Saturday, May 12, 2018

Love & Marriage

Love & Marriage

Greek philia's love is to be generously seeded
to become a binding
flourishing vine
on a sturdy wall mellowed in time

surrounding a garden budding various colored blossoms in love entwined

during springtime showers
or summer's thundering rain
humanly inclined

though still producing: sunflowers, daisies, tulips, and roses with thorns which prick thin skin.

Yet a lingering kiss will ease a pain to quickly rescind
as eyes and limbs gently lock before another sun rises to joint days begin

until a descending sun sets
to difficulties pause or calmly end

as eʹros love brings delight
under a partial or full moon
even in the dead of night

or afternoon

or a morning spin
is not too soon,

though constant thought of it
should not our life or marriage
as if for this only
in one's heart
makes room

for stor·geʹ love

as progeny sprouts

to not impede their stems' growth

of your true love
they should not doubt.

Watering freely
and pruning
as needed



after mildly dispensed

as compost to soil

Yes, as with also
shade and shine

strengthened spines
will ascend

as mature

before these

also, imbibe

life-sustaining nutrients

And let us not neglect
agape love
to ensure sure success
of a bind of souls
holy blessed.

For the apostle Paul
duly stressed:

“Each one of you must love his wife
as he does himself;

on the other hand,

the wife should have deep respect for her husband.” Eph. 5:33.


Only after spreading freely
these various loves to abound

will days into moons
seasons into years
generations to appear
and coexist

as couples display a marital bliss

as baskets of fruitage


of which diverse plantings
can eagerly partake

if on sweet harmony
they too insist

will a paradisaic garden
exist for imperfect until perfect
humanity's sake

under divine guidance
based upon


on which our Creator


May the dew of Jah's words
moisten your fields to plentifully yield

true love

never to desist.

Brotherly love
even to mates

displayed daily

not to forsake.

Friday, January 15, 2016

Forever, My Love

Forever, My Love

by Seah Greenhorn
(Poem with copyright)

laid premature

pain I fight to endure
as I kneel
my knees
pebbles to bleed
for my heart
to be allowed to feel

whatever it needs
to heal.

Unable to pray
since anger rips aside
sheer layers
I applied

to hide loneliness;
my right to decide.

Did I choose wisely?
This question crazy
wrong. My logic confused;

Desire chose for me
a fireman, an officer of the law,

a boxer
who could rupture
my jaw?

No. I chose you. To follow.
To pursue. To love. To hate

as I now do.
I refused to lose

But you knew how
much I wished
you'd adhere...

Why the need
to text

when I was so near?

If I had married
any of the above
then my future
would have at least
been clear.

know this I wish
you could hear:

I'll always love
and cherish you,

Tuesday, November 17, 2015

Is She On To Me? ... Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

“Okay, I'm awake!” I scolded the buzzing alarm slamming the stop button.  I know its five a.m; I saw it arrive! no thanks to the nightmare.  Plus a suicidal headache pitch-n-rolled me the whole night like seaweed in high tide.  Entangled, yet hiding in sheets and covers, I tried to ignore the masochist behind my eyes.  I scanned the room hoping reality would quash the lingering night fright.  But gothic candle-holders flanking the iron bed frame resembled emaciated arms.  And a headless mannequin near the window wore something long and dark, casting eerie distortions against the opposite wall.  The dress-form became a macabre-being in the dim slither of disappearing moonlight—light flitting through a narrow slit between the heavy silk drapes.  Even my old brown teddy bear looked threatening, seated on a slipcovered chair outside my closet.  One glass eye glared at me, while the other was concealed in shadow.

“Okay!”  Goaded, I stretched to click on the brightest light from the tiffany lamp near me on the side table, ending with a squeal and my head in my hands.  Moaning; my fingers dug into, then massaged the mast of tangles at my temples.  Though, damp sheets and cold penetrated my cotton nightshirt I fixated on the lamp and its exquisite light, its kaleidoscope of colors emanating from the multi-color hood.  Slightly soothed since the lamp dispersed the air of terror with exposure of my skirt and blouse folded neatly with Teddy on top, I clicked on the gas fireplace.  Then I noticed: My trench is on the mannequin. . . . When did that happen? And who tidied up? stayed a mute issue as I was suddenly lobbed forward after attempting to climb out of bed.  My toe caught a rip in the quilt.

