Childhood

brown wooden armchair on brown wooden floor
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CHILDHOOD

Chair in the corner of the dining room,

and Daddy sitting in it, and only the orange glow from the ashes,

and gray puffs of smoke,

gave any signal of human presence.

Otherwise it was just the darkness and a chair in the corner,

otherwise it was just daddy in the dark and all alone.

I watched the firelight from the cigarette, as a child,

and wondered why the night was so black,

and why Daddy was so alone, and why voices rang out in the night.

I thought of Mama in the next room sleeping,

and I wondered why I was so small, and why Mama and Daddy never laughed.

And I felt like the night, cold,

and like Daddy,

and like Mama.

so all alone.

Copyright 2019, Jenny W. Andrews

 

My poetry book “Life at the End of the Rainbow” is currently available at Amazon/Kindle. I would love to hear any feedback about my poetry. Thanks.

-Jenny

 

I Stepped Away

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I Stepped Away

Dream, haunting, hunted me down, dark of night.

No longer afraid of that place, it moves faraway on a fast fall down a tunnel, black hole, slippery hand lets go.

I turn away from the dark; life lights up like the break of day.

I can never be who I used to be. 

Climbed, crawled out of the tunnel-sealed it with a kick. My foot print emblazoned in that dark place at the edge of the abyss.

I stepped away.

Jenny W. Andrews, Copyright 2019. All Rights reserved.

Between Two Bridges

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Between Two Bridges

Like a ghost I haunt these spaces, living here between two bridges.

Boardwalk beneath my feet, sags, cracks.

Been in this space too long, just now I have noticed the grime; jarred awake too late to backtrack my steps.

Spring afternoon, sunlight repeats itself, like me in my weakness.

Trapped, I am between these two bridges.

River moves on, connects endless streams-but, me, I sink back, drown my dreams.

Incapable I am of freeing myself, unable to move on.

Stationary, trapped here like steel girders, the pressure bearing down, pulling me to the bottom.

I look into the currents-the river oblivious to me continue to move.

Trapped, I am between these two bridges.

Like a ghost, I haunt this space, incapable of moving forward.

Like the river.

Jenny W. Andrews Copyright 2019 (Original copyright 2018). All Rights Reserved.

My Psalm

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My Psalm

God has blessed me with the greatest gifts; butterflies’ orange and gold wings fluttering along yellow rose petals against sun dappled days.

Late afternoons, warm breezes refreshing me, reviving me.

God has blessed me with love, with memories like precious jewels that sparkle and remind me of endless October days that God in His Grace has given me one more day.

Another hour, another chance to see the sun rise, split the orange and lavender sky.

God has remembered me with millions of miracles that my human eyes have been unable to see.

He has filled this frail vessel with breath, blood, passion, and a soul that hungers, yearns, fails, succeeds, doubts, believes.

God has laid his hand upon me, called me out of the multitudes, called me back to Him.

He has loved me,

even when I turned and ran from Him.

He has gathered me to Himself like I am a wounded child.

He has known my sorrows. He has seen my darkest hours and He has shone a candle in the shadows.

He has lifted me up and He has restored me.  He has loved me; he has forgiven me.

He has given me one more day to get it right, to enjoy the sunlight peeking through the trees.

God has loved me; he has been good to  me.

He is my God; God of all eternity.

Copyright 2019 Jenny W. Andrews. All rights reserved

Sanctuary

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Sanctuary

That moment, the moment you seeped into my soul like poison,

an injection of you.

You shone like a multifaceted jewel, smooth like velvet spilling into velvety darkness.

I, I needed an anchor in the darkness, and you were what reached for me.

And I knowing better reached back.

Now,

when it feels too late,

I recoil from the sting.

Poisoned,

I am.

Your shadow hovers like impending death.

Trapped,

I am and I don’t know how to free myself.

Copyright 2019 (original copyright 2009). Jenny W. Andrews. All rights reserved.

 

Aunt Mary: Oatmeal Raisin Cookies

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Spaces Between Words: A Memoir

Oatmeal raisin cookies, sweet aromatic scent, warm clear steam floating in front of me like a pastry vision. Aunt Mary, brown like her cookies, lifts the plate and moves it away from me, and tells me to eat my dinner, to wait for dessert. Impatiently, I tell her that I had to have a cookie right then. (At four years old I couldn’t wait).

Behind her, I see a train track suspended in the air just beyond her kitchen window. It is in the near distance and I  wonder why the train track is so high up and how in the world anybody or even how the train gets to that lofty spot in the lower half of the sky.

My mind drifts back to the sweet aroma of freshly baked oatmeal raisin cookies, Aunt Mary moving them further away from me, and my yearning to touch the bumpy texture with my fingertips, and then to finally lift the sweetness to my tongue. Wild-eyed, I  stare at the retreating plate. “Aunt Mary,”  I gasp. “I have to have one, now!”

It was at that moment she paused. Tall, square shouldered, regally Cherokee, her ebony eyes softened, her words whispered low like a night wind. “Here,” stealthily, she slipped a round warm cookie into the palm of my pale hand. She smelled sweet like her cookies. Like a sacrament, I quietly accepted the special exemption I had been granted.

My cousins passed around me unaware of a wish that had been granted and unaware of a bond that had been forged. My Cherokee Aunt Mary smiles at me in amber hues somewhere down the darkened cavernous road where kinship and bloodlines blur, and I know that she is just as much a part of me as I was of her.

 

2019 Copyright, Jenny W. Andrews

All rights reserved.

Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think.This excerpt is from a rough draft of my memoir. I have been writing on it and reworking it for a couple of years now. Maybe one day I will try to find a literary agent to help me publish it. If anyone knows a reputable literary agent please let me know. Thanks.

-Jenny