You and you and you (A Poem by Cathy Gruman, revised 10/3/10)

One two
I love you
and you
and you
and you
and if I turn away in shame
and gather my wits to handle pain
will you remember the love I gave
forgive my momentary wane
or push me away just the same
as though I never gave at all
or supported you in your fall?
The times when others turned away
when you weren't pretty
I chose to stay.
So will you allow me here
this moment,
or not
and still receive love
from you
and you
and you
and you?

Rocking It Loud (A Poem by Cathy Gruman)

I was puttering around the house one day listening to a Tina Turner CD. She sounded so amazing and was so uplifting that it inspired me to write this poem about her and other women that I admire.


Tina Turner rocks it loud
and makes music with the crowd.
Merchant sings melodically
and takes her point to the unth degree.
Cowboy Junkies softly bring
you and me together with subtlety.
And we move on from our past,
the stains remain but the hope lasts.
Some rock, some talk, some sing,
some give away their hearts
holding hands of little ones
that only love can bring.
Zoie girls sing their praises
looking pretty and bringing it real
making their points to heal.
Dollie Parton in all her glory
has humility.
She brings it on with her voice
and her smile illuminates her space.
Audrey Hepburn, what a lady.
She danced, she sang
she lit up the screen,
though in her early years
she lived the horror of 1943.
She did what she could to stay alive
and miraculously she survived.
Her life moved on to Hollywood
it brought her fame,
not her heart though,
just opportunity.
Her life ended in the arms of starving children
unlike you and me.
And we move on from our past
the stains remain, but the hope lasts.
Some rock, some talk, some sing.
Some give away their hearts
holding hands of little ones
that only love can bring.
We do, we talk, we dance, we sing,
we act, we work, we play
and eventually our hearts lead us to where we need to be.

Hey Ama Ma Ma! (A Poem by Cathy Gruman)

We're cruising down Huntington Drive on a Wednesday afternoon
San Gabriels as a backdrop and no particular place to go.
You, in corduroys and navy blue Vans
bouncing in your car seat
to the tune of Life in a Northern Town
and you were singin'
Hey Ama ma ma!
Hey Ama ma ma!
Ah ah ah ah ahhhhhhhh...
and I was smiling from the inside out
The song went,
"A Salvation Army band played,
and the children drank lemonade
and the morning lasted all day, all day...
Life in a Northern Town.
Bashing around town that day,
post office, McDonald's and the park,
stopping for vanilla ice cream.
I plopped you in your car seat
vanilla cone clinched in your hand
and you committed to the feast.
Moments later I looked back to see the glorious sight
of you eating your ice cream from the cone up,
a big gaping crater at the bottom
promises of a white snow avalanche.
The mountain of vanilla sat on top tilting like the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
"Hi" was your expression and you got back to business,
eating your cone from bottom up
and I was smiling from the inside out,
like today when I think of you
but somewhat desparately as that time is gone.
Our worlds have pulled apart slowly, as they should,
as you go your own way,
singing your own new tunes;
bashing around with your beloved one.
Your ice cream cones have become bon appetites on 4th Street
and cool drinks downtown.
Errands are now shows and parties from Long Beach to L.A.
But that day of long ago remains a permanent stain
of a million smiles from the inside out
as I recall your little voice, face and body singing
Hey Ama ma ma! Hey Ama ma ma!
Ah ah ah ah ahhhhhh...
to the tune of
Life in a Northern Town.

Bonnie's Place - Chapter One (by Cathy Gruman)

I've been writing this short story (or novella, or whatever it ends up being), for a few years now. It's longer than a short story and not long enough for a novel, hence, novella. Picture it in the form of a hand held size book, sort of like what Hemmingway's Novella's are on, like "The Red Pony" and "Old Man and the Sea". At least, that's what I'm picturing it to be. Hemmingway! She thinks she writes like Hemmingway? No way! I can assure you, I think I write like crap, but if I'm going to get any better, I have to look up to my guys and gals in the literary world and say to myself, if them, why not me? What's keeping me from finishing this book, I don't know, but I thought I would write a chapter at a time on my blog here, and maybe that will do the trick. It's a work in progress and needs a lot of work, so I'm sure I'll be back to do some editing now and then. But for today, here's the first chapter of "Bonnie's Place" in it's current form. Thanks for reading.... Cate.