Quickly kicking off the blanket with arms swinging, I caught my balance.  Though stepping forward I began to roll on an empty bottle.  Good grief! I thought as my head barely missed the edge of the wrought iron headboard as I seized the railing.  That’s all I need—to be knocked out sprawled across the floor.  And while clutching the frame, an image.  Honestly!  Of all people, I imaged seeing nice nosy Prudence Nobles.  The vision appeared like déjà vu.  The apparition scared and embarrassed me.  I actually looked around expecting to see displeasure shown by her shaking head.  Her eyes an accusing “Had a relapse?”

It hasn't happened again, has it? I wondered.  Forget about it, Diamond.  Never mind.  Mend the quilt.  It was a good enough diversion.  And who knew.  I thought, maybe the project along with a strong cup of coffee will get rid of this annoying bubble in my stomach.  Exactly what I was afraid of escaped me.  But this hovering ever-present phantom existed. . . Yes, coffee will help.

I swooped up the quilt from the bed; flung it forward, close to the rocker placed in front of the brick fireplace.  I found myself smiling at the misshapen bundle.  Yes, my big bozo stitches were an eyesore.  But what would anyone expect from a child of six?  Back then, even now, Martha I’m not.  Its age, wear, and pattern is why it stayed beneath the down comforter.  Though matching no bed clothing I possessed, I loved the comforter more than anything else I owned—non-apparel included.
My family: Seneca, Mom, and Madame donated old shirts and dresses of chambray and cotton for the squares.  Also, my worn floral and denim outfits I’d outgrown, along with trims of lace from old doll clothes we cut up, piecing everything together to make squares.  Madame and I worked together connecting the swatches on the old heavy sewing machine with the metal knee control.

Umm.  I remember the aroma of French-roasted coffee traveling from the kitchen permeated the apartment.  Signaled the completion of the pot of java, courtesy of my trusty coffeemaker with automatic timer.  Comfortable.  Ordinary.  I adored the smell.  I recalled a more pleasant present.  All my wistful pining took a pause.  A little bit of joy attempted a comeback.

Grabbing my plaid terry robe from the coat tree on the way out of the door, I headed to the kitchen.  After pouring my coffee, I set the cup on the kitchen table before poking around in the antique armoire.  Passing bottles of solace, I reached for the hand-carved mending-box of threads.  I found the colors necessary to match the shabby sections, then with my left hand balanced the box on my head.  My right hand cradled the cup of liquid gold, as I carefully transported all goods to the bedroom where I settled in the gliding rocker.
Staring into the fireplace, before long, I saw tall strong Madame.  Then my mother, Crystal—Madame’s dainty soft-spoken daughter.  Two complete opposites.  I remembered us sitting around the patched comforter-top spread between us on the living room floor giggling and talking.  Placing layers of high-loft polyester batting resembling puffy clouds on the covering, while Madame taught me the essentials of quilt making.
Lovely moments like those were rare.  But when wallowing in self-pity this particular memory provides nostalgic release.  Everyone together.  Even Seneca somewhere in the same house.  Then, we enjoyed each other’s company.

Funny, thoughcouldn'tcan't really picture Seneca.  But surprisingly I heard his voice.  Can still hear his voice.  Not exactly what he said, only that his voice comforted me like warm chocolate milk that I loved as a child.  Every other blue moon, I’ll still make a cup.

However, that day the quilt failed to bring a lasting calm.  Actually, it produced the opposite.  It brought up the unresolved questions about Mom and Madame’s relationship.  Those questions rose and exploded in my head more than the nightmare.

Maybe they were the nightmare.

I remembered gliding rapidly back and forth.  I guess: Chasing words.  Words of wisdom.  Words—which would convert those questions into answers.  Answers which would promote family unity. 
And I remembered the subway episode.  It also shook me up.  Turned everything topsy-turvy again.  One day flying made grounding out so fast hard to accept.

Standing, I dropped the quilt in the rocker.  Out of the bedroom, down the hall, through the apartment’s living room French doors, and onto the patio I went in search of insight.  I stood still wishing the sunrise could erase the day before.  Would also lift the dense murkiness I felt clogged my mind.

Pulling my robe tighter and holding the half-empty coffee mug I paced among the plants and potted trees.  Stroking their shriveled leaves I promised them, “Don’t worry.  Pretty soon I will bring you in.  I’m sorry I'm such a procrastinator.  But look at me.  Sorry.  You can't choose your parents,” I apologized.  Because the sad truth was and is: I began to battle my ability to care for me.

That admission slumped me back against the short brick wall.  I stared blindly inside my apartment defeated.  Weary.  In need of a rebirth.  Though, if I go, I thought, how do I make Madame understand? again my main concern.
After a few chilly minutes, the morning breeze trailed the sheers behind me into the living-room.  Nature quickly aired out the apartment, but neglected my brain.  Returning to the bedroom, I made the bed to occupy my hands, when my eye caught sight of Mom’s stationary lying on the end table. 
Remembering how the letter, especially Mom’s invite, uplifted me before, I thought:  Hey!  Maybe it’ll work again.

