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By Michelle Longo-Bloom
The wind blows strong
Time passes long
The wind blows high
Time passes by
Straight into the wind
I pass a sunset
And some feelings of sadness and slight regret
I fly on by
Some tears I cry
I drive my car
To the nearest bar
I nurse a drink
And begin to think
As I watch the greenhorns begin to connect
And the local townies disconnect
I think real hard
I sit and reflect
Yes, the time just swiftly flies; it flies
And I think of all my special loved ones
When “He” decided it was their time
Their final “Goodbyes”
And who now resides
In the hands of the Angel’s and Heaven’s tides
I think about my life
The struggles and the strife
The things I would exchange
It’s a wide open range
My watered down “Bloody”
At a snail's pace I drink
And in my “Mary” my sorrows I sink
I continue to nurse
And how badly I want to scream out and curse
But I bottle it instead
Letting it fester inside my head
I pay the bar tender
A quiet “Thank you” I render
Along with a most fraudulent smile
And drive back into the raging wind
Suddenly, the speedometer dial
Am I reading it right?
Thirty seconds per mile
Time flies by
And so do I
In the gusting wind
Feeling something strange
It’s a wide open range.
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
November 26, 2007
It’s your tender words
in your deepened voice
it’s your sweetened style
and your protective choice.
It’s your eyes that see the depths of me
so mystically and clairvoyantly.
Your deep, dark eyes, they radiate,
they see my being; they see my fate.
They perceive straight through me
your deep, dark eyes
and see all my strife and life’s demise.
It’s your deep dark eyes somehow, someway
they tell me everything’s going to be okay.
And in some strange way they make me feel
undeniably whole and undoubtedly real.
It’s the way they see
from a photograph,
it’s what they see
the way your eyes; they glare and cast.
Does your heart see what your eyes, they see?
And will they both see us; you and me?
It’s the gestures that you often make
so genuine and never fake.
They open up my heart so wide
at the risk of losing all my pride.
So unadulterated like a child’s
across the many, many miles.
It’s your inner soul’s untainted truths
that come gaping and prancing through and through.
It’s with the deepest honor and respect
so dearly I admire you.
It’s the way they see
from a photograph,
it’s what they see
the way your eyes; they glare and cast.
Does your heart see what your eyes, they see?
And will they both see us; you and me?
Your character, it shines so bright
your compassion exudes such beaming light.
You’re sensitive to the center core
a gift to hold; savor and adore.
A gift of delicacy, of sheer distinction;
to be treasured forever and ever more.
There are no facades; no pretenses
everything is real and greatly cherished.
Always honest; warm and true
special is what I feel with you.
It’s the way they see
from a photograph,
it’s what they see
the way your eyes; they glare and cast.
Does your heart see what your eyes, they see?
And will they both see us; you and me?
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
A vacant seat on a bus,
the only one;
out it stood.
“I need to get on,
I need to get home,
Mama needs my help,
She’s all alone.”
Onto the coach, the boy stepped up,
and through the aisle he did pass.
Now, while standing and passing by
through rows of seats all occupied,
each one taken; each one gone,
he continued to look further on.
It caught his eye from ranks beyond,
he spotted one space, not yet had,
the vacant seat, no longer vacant,
now sat there, another lad.
He sat down beside him,
people staring; looking grim,
anticipating something dark and dim.
They stared some more,
everyone about;
double takes and looks to see for sure.
What they saw; what a sight,
two boys enthralled, recanting last night’s fight.
Smiling, laughing, conversing, engaging…
a grace to hold, a blessing true;
a picture worth forever saving.
It finally happened; it’s finally here,
to look at one’s skin and see the color, bare.
Together sitting on a bus,
such lack of conflict;
no erupting feuds,
not one fuss,
interacting …together sitting on a bus;
kidding, playing, respecting each other,
treating each other equally.
What they saw; what a sight,
one boy was black and one was white.
A vacant seat on a bus,
no longer vacant;
out it stood.
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
Far be it to know, to grasp and to learn,
just what he can do, what the poor man can earn.
Great honor and pride deep in the core,
in this man so ordinary, common place, nothing more.
He possesses no great riches, no jewels; no fame,
just an average, poor man; simple and plain.
The clothes on his back, torn and tattered, if you will,
the usual, common, poor man; run of the mill.
But the things that he holds deep in his heart;
the honest hard work everyday that he does,
the nickels and dimes he works for; the people he loves.
These are the things that mean a great deal,
these are the things that make the poor man feel real.
A sense of honor and pride to the poor man, you see,
is the gift that he treasures; so special, so simply.
The gift to appreciate what he has indeed,
a life filled with riches, for him there’s no need.
No top of the line, expensive clothes or cars,
or two or three other vacation homes.
Content with his family and friends so devoted,
perfectly happy with just what he owns.
A wonderfully sincere and true ability,
a wonderfully loyal and great quality:
the gift to live so simply and happily,
without riches and wealth; material free.
So now we know, we’ve grasped and we’ve learned,
just what the poor man so humbly earned.
He’s earned a life filled with wealth, whether rich or not,
with only nickels and dimes, true pride he’s got.
So, maybe the poor man isn’t poor at all,
he may have no money, but he’s the one standing tall;
and maybe the poor man is the richest of all.
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
Aladdin thrust away in mid air
Beached on his carpet of colors, going nowhere
Cinderella, in rags, so sad and lonely
Demeaning step sisters, so mean and homely
Enticing fairies spinning amidst
Fantasies draw close; come see, I insist!
