A tear was rolling down my face. He would be alarmed. American Man, I honor you. Behind The Waterfall Author's Note: Dedicated to my friend Author and Poet Tim Reedy (Shaniquis) of the Chippewa Michigan tribe. Calm water of cobalt blue was edged in emerald green. I felt a cool spray on my burning face, I turned to embrace its touch. Rocky cliffs craggy and damp appear As I rowed around the river bend. Horse tail falls rushed from the sky turning my skiff in its mighty power. I rowed into the sanctuary behind the waterfall. In the shaft of a misty sunbeam Prisms of pastel rainbows glow. I see his form standing on the slippery bank, Black hair down his brown sinewy back. His face was stoic, and his stance determined. A deep dark cave loomed behind me. I heard a melodic voice tell me to row away, “Do not desecrate our Heaven.” His words penetrating my pounding heart, my answer muted by the roar of the falls. “I will guide you back to still waters.” My words were lost again, “No, I do not want to leave.” Ethereal was the strength of him. He said, “return to windy river, Sing your songs of earth and fire and play the strings of knowledge, Tell them the eagle has a broken wing.” He vanished from my view and I awoke to the sounds of heavy, falling rain. The bedroom window was raised and my curtains swayed in the welcome breeze. I yearned to return to the vivid dream, where I could feel Heaven once more. Stretching, my eyes refused to close. I said aloud, “the eagle has a broken wing.” Then I arose to find my guitar. I sang a song of earth, fire, water and wind. The places the eagle soars, must always remain. Peace came over me as I sang on, “Please heal the broken wing.” Author Notes: The form in the character’s dream was a native American spirit andthe cave is a sacred burial ground. The eagle represents our great country but from thespirits point of view and the way Indian lands have become desecrated. The eagle has a broken wing. A Bad Poker Face... Prosaic The woman’s tired eyes were telling. Her heart was broken and her resolve, final. I listened to her without interruption. “I could not hide my anger, she said softly. He entered my door unexpected, full of self, but weary of me. He tiptoed about- afraid that I would unleash the truth into his worried face. I lifted my mind toward the mountain peak- The one that I climbed for him, too many times. I am tired and too old to pull on the ropes. The valley on the other side is too vast, too deep. I am safe in my cozy cove with blue skies and puffy clouds. He is up then down, blaming others, threatening to hurt ones I love as much as I love him. Those more successful. He has no qualms about taking help from those same people. Then complains that it isn’t enough. I just could not hide my anger. My silence was telling him not to open his mouth. His self- pity would not be greeted with compassion. I may have caused more harm than good by speaking. He has had decades to change his behavior. I just could not, though I tried, hide my anger.” Hot City Sidewalk A monarch butterfly, dressed in pumpkin and black, flutters on a delicate petal. He alit on a fragrant rose in a soft shade of pink. A wispy dandelion wish, floated by behind an ornate wrought iron fence. In stark contrast, an empty lot edged the lovely yard. An old tire and broken glass in colors of brown and green, smelling of cheap wine was its landscape. A weathered toothless beggar, wearing a stocking cap and a big army jacket, crouched in a nearby alley. Clutching my purse, I whisked by with sweaty brow, furrowed. I came upon thirsty children playing and fighting, in tall arched doorways. The brick tenement building showed missing red bricks. A little boy drew on the sidewalk with pieces of crumbling brick. A cabby honked and cursed, as a pedestrian shook his fist. Exhaust insulted my lungs. Wavy designs arose from the heat on the sidewalk. My feet burned through sticky soles. Drawing in a breath, I found no air. I yearned for cool, drenching, cleansing, rain. An Afternoon Snack Juice is rolling from my lower lip and down my chin. Sweet and sour pulp- Pitted peels - water my eyes. Orange- like the sun on a California poppy- like the sunset last night- like the old Honda for sale up the road. Like the midlife crisis shirt you wore. The day blue brown tan man, came home with it on -and I laughed with him until my head hurt. Orange like an orange. I will follow this morsel with A taste of sharp cheddar. A Talk With Willie His brown face is creased deeply. Old eyes, once flashed rich brown, are clouded, the whites, yellow with age. He use to be a foot taller. Suspenders now hold up his twill trousers. Plaid wool shirt is