BONNIE'S PLACE
Chapter One
"Happy Birthday"

Happy Birthday Bonnie! Blow out the candles! "Phhhhhhpppppthhhhh!" Bonnie stretches forward as far as her little body will allow and after a couple of attempts, she blows out the candles. It's her fourth birthday, and she's surrounded by her mom and dad, grandpa and grandma, auntie Jeanie and a few close friends of the family. She's especially excited about Abbie, her cousin and Sam her neighbor being here. Her face is lit up with awe and excitement. With an ear to ear smile, she looks up at mom and dad, the kind of smile a child gives when all she knows is love, when life is new and fresh and mom and dad are always there. Uninhibited. But as the room breaks out with song, "Happy Birthday Bonnie! Happy Birthday Bonnie!", she is overwhelmed and starts to cry and mommy picks her up. "It's okay baby, we love you! We're just singing Happy Birthday." Mom gives her a kiss on the cheek and Bonnie's face returns to smiles and giggles. Her once teared cheeks are smiles again and she looks at the cake before her. As if it were a magnificent challenge, she sticks her hand in the frosting and laughter fills the room.

Common Courtesy

Its rare form is something to behold.
When expressed, it's oh so beautiful.
A unique experience.
Today, it comes as a surprise when it occurs; I stop in temporary wonderment, left with a smile.
If only it happened more, I'd feel less dismayed when I'm out and about.
It takes but a slight shift in thought to join in the wonderment of humankind's simple task of keeping each other afloat and free, in this act of common courtesy.

Periwinkles

The periwinkle flower fell to the ground as she hailed the cab.
All she could think about was how he looked at her when she said it was time for her to go. His eyes were faint but deliberate, probably thinking he would never see her again. On her trip there to see him she stopped at a garden and stole a handful of periwinkles. She knew he liked blue. She grabbed a paper cup at the hospital, filled it with water and put the periwinkles in it. Then as she sat before him for the first time in ten years, she reached for the words in her throat, to say something meaningful, but she didn't know what or how to express her reasoning for leaving without a word that night. He remembers the look on her face that night ten years ago, when they walked through the door without their child, their child she could have saved if she were paying more attention. "It's not your fault," he said. And her response was empty, but clear enough for him to see her next move. Her face was drawn, her heart was cold, her hope was gone, and he to her was forever a reminder of their now dead son. So when she left he did not fight, he didn't have the will or might as he too was at a loss for what he loved so dearly. Somehow at this time she found her way back to console him in his current state, but only briefly because her pain refused to abate.

Blessed Wind

The wind swept through their house like a storm.
In and out, in and out, more times than they could count.
Not knowing what hit them, they blamed the other because it felt less severe.
Half the blame is less painful than the whole.
It swept through, knocking down plants, dishes and lamp stands.
They'd put them back in place, then the wind would knock them down again.
Again, they'd pick everything up and put them back in place,
and the wind would come again, repeating its course,
and down the dishes, shelves, and nic nacs came,
only to be picked up again.
She kept wondering why she continued,
and he with excuses would sing another song.
But she never really knew him, nor he her.
In each other's arms, they did not belong.
Only after the umpteenth time, did they finally see,
the only thing left was their original song
and the stark, stale reality that it was gone.

Detours

She once had a friend who she thought was her lover
but it turns out he was nothing but other.
She was stupid enough to give him her heart
and then he invented ways to tear it apart.
He hated L.A. and her too, but he didn't leave
until he was ready, until he finally got
that ride that drove him and his buddy out of the city.