Picking up the page, I reread it slowly, my lips only mouthing the words, meaning to skip over the news about Steve.  But I couldn't, since Mom’s sadness, her loneliness rose from the page.  Yes, Mom needs me now, I reasoned.  If I build a strong bond with her, that could satisfy Madame’s desire for me to have family, I thought—knowing it won’t.

Madame won't be happyShe wanted me mature and independent there in New York, in Seneca’s world—a desire obviously now dead to me, especially since I felt a need for a Mom.
So why hesitate? I wondered; knowing for sure the answer.

Madame.  Being my guardian when no one else wanted me makes me want, . . .No.  I need her approval not her displeasure.  Remembering Madame’s words; “Diamond, Crystal can never be a good mother to you.  She does not have the motherly emotional attachment that a daughter needs;” I'm torn.  I feel that Mom deserves the opportunity to plead her defense.  Her letter said as much.
Sprawled like flaccid spent spaghetti across the bed, I stared at the high ceiling.  I agonized and vacillated.  Yet from somewhere came the ability to make a decision.  I thought:

The bad feelings between Mom and Madame can’t matter to me.  I need them both.  Madame will just have to understand. . . .At least, I hope she will.  Maybe she won't boot me completely out of her life, like she did Mom.

Rolling over to the edge of the bed, I say, “No she won't,” hoping the words spoken aloud will give it power.  Though, the question, Madame still loves me, right? betrays me.  Shows my lack of conviction.

I try again.  “She'll forgive me.  She'll understand,” I voice sitting up, planting my feet firmly.  I enumerate the reasons why, stalled at number one until optimism rears its hopeful head.

Maybe she’ll see the success of Mom’s and my relationship and it’ll inspire her to bridge their gapYes.  That’s what’s going to happen. . . .Right? I asked then hanging over the bed’s edge.  Doubled over and sickened by the debating, I say, “Believe, Diamond!  Just believe!” because the answer lies in success.

“First succeed in mending the rift.”  It’ll speak louder than words.

With that statement spoken, I shout to Teddy, “I'm going to Chicago!” tossing him in the air.  Intimidation now dead in the brightly lit room.

Then suddenly, I jumped.  A double “peal!” had Teddy head first on the floor at my feet.

The phone this early?


Lifting Teddy, I retrieve the receiver next to me on the end table.  “Hello?” my voice small.

“Diamond?  This is Crystal. . . your . . .your Mother. . . .How are you?” she asks.  She still sounded faint as I remembered.

“Mom? . . . .Oh, Mom!  Mom. . . . .I’m fine.  Fine. . . .Wow!  This is a surprise.  It’s good to hear your voice,” I said straining to hear.

The clock on the end table read six a.m.  I thought, that’s five a.m. Chicago time.  Now sitting rigid on the bed, Teddy now on my lap, I stroke his wounded head with one hand, while steeling myself not to sound like a bumbling idiot.
What’s the matter with me?. . . Why am I so nervous?. . . It’s okay; it’s Mom.

“I was just thinking about you.  I got your letter,” I continued, swallowing hard.  Me—who sometimes can't shut up—speechless?
“I'm glad… that’s why I called.  I'm sorry it took so long.”
After a slight pause she continues, “Diamond, I’m worried.  I hadn't heard from you.  You are coming aren't you?  I saw your friend Octavia.  I didn't even recognize her.  Anyway, I told her you were coming.  You will won't you?  Promise me. . . . I'll pay for the ticket.”

How could I not come?
“Oh yes, Mom.  I'm definitely coming.  And Mom,” my eyes leaked and my voice squeaked, “I'm so sorry about Steve.”

“Yes.  Yes, Diamond.  It’s sad, but. . . .but I've got you now, haven't I?” she asks, quickly, her voice low.

This question with her personal invite reconfirms my decision.  It snickered at today’s indecisiveness.  I exclaim, “Yes, Mom.  You still have me. . . .And thank-you.”

No reply.

Thinking, this is probably a bit overwhelming for her too, I continue with, “Mom, when do you want me to come?”

“Soon,” she says without a moment mores hesitation.  “As soon as you can, . . . .dear.” 

“Okay, Mom.  I've got a couple of things to wrap up here first—.”

“Can you book the ticket for Friday?  Is that too soon?  That would be perfect for me.  Is that okay?” she rushes on.