tucked in atop thermal underwear. He tells me, “ never live to be ninety.” I was a logger, my biceps measured,” he looked me up and down, “As big as your waist. I worked from sunrise to sunset and still took the time to love my wife. Now I struggle just to get to her grave. I like to lay roses in light pink, her favorite, on her headstone. She was my Queen. Now it takes me minutes to rise from my knees, bless her, unless the cabby gives me a hand. She made the best blackberry cobbler In the Pacific Northwest. I won’t even try someone else’s.” He stopped to clear his lungs, “besides, the seeds get under my dentures.” “Keep moving” I tell him, “because if you stay down, you may never get up.” “Really,” he said, smiling large. I laughed and he chuckled, his bent shoulders, bouncing up and down. “Well, I want to hear your words of wisdom. You have learned from the book of experience. While we have this time, can you teach me how to live a long and prosperous life?” He chuckled, with shoulders bouncing again. Tipping his felt hat back, he looked at me lovingly. “Child” he said, “Just live a life worthy of yourself. Who cares what others think. And- Don’t live to be ninety, it’s too damn hard.” The Stubborn Widow Mary’s sleepy face is brushed by the cool morning breeze coming from her bedroom window. Her white hair askew, she straightens her nightgown. Her feet in fuzzy slippers, shuffle down the hall toward the coffee pot. Sheer white curtains sway. A stream of light slips through like a ghostly slide throwing a patch of sun upon the golden oak floor. Tabby arches, stretching, then drops with a thump from the wooden sill. Mary opens the back door with a push of her foot, scoots him out, letting the screen door slap shut. She sees her brother-in-law’s old car coming up the dirt driveway, a dusty cloud trailing behind. As he approaches, Mary locks the screen door. Rusted 54 Chevy truck sits near the shed. He stands on the porch out- stretched hand, holds a little cash. Stubborn, she tells him, “No one but Jim drove that truck and no one else will! Move on, and don’t come back.” Mary sits in her favorite chair- Jim’s empty chair sits beside it. Her cat leaps through an open window; and then onto her lap. She gently strokes his soft back, a few hairs float in the sunlight. On the stand beside her, under the ginger jar lamp, sits a framed photo. She remembers that day, Jim’s big hands around her waist, lifting her to sit on the tail gate... “No one but Jim drove that truck,” she mumbles Soft Whispers A breeze whispers through the silver leaves, Then brushes gently across my skin. I feel his warmth near me. Full lips purse and whisper close to my ear. His breath is warm. Silver leaves flash again. Dewy grass leaks through my blouse, a sweet smell. We stroll, barefoot, pants rolled up, The Sea gently laps, rhythmic. Hypnotic lavender waves at dusk strike our senses. I softly sigh. Our new home, a child, "she looks like you" he smiles. "Shhh, quiet, don’t wake her." She squeaks and squirms closer. Little duck down head lying on my breast. "Can I hold her?" he whispers. Our baby a woman now. The cap and gown, The church. A white mesh veil, a gown of lace. His pride, my mother's heart aches. With lips to his ear I quietly say, "How can I give her up?" He gives my hand a squeeze. Time slips away, Their love eternal. His gray hair, dying lips, I press my ear close, My heart lurches as I strain to hear. He whispers love and reassurance. My lips whisper back, tasting salty tears. Beverly J Raffaele I Love Jesus Just where is your faith? Too many had said. I cried, because I knew. I knew more than they all ever thought. Like the old song, “I have forgot more, Than you ever knew about him.” Sang so mournfully by the Davis Sisters Back there in 1953. You who knew nothing but thought you knew everything; are cruel enough to blame my deep pain on what you call my lack of faith. You uttered, with voice low, “Let me pray with you and see if you can turn it over to God and let him handle it.” “Turn and walk away like the robot that you are” I screamed inside. Then I went home and cried, because I knew. I knew that there were good people shunned by the “faithful”and accepted by those labeled “wicked.” I knew that Jesus wept, I knew that Jesus loved those that others didn’t. I knew they were not condemned by Him And, I know he was tortured and hung because of it. “Yes, I forgot more than you’ll Ever know about Him.” So please, remove my name from your earthly book For it is already written down. Beverly J Raffaele Oct 10, 2007 Copyright Artspoetry.comBeverly J Raffaele © 2004-09 all rights reserved Home Page |
| The Poetry Of Beverly J Raffaele |