Leaves on the Ground

Leaves on the ground make me happy because they're pretty and colorful and non-pretentious. They've come from a place of life where they've breathed and lived and now they've fallen in a scattered portrait for those walking by to see. I think I need to take more walks.

Unfolded Stories

Peer not through these wanting eyes,
for whom she sees is what defies.
What seems lost she never had,
but caught only a glimpse from what she's seen and heard.
The absurdities of it all seem so unfair,
and as she reaches out to touch me, she can only stare.
Through the torrents of her fears
that sometimes subside,
but today are a ferocious lion,
her tears well up.
She is haunted by these years -
the rage, the hate, the aloof vague distance
and dispondence toward her who didn't ask for it.
Her face is supple like a rose,
and her eyes are sad and worn, but still show a glimpse of light
that she calls hope.
She keeps waiting and wanting, for what she doesn't know,
for the part that hasn't shown itself,
in this nightmare.
She's only had a glimpse of what she's seen and heard,
but she feels it's there and she wants it, so she continues to hold on.
She holds on waiting for this story to unfold.

Creases

“If you line up the lid with the crease of the cup, then it won’t leak from the top,” he said, as he saw her struggling to make their coffee and keep her mom under control. “Oh, thanks,” she said. “Here we go, here we go. “ And then the mom moved her cup quickly without the lid, and it spilled a good amount onto the floor. “Please, just stand there and I’ll get it.” And as the mom struggles, looking like she needs to do something, the daughter hastily grabs her cup and puts the sugar in it. All the while wanting to be calm and considerate, she knows she looked unkind. As she puts the lid on, she lines it up with the crease. Somehow it gave order to the moment. Taking a breath, she says, “Here you go mom. Okay, let’s go sit outside.” She still thinks they can have a quiet moment, just her and her mom, so she leads them to the chairs. “We’ll have this time together”, she thinks to herself. When they sit, the mom is anxious and a bit lost. “What are we doing here?” she asked. She is not in the moment and has different needs. “Okay, mom let’s go,” and she leads them to the car. Mom is gone, and I still line up my coffee lids with the crease.

Coffee Rehab (Cathy Gruman creator, Pete Maldonado illustrator)

I'm a coffee addict, and one day, somewhere at the beginning of this year, I had a scenario about a typical coffee trip, that just cracked me up, so I decided to write a quick comic sketch about it. I thought it was pretty funny, but I'm not an illustrator, so I set it aside hoping to find someone someday, and maybe we could do something with it. I eventually got around to looking for artists, and my son's girlfriend Rachael, said, "Pete! He's perfect!" He is not only an amazing artist, he understands comics from beginning to end. So, here is our first collaborative effort of our first episode of "Coffee Rehab". More to come. Cate.

Illustrator's profile - check it out!
P.Maldonado
theeviltwin.deviantart.com
torus151@earthlink.net

The Pepper Tree

(a poem by Cathy Gruman, 2009)

At the top of Opal Canyon, to the right and at the end of the street, was the field, where we rode horses, motorcycles and went hiking up the trail. Always passing the Peppertree, glancing as passed by. We would say, "There’s the Pepper Tree”, sort of like allegiance to a flag. It stood apart, like a big round tent of dark droopy leaves, hanging to the ground,providing a soft shady floor, a place to stop and rest. We usually didn't stop, though; it wasn’t that far into the walk, and we had places to go. Kids would mostly go there to make out, drink or smoke pot. I kissed a boy there, no two. Perhaps there would have been more, but kissing was all they got from me.

short sad hair (a poem by Cathy Gruman)

I love short hair, except when it is imposed on those who want to keep theirs long. Hence, this poem.... Cate

Short Sad Hair
(a poem by Cathy Gruman, 2009)

