The poem below is the twenty year old me living on the high speed line and working in center city Philadelphia.  For a little while I was taking courses at an eye institute in the north of the city and working in the center city while residing on the main train line in Pennsylvania several stops out.  So, to get to work, school, and home took me a very long time.  I walked to the train station near my apartment, took the commuter train to a bus and a subway to work, to class, to work, and back home again.  It was an interesting commute and I had a lot of strange experiences like breaking my nose in a train wreck or like the time I was flashed (those are for a whole different posts).  Mostly I remember watching people and wondering about where they were going. There was a mental hospital that had closed down, I think, and they were sleeping in cardboard boxes, some screaming strange scary stuff, sitting atop the steamy grates.  I can still conjure the sour smell mixed with the smell of pretzels baking in places.  The smell memory is a core brain area!  But, one of the strongest memories was feeling cold.

This is my first attempt at a Behrquain poem, it is not to rhyme, it has a 2, 4, 6, 8, 6, 4, 2… style.  I hope I got it right. Not rhyming was difficult for me!

Tomorrow, a Coat

Sweater

Wrecking her mood

Pulled o’er her head, static

Lipstick smearing, flyaway strands

Held tight down by hairspray

Taste in the air

Chilly

Fall all around

Gladly wearing it now.

Exhale is warming the fibers

Fogging, frosting glasses

Shirttail wiping.

Making

The subway full

Standing, no seat in sight

Holding handle through jerk and bump

The stop is made, all off

At subway’s end.

Her job

No sweaters there

Chilly but faking warm

And on her break she sipped hot tea

And dreamed of warmer things,

A summer’s play

Darkened

The sky grim gloom

A northern snowstorm dumped

Sweater weather turned winter freeze

Steadfast strode, subway fast

To her warm home

Heartened.

~Julie Robinson

Mysterious Scene, oil on canvas 11×14

I’ve been working on writing my fiction book instead of painting. I’m 7 chapters in, engrossed in my own story. I think all the creating poetry has done something interesting for my writing. Only problem is I keep trying to rhyme. But today I decided to finish one of my river paintings. I’m working to finish, sign, frame and show my paintings.

I hope you enjoy today’s poem…it’s loosely based in truth. That’s kinda funny. Loose truth. Oxymoron?

Fall’s Fault

It was blazing hot today

But fashion forced me to

Wear my new boots anyway

Oh! My feet the debt did pay

Changing to sandals for dinner

Seemed smart

So my feet I freed

And all ten toes they sighed relief

But walking home seems winter now

October fashion fail tis true

Cause now my toes are all froze

And my lips are all blue

So it’s Fall but it’s Summer

Feels Winter in Fall

But my poor feet plead

“Please come quick, Spring!”

~Julie Robinson

Pumpkins I painted over my old Peaches Sign

Eating with Dementia

We made homemade tortillas and smoked up the kitchen in the process (the pan I think was too hot?) requiring that we open all the windows though there was not a breath of air in this Texas Hill Country post lots of rain evening.

To complete the eventful dinner time , my husband, who has dementia, built his own taco but he did it completely upside down. He put all of the ingredients in layers on his plate starting with the sour cream, the cheese, and the chunks of chicken and then topped it with a tortilla.

I just watched (more like an artist, less like a caregiver) to see what would happen next as he turned his plate upside down and it all fell off to the table, disgustingly. I could’ve helped him but he seemed determined.

He scraped it all off with the tortilla and ate it. I figured it was just a matter of a quick wipe up when he was done. I’ve seen worse being a mom of three.

But the chicken tacos with the fresh tortillas were just delicious.

And then we ate ice cream. And who could argue with that?

The F fell off my letter board and the reflection in the Bath and Body candle lid picked up the word.

Is it Fall yet?????? (Scroll down for poem at the end)

Fall isn’t necessarily my favorite time of year. I just like the season called Summer’s Over. And the beginning of that season is September 2. In my opinion, The best description for Fall was written by Nora Ephron, God rest her soul, and includes freshly sharpened pencils. (You’ve Got Mail)

I love the sense of expectation Fall ushers in where summer still tries to keep us in its doldrums.

When I was a kid we got brand new school clothes in the Fall that I wore to school even though I roasted. Anyone remember cowl necks.

This morning I was so glad to get pictures by text of my oldest daughter’s new Fall wreath she made which looked like something you’d see in a magazine. So I figured it was high time to replace mine from last Spring that had Easter eggs all over it.

So now I have a new Fall wreath on my front door. I bought mine from Walmart but who will ever know?

BRING BACK AUTUMN

Where did Autumn go?

Seems the word is rarely used.

Too quaint and dry and dusty,

Making Fall so overbruised.

Happy Fall? Really…

Let’s put our minds to higher thoughts

Of harvest, pilgrims, and Thanksgiving,

Around the table, olds and tots.

Bring back Autumn

‘Cause Fall… good grief!

It’s solely relating to a leaf.

~Julie Robinson