This Friday?  My mind balked, but my lips committed, “Sure, Mom.  That’ll be okay.”

“Good.  I’m so excited, Diamond.  Call me with the flight information, okay.  Here’s my number—.”
After writing down her number on a piece of paper I hung up, wondering about the Friday booking—that day being Tuesday.  But I assured myself; it’ll be okay.  Two weeks.  I’d visit for two weeks.

“Maybe, that won’t be overstaying my welcome,” I thought aloud.

Happy, with resolve now strengthened, I started preparations for my return to Chicago. First, I headed to the living room; bouncing down on the sofa, ready to make a list of everyone I needed to inform of my vacation.

On second hand, I reconsidered; I’ll just let them think this is a business outing.  “It is.  It’s my personal business,” I shouted, jumping up to get busy.

Gathering cleaning equipment from underneath the kitchen sink, I strategized my assault on the apartment.  Since I hadn't cleaned in weeks, dust, layers of it covered the furniture.  But, it didn't matter.  That day was restoration day.  I turned on my stereo.  Flung open the kitchen window, and sent jazz into the world and motivation to my cleaning.

Hours passed.

Pleasantly tired, relaxing on the sofa with a cold glass of apple juice, I noticed the blinking red light on my answering machine.  I thought: Oh, it’ll wait.