My brother cried when my mom cut his hair;
I ten and he thirteen.
I sat and watched in despair.
It seemed so cruel.
He looked like someone
had stolen his fate.
I looked disparingly as she clipped his mane.
It was sandy brown, straight and long.
It was him, his style, with his 501’s, Vans and white t'shirts.
He was cool.
He was free.
He was ornery.
And fun.
I followed him around like he was king.
I begged for his sunflower seeds
as we sat on the porch one day.
He wouldn’t share.
He just continued on, cracking and eating,
spitting out a pile of empty shells on the porch.
I sat content, happy to be near.
I took my place by his side and there, I would reside.
When I was nine, my mom cut my hair.
A pixie as short as a boy’s.
I rode on the floor of the backseat
all the way home,
hoping desperately no one would see.
I wondered about this strange and cruel obsession
she had with our hair.
It was the 60’s for goodness sakes.

Butterfly (a Poem by Cathy Gruman)

Butterfly butterfly
in eloquent flight
jump up from the shadows
and into the light.
Fragrant leaves behoove you
as you jump from place to place,
merrily soaring through rays of light,
dodging echos in the night.

Porches (a Poem by Cathy Gruman)

Porches
(A poem by Cathy Gruman, 10/2009)

Don’t worry little girl, he’ll be back soon, said the neighbor who saw her standing on the porch as she waited for her father to come home.
Looking for his car to drive up the driveway like he used to, she wanted him to come home for dinner.
"Oh!" Her eyes widen then drop when she sees it’s not him, pulling up in the driveway, jumping out in his slacks and white shirt, leather shoes and tie, to bend down and look in her eyes and say, “Hello precious, I love you. Let’s go inside and have dinner.”
She’ll keep waiting and watching for him to come home.
She, now 30, with her boyfriend, many before him; and he says “I really have to go now. I really have to go.”
“Why, she says, I don’t understand.”
He explains again, this is his last.
“I’ve told you, it’s not working. You’re a lovely girl, but I have to go. It’s over. Please let go.”
“No, she pleads, don’t go.”
“Stop", peeling her fingers off of his wrist, "What do you want from me? You’ll get over it. You will survive.”
He grows angry and she grows weary. She spirals down that void again, this time a little further than before.
“What?", he demands. "What? What do you want from me?”
“He never came,” she says. He never came.
I stood on the porch, and he never came.”

Man on the Corner (A Poem by Cathy Gruman)

Standing there, he stares
with people and cars passing by.
Old blue jeans and white t-shirt.
Leather face and baseball cap.
His house is white with weathered panes
and a yard of dried grass.
He glares.
He engages when we stop
he responds and listens to our squawks.
Hanging on the next word, he longs to be a part.
If I stop, he'll cross the street to say hello
and ask me how I'm doing.
Sometimes I wave from a distance.
He stares from deep within.
He's kept alive from passersby.
I wonder if he were kept inside, if his stares would become mumblings
until he closed his eyes.

Giving is Giving (A Poem by Cathy Gruman)

I had a conversation once, with this man who was in recovery for crack addiction. He was a mess, but so beautiful because he was speaking from the inside. He was open to me as a person, and took the time and effort to listen to what I was saying. He even took the extra step to offer encouraging words. I was really touched by this experience. It humbled me. It made me realize how much we (I) can take people for granted. People don't have to be neat and tidy to offer gems. Anyway, I wrote this poem about him. Cate.

Humbled by a Crack Head (A Poem by Cathy Gruman)

I learned about love from a crack head today.
I was blue and he was sober, his three hundred and eighty-sixth day.
In the parking lot we were talking.
I was troubled and he was thankful.
His life was turning around.
Dreadlocks and a missing tooth,
and he was smiling.
I told him my woes,
and he listened.
He used his history
to reveal a mystery
that his brokenness
is what put him together.
His history didn't fit today's story.
It made no sense to me.
Then I realized
as I looked into his eyes,
behind his face was saving grace.
The part that broke him
was no longer his disgrace.

