A BLUSHING ROSE

For some reason I began reminiscing and started looking at all the photographs I have scanned and put onto my jump drive. I was really surprised at how many I have!
Then I saw this one....of me going to my first formal dance. It was not at my high school but at the one my sister attended (yes, we attended different high schools). The boy was one of her friends in a group she hung out with and they also allowed me to "join in" even though I was 1 1/2 years older than them (but was not that mature, as my mom always says). I seemed to fit in with them much better.
Anyways, to get back to the story, this young man, Raul Fernandez, had been through a few "rough" dates with me in which I had thrown up all over his car each time he would put an arm around me. After the first incident, I was sure I would never hear from him again, yet he returned and asked me out time and time again!! I think it was on the 5th date when I finally relaxed and realized he was not going to attack me!!! (This nervousness evolved from my father's warnings about boys!)
He was always a gentlemen, though he tried to act like the suave man-about-town.
I was so excited as I'd always wanted to go to a formal dance. My mother and grandmother had worked to make my dress from a pattern I had picked out.
My mother had taken me to have my hair and make-up done. Between the dress and the hair and the make-up I felt like a beauty. I felt confident. I was not the knock-kneed awkward young girl, but a blossoming young lady!!
I can remember walking into the dance and feeling so proud and lovely. Raul made me feel great, too, as he focused all his attention upon me and whenever another boy asked for a dance, he would say, "Okay, as long as you bring her back to me."
That first formal! I am sure some of you have a memory like that.
The first time you wore a gown and received a corsage. The first time you were pampered and decked out.
I can remember my mom with tears in her eyes saying how lovely I was, my dad snapping photographs, and Raul's nervousness as he pinned the corsage upon my dress (and probably worried about being careful not to touch the wrong "place" as my dad looked on, or poking me with that huge pearl pin!) This was the first time I was the center of attention!
I cherish this memory!!

ANOTHER POEM

MUSE

What happened to the woman
who had such soft curves? she speculates,
turning from the mirror, ungainly
in her movement, damp hair clinging
to her neck in curlicues.

She rotates the ring that orbits her finger, recalling
the sweet scent of tempestuous love
when their souls co-mingled, his hands drifted
lingeringly along her electrified skin, honey
flowed from his lips to hers.

She is drained by the drama
of their separately joined lives,
the words that ricochet between them.
She longs to be irresistibly desired,
a Muse of passion.

Crumpled memories lie in the depths
of a drawer, occasionally unearthed
to hark back to what once was.
But their exhumations
have become infrequent.

Gazing out the window she watches
rain create miniature craters
in muddy soil while the saffron eyes
of her cat keep intense watch
over each movement she makes.

SHARING A POEM I WROTE

RAIN LANGUAGE

The rain ceases, leaving wrinkles
upon the earth; plumes of clouds
float sluggishly overhead,
depleted of energy.

Worms expelled from soggy soil
create undecipherable script
upon the moist sidewalk, native
code talkers furtively communicating.

Watery diamonds quiver upon
a single strand of spider silk,
embellishing the uplifted arm
of a fir swaying to a rumba beat.

Rain-pasted leaves fashion
a collage of environmental textures
alongside the river running brown
with the flesh of the mountains.

A shivering wind creates rings
that echo across scattered puddles.
Along the pathway miniature craters
comprise a moonscape on which I stroll.

Stars swim in puddles and river
and I recall memories of grunion dancing
on a California beach one sultry
summer evening, defying my grasp.

The fragrance of grass after the rain
is a breathtaking essence
of renewal and beginnings,
an aide memoire of growth.

I witness the writing of water
across windows, and covet
its clarity.