Is She On To Me? ... Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

Central Park? How did I end up here? I questioned.
I felt groggy; attempted to focus on door-manned apartment buildings and parked limos whizzing by.  A fleeting street sign read: 67th near one of my favorite mosaics: John Lennon’s Imagine . . . .In Strawberry Field?
I scooted to the other side of the taxi as we approached the vicinity of Heckscher’s playground?  What’s this? I wondered.  What happened to Brooklyn? . . . .Where’s Gracie’s cafe, . . . The used books store?. . . .Why are we near the playground?
Okay.  I did admit to making that trip to the park often.  It was the “little people.”  The children.  I loved it when they swung; they inspired.  Fearless, though squealing, high they’d fly, frightfully high, I mentally right along with them sailing.
But right then I hated that image.  The thought of them soaring close by made my insides curl.  That reaction was alien but intense.  So intense that I was finally fully awake.  So real I felt the need to spit.
What was wrong with this driver?  Where was he taking me?  I didn't mention the playground, did I? I questioned.
Yes, with my mind’s eye I saw them, the children, naive and happy, very naive and so very happy they were—occasionally me as a child; I was reminded.
But the driver was clueless about my routine or my thoughts, as he should be.  All he needed to know was the way back to Brooklyn.  How to swing around a corner into Brooklyn Heights.
I met his black eyes in the mirror; demanding, “Driver, let me out.”
Scenes; I hate them.  But I wouldn't be taken advantage of.
I remember thinking, Some people. . . .That’s okay, he can forget about it. . . . I’m not paying for this ride; I’ll take another taxi.
“Miss, I take you home,” the driver finally responded.
When?  In his own good time?
I answered: “Did you say ‘home’?  This is not my home. . . .I said, ‘Brooklyn.’  Brooklyn Heights is where I live. . . . Stop.  I want to get out,” I insisted looking outside the window for a place for him to pull over.  I was fed up.
There seemed to be a control issue going on in my life.  Everyone, it seemed, wanted to dictate what I should do.
“No, Diamond.  I said, ‘I’ll take you home,’” repeats the driver.
Slowly I turned back towards the mirror, shaking, because . . . she said, “Diamond.”  It couldn't be.  But the look in the mirror showed eyes no longer black but hazel—my eyes.  Madame’s eyes.  Silent, I sat frozen.  Those eyes dropped a cage of guilt around me. 
Cornered, I retaliated.  What do I have to feel guilty about?  She left me alone.  Now she wants to drive me again?  Warmed by that anger I wondered, where does she think she’s taking me?
Madame continued to steer, eyes shifting back and forth between my reflection in the mirror and the road.  The car moved steadily through the traffic.  Then she became solely on me.  The car drove itself, yet she didn't utter a word.  I tried to blink to break the intensity, but my eyes wouldn't shut as we locked in a battle of wills.
Finally my anger thawed that guilt into a swimming pool into which I leaped; twisting; falling in slow motion; then—Voila!  I was back in . . . .Central Park?  Yes.  Alone.  Again.  Lonely in all eight hundred and forty-three acres as the paths swarmed with high energy and vitality.  People bicycled; rode roller-blades; jogged, while I watched wishing they’d just sit.  Their activity depleted what was left of my energy.  Though, more-than-likely, it was the then oppressive weight and heat of my suede coat and my leather vise-like boots sensitive to every small rock and crevice beneath my soles.  I remember thinking that a snail would snicker as I tipped along that trail.  Searched for a place to rest. 
Yes; rest.  That was all I really wanted; all I really needed.  To regroup after that difficult episode.  What was Madame thinking?  To just pick up where she left off?
Looking across the park, I bypassed natural boulders, searching for and spotting the large weeping willow.  With extra effort I managed to drop to its base grateful for that moment.  Dispersed sun-rays highlight roused dust particles making the spot unearthly; ethereal.  Although the trunk and its shade shrouding me in tranquility and serenity, I shivered despite the beautiful mounted horses patrolling the park.  My fear? … Enjoying too much.  Like a nip from a snake’s fang circumstances change.
But again I coached, come on, Diamond; enjoy the moment.  So I blessed the wind sending forth those sweet innocent whispering.  Blessed the fact that they provided a calm distraction despite a world warring for fuel, democracy or both.  And nature wreaking its own turmoil.  I gazed up in fascination watching the tree’s branches flow over and around me, soft and gentle.  Its limbs deflected the strength of the sun’s warmth.  Tendrils of my hair floated delicately across my face tickling the way a child draws a piece of string along your skin.
Smiling, I began to unwind. Thankful; thinking, this feels nice.  When small at times I felt this way.  Cozy.  Safe beneath a towering shelter.  But as I sat the sun faded as I complained, I just arrived!  I knew it was too good to last, for the shadowed darkness moved in rapidly engulfing the peaceful atmosphere.
In cold and fear, uncontrollable trembles rattled my body.  Guttural sounds, harsh and raspy like the death rattle of an old man, replaced the pleasant whispering.  And pain, piercing pain, inflicted by whipping branches shot across my body.  The once gentle branches now snapping, biting boughs.
I tried to protect myself, but the limbs cracked sharp and repeated against my hands.  I tried unsuccessfully hiding them, eventually touching something … sticky? … I thought, Blood?
“Blood!”  I screamed, voiceless repeated screams, my throat scratchy and dry.  But sweat poured from my skin.  Plastered my curls to my face.  I shielded my head and hands attempting to run.  But my legs—weak traitors, buckled.  Flung me forward.  Spindly vines like fingers twisted around my throat squeezing tight, then tighter.  I tore at the stems, breathing my first aim.  Finally I managed a mangled, “Someone help me,” as I grasp for life.  “Please someone,” I begged, staring into the darkness, wondering, … where is everybody?
Gone, the obvious answer.
I’m on my own? couldn't believe, still clawing to tear free from the vines.  Again I attempted to run.  But the snarled branches seized my arms and legs.  Tripped me.
“Madame!  Madame!” I called out.  “Help me!  Please help me. . . .” my cries cut short as damp clammy leaves gripped tight my lips.  They stopped my cries and again tried to smother me.  And willowy vines camouflaging daylight continued to thwart my freedom.
Faceless death bound me.  But I battled fiercely; at the same time whimpering, thinking: What a baby I am.  I exerted one last desperate burst of strength and—.
Free? . . . .I’d escaped!  My breathing labored and eyes not quite focused, I crawled exhausted for the bike path out of the park.  Terrified in the darkness—still gasping and panting—I spotted a small red light among the dark shadows, making out what look like… Numbers?
Yes.  3.  0.  0.
I refocused.
3:00 a.m.!

I fell back against the sheets; stunned and totally spent, yet terribly relieved.  I thought, Thank God I am home.

Saturday, August 29, 2015

I Am 'Just Saying'...

Friday, February 27, 2015

I Am 'Just Saying'...

I Am
'Just Saying'

By Seah Greenhorn
(with copyright)

What you do
affect us.

If you dress
totally 'sexy'

or bare it all;

but he can't find you

or give
a call;

What exactly do you think
he's gonna do?

Read a book?
Call his guy friend?

Jump in his car
just to give it a spin?

Or will he prowl the streets
With a itch in hand

Looking for
a willing/unwilling

to supply #on-demand?

Come on girls...
Give us a break.

If you 'rev' them up
but don't participate

you're an accomplice
to #malice
against your 'fella' mate.

Don't take this
as an opportunity
"to #fling
some 'hate.'"

We just want to curb
this violence

that 'Too #Sexy'





even mothers.

Think about us

just trying
to navigate

these daily streets,
among all this
female hate.

We too need to
carve out
a living

for our

A little


Or for


Too Late.

I Am
'Just Saying.'