Roadtrip (a Poem by Cathy Gruman)

We left Durock on a winter morning, when the sun was making its way over the hill.
Highway 395, headed to Westwood, Lassen County in Northern Cal.
With munchies, props and radio -
Dave Mason, Jethro Tull, and Allman Brothers on cassette.
Passing small towns and pastures,
the city disappeared behind us.
Eight hundred miles and twelve hours later
we slid into wonder winterland.
Windows foggy, white sky,
snowy trees
standing by.
The bug skated along the icy road, gliding side to side.
Our instincts showed some fright,
but we had laughter on our side.

Homeward bound on the Interstate 5,
tumbleweeds rolling frantically by.
One after another, like creatures in a sci fi movie with big boufant hairdos blowing in the wind.
Coming down the hill we saw the chocolate sky.
Landing flat, entering the city, we breezed through the traffic lights,
and the merchants lined the way.
Focused now on getting home, we counted down the minutes.
As we rounded Opal Canyon curve while it was still light,
we wondered what we’d do tonight.

Crickets and Colorful Houses (a poem by Cathy Gruman)

Crickets screaming
our feet streaming
walking north on 13th street.
The row of houses
with colorful wood and brick faces,
porches, windows, flowers
all aglow.
Butterflies, bees and yawning trees,
with cracked sidewalks bending along the way.
This art walk cost only a stroll on a warm August evening.

10 Things to Do When You're Broke

Sometimes I get blue when I'm broke. It's easy to have fun when I've got cash, just jump in the car and go shopping for things I supposedly need, like more clothes, stuff for my apartment, books, coffee, food (I need food, but don't have to eat out all the time), movies, driving around aimlessly, wasting gas; then I land home with a bunch of bags and more trash in my car and have this false feeling like I've accomplished something. Of course it goes away quickly. It's all good and fun and not necessarily bad when balanced, but sometimes I think these things are just filling a void, because oftentimes when I don't have money, I act like I don't have anything to do, like I'm deprived. Nothing could be further from the truth. So, in case you're bored, blue or demotivated today because you're short on cash, (or not short on cash, but just demotivated and blue), try one or more from this list and see how you feel:

1-Do 10 minutes of stretching and breathing (keep it simple)
2-Take a 10-20 minute walk
3-Call 3 friends you haven't talked to in a while just to say hello and see how they're doing. Try not to talk too much about yourself.
4-Go to the library and browse through the geography section and spend at least 30 minutes in a book about another country or state.
5-Go on line and search for volunteer opportunities in your community
6-Write a list of 10 specific small tasks you need/want to do that day and try to do them. The list can be super simple, but it feels good when it's done.
Sample List (1dishes; 2call so and so; 3make bed; 4read 10 minutes; 5find receipt to....; 6clean trash out of car; 7wash one load of laundry; 8make bed; 9check out classes online; 10 watch favorite DVD)
7-find a local public garden, big or small, and take a walk through it.
8-look out for an elderly person who needs help with whatever they are doing at the moment and ask them, "do you need help?"
9-if you're not atheist and even if you're not Catholic, go to a local Catholic Church and light a candle, lifting someone in your life up in prayer. I'm not Catholic, but it doesn't matter, it's a special thing to do.
10-if you have 2 bucks, go to a coffee shop and bring a pad of paper. buy a cup of coffee and sit for about 30 minutes, drink your coffee and write a list of everyone in your life and everything you are thankful for. If there are people you need to thank, put that on your list for tomorrow.

For what it's worth.... have a great day! Cate

Hold Back Sometimes (a Poem by Cathy Gruman)

Try not to say it; the cut will be deep.
You'll have to undo what you felt was right,
and in the long run, it will just ruin tonight.

Concrete Road (a Poem by Cathy Gruman)

As the wind blows this way and that,
does it have a different meaning in each direction?
As a life unfolds in all of its splendor,
can it follow the path of the wind and still be whole?
Or, must it stay on the concrete road that never curves or bends,
but cracks with the weed popping through it.
It seems to me that a weed popping through it
shows many splendors of its own;
for what a glorious fight it must have shown
to show its tiny head through such a heavy load
and still have that color of a flower of its own.