Genies grant wishes for each and all,
How enchanting to be at this fairy tale ball
Imaginary figures evolve and erupt
Jack-in-the-Box comes in and pops up!
Kings and Queens, in castles so many
Leprechauns leaping by tons and plenty
Mystical adventures, his soul he bares
Neverland suddenly shows and appears
Outstanding stories, the lad’s eyes widen,
“Peter Pan is here! He’s behind me hiding!”
Quivering, some folk tale wars; unrelenting
“Revenge” is what it’s about; no repenting
Silver and gold chests of treasures and jewels
Tumultuous battles, pirates brawling; such fools
Unanimous vote of children all toll
“Vengeance” it is; don’t sell the secrets of your soul!”
Winding down now and oh what a treat, the faces of clowns and sprites reappeared
X, marks the spot, now here’s Beauty’s Beast we all so feared
Yes, each delightful figure; one by one
Zip; how quick my magical fantasy is over and done.
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
She’s the sun and the moon all wrapped up in one.
She’s a breath of fresh air and so much fun.
She’s a smile and laugh a phone call away.
She’s moody and pissy after a long hard day.
She’s fragile and mild once given a break
And completely content once home with Drake.
She’s a writer and singer so packed with brilliance.
She’s always forth coming and filled with resilience.
She’s had a world of upsets and her share of regrets,
but she gets up and goes on; that’s just who she is.
She’s a child at heart always aiming to please.
She’s determined and motivated to always succeed.
She’s a girl and adult playing the life game.
She’s not mine by birth, but all one in the same.
Happy Birthday and Many, Many More to Come!!!
Love Always,
~DrAgOnFlY~
“Mommy, what time is it when the big hand is on the twelve and the small hand is on the three?”
“Well, that’s the time children, just a little older than you, are finished with school.”
“I’m never going to school.”
“Why is that?”
“I just like to stay home with you.”
… And when the big hand on the twelve
and the small hand on the five
he waits by the door with such anticipation -
waiting, watching, waiting
for his one and only – his Daddy…
He walks through the door at half past three
his face pensive with emotions soaring
needing desperately to be set free
yet still trapped inside.
He’ll never tell
where his anger hides
for him a living hell
and to display such vulnerability
in his early eyes
is to lose all credibility.
He drops his backpack to the floor,
delivers a “well enough” greeting,“Hey”
and proceeds right back out the door.
The ball is bouncing
each times it hits the ground
comes a new-fangled, novel sound.
I continue to listen and now the sound of his beloved sanctuary grows louder and more malicious …and the swish of it gliding perfectly through the hoop provides only a pseudo arrogance that he hides behind, but it’s all the same to him and it all gets him through ...
yet he is filled with rage
and I feel helpless.
At thirteen, he despises his home and the memories it holds.
Haunting visions in the dead of night of what use to be,
the happiest and most secure times for him
now gone, wrecked, over; taken away.
Yet, he must learn to make the best of it; see the light
beyond the darkness of each new day.
He is in un- Godly pain,
yet he cannot show weakness
to admit to the injure, he is much too vein
so he continues to ache
and to the world he shows a smile fake.
He is now the Alpha-male
as he refuses to step down,
my actions under steady scrutiny
until his way is found.
It is I who is faced with his path
it is I whom he will lash out
and I who will receive the force of his tangled wrath
for the mother usually does.
As my patience wears thin
reality sets in
confronted with the cold harsh truth of it all
no matter the sound it makes
or the swish it scores
it is the ball that helps him fight his strife
and gets him through his mangled life.
"Mommy, what time is it when the big hand is on the twelve and the small hand is on the three?”
“Well, that’s the time children, just a little older than you, are finished with school.”
“I’m never going to school.”
“Why is that?”
“I just like to stay home with you.”
…And when the big hand on the twelve
and the small hand on the five,
he waits by the door with such anticipation
waiting, watching, waiting
for his one and only – his Daddy…
My child now jaded
memories, once pinnacle
now foggy and faded
and nothing but cynical.
Time rearranged his former perfect life
how ironic now -
school, his favorite place to be
with mentors and role models who fill up the gap
of his once “one and only” best friend and Daddy.
An unexpected course,
a sudden turn and jolt as he wonders if his father
feels any sort of remorse.
There was a time when his family meant the world
now just the bounce of the ball and at times a pretty girl.
A mothers’ grief is always unyielding
as she looks on with great fret
to see her child suffer
there can be no worse upset.
A mother's sorrow is unrelenting
as she watches in dismay
“Please God, make his pain go away.”
His nostalgia slipping
his happiness disappeared
for every child of disconnection
I hope I have spoken
because my heart is in two
and my child is broken.
Matthew, I love you and I am so proud of how far you have come from this.
Your father adores you;
he could not go on without you and I'm so glad
you have him back in your life.
Always,
~Mom~
SLEEPING WITHOUT YOU
By Michelle Longo-Bloom
The night so long
morn not far off
in my mind, there plays a song
..."First Time"
before I wake to a crisp, cold frost.
I close my eyes
clenched; shut tight
with each restless breath
my heart it dies.
His touch, his smell - so vivid; so clear
no longer now
what once was there.
Absent space
once filled my muse
his tender hand,
his breath; his face.
My body won't rest
my soul it cries
a hole in my chest
my heart it dies.
As I lay and as I pray
my mind so longs
I hear them play
our chosen songs.
I lay so still
my silence screams
"no space" to fill
I close my eyes
and my heart just dies.
Waking to the morning dew
my body frigid; my being lost
as I sleep void of you
I feel the air; the crisp, cold frost.
I close my eyes
and my heart; it dies.
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