Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

She put his sweater on,
donned his warmth, his missing touch,
and in as much as he was gone,
when she put his sweater on,
his arms embraced
and chased away the distance.

It is Sunday.
She sips from a coffee cup.
She looks up words that mean
the same thing as love.
Her thesaurus is dog-eared.
She writes a poem wishing
he were home.

The word list includes son.

She puts his sweater on,
his gift to her, his presence
knitted close to skin
and heart.

It is son day.
She sips from a coffee cup.
.
.
.
dp.2.18.07

oh, bravo. thank you, dear dor.
his sweater hangs brown and cuddly
big on me, slender on him
i wear his slender form
(i gave birth to a hug)

My son an I exchanged three emails today

they were the first ones in months

he was lost to me, never old enough for a sweater

but he was a dancer, yes, a dancer

and now he tells me about his life

I am enraptured

I want to know him

thank you, judih... i'm glad you liked the poem

I think this was a beautiful poem, doreen

that's why I responded to it

I'm so delighted you've heard from your son, Clay! May the conversation continue!

that was so beautiful doreen
I inhaled it.

a mindless ramble for a judih monday
She has her son back
A mother's heart
I had to walk away
Not to embarass him
She was crying
And I saw tears in his eyes

he is a fortunate son judih
to have a mother like you
what ever I go through in this life
I will always feel like a fortunate son
too.

disclaimer
spontaneous scribbling

Clay I am happy for you
I called out to my father/Father the other night, I was on the edge of consciousness ready to fall into deep water dreams.



I never cried for my father

He was the son of a bitch that named me sue

Sorry your father named you Sue.

You should sue him.

My sister should have sued him.