AMusing Marilyn

Category: My Poems

Literally, My Poems will be the portal to individual poems I wrote, 1966-present.

  • Londontown

    They go to see the Changing of the Guard
and then, like ants, descend into the Tube
in a mad scurry to Speaker’s Corner
where they swarm in droves
around ice cream vendors.
And the world walks by unseen.
 
Not for the People Watcher.  No. 
For her, the best part of all
is strolling down Bayswater
on a Sunday afternoon
in the Fall . . .
 
     Children’s laughter mingles with the crunch
     of autumn’s leaves inside the Park.
     Artists hawk blurry velvet nudes
     aligned like the beheaded along the fence;
     while punkers, three abreast, strut uniform weirdness,
     shoving innocents aside.
 
Not for the Rambler.  No. 
For her, the best part
is turning toward the Serpentine
on a Sunday afternoon
in the Fall . . .
 
     Little boys in short gray pants sail paper boats
     while nannies scold and coax.
     Riders post in precision atop huge bay mares
     and saunter down historic Rotten Row;
     while women wrapped in hand-painted silk
     giggle behind veils of secrecy.
 
They all bring cameras
to record that they were there.
They run from place to place
to stand in front of monuments and pose —
from Sloane to Trafalgar Square.
And all the while, the world walks by unseen.
 
Not for the Traveler.  No.
For her, the best part is in the knowing
that she’ll be back for another stroll
some other Sunday afternoon.

    Reprinted by Marilyn Paluszak from a poem originally written in 1999.

    My favorite city, London is filled with history and is visited by people from every country in the world. When you go there, be sure to leave time to stroll along the banks of the Thames some evening.

    Tower Bridge, London
    Tower Bridge marks the location of the Tower of London, where many famous people were jailed through the ages. It is also where the royal jewels are kept.
    Queen's Guard practicing maneuvers on Rotten Row, Hyde Park
    Strolling alongside Hyde Park’s Rotten Row, we happened upon the Queen’s Guard practicing maneuvers for her birthday in 2002.
    Buckingham Palace, London
    Buckingham Palace is no longer the primary residence of the Queen but when she is there, the British flag flies overhead.
    The Tower of Big Ben is a must see.
    Big Ben is a big draw, especially upon the hours of noon and midnight. It might be prudent during high tourist seasons to choose a somewhat less auspicious hour to hear the bells toll.

  • Scars

    Even now
that the wound
has healed
and the scar
so barely shows

there are times
of pain and anguish
when the nightmares
let me know

how fragile
a mind can be
as memory
replays trauma
into the night

and yesterday's sorrow
fills the void
with doubt
and aching heart
brought low

making it hard
to fight the demons
and see the cure
lies waiting
for tomorrow

when the pain
will ebb
and joy return
as dawn
defeats the foe.

    Reprinted 2020 by Marilyn Paluszak from a poem first written in 1986.

    Some poems flow freely, without punctuation, and boundaries. I have chosen not to return to edit this one but to leave it wild.

  • Florida Sunset

    sunset over the pacific

    This is not a Florida sunset; this photo was taken from a freighter in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. I tried valiantly to capture more than one sunset as we headed SW toward New Zealand.

    So different from the one in the poem and from the one in this site’s banner. That “Pink Beauty” deserves a poem of her own. She was captured from our rooftop dining area of our rental in Comares, Spain, in May 2006.

    A spiritual man
asked for words
to tell of this night,
when He chose to
wipe the horizon
with hands oiled
in bright reds and
a touch of umber.

Nearby, a girl
wondered if her
battered camera
could get those
long, greasy,
red-fingered lines
scrawled across
the horizon.

Standing in silence
in the parking lot,
unaware of the other,
or of the woman
by the door,
with the brush
dripping red
by her side.

A bird's
thrilled call
broke the hush
and each turned away;
as if in unison
they knew the futility
of even trying to
capture this beauty.

    Republished in 2020 by Marilyn Paluszak. This poem was originally written after bearing witness to a spectacular sunset from a Walmart parking lot in July 2011.

  • Tree

    Silver shantung-like tree in a ruin at Angkor Wat, Cambodia

    Who could resist falling in love with this tree? I took this photo while viewing some of the temples in the Angkor Wat complex, Cambodia (2006). 

    This is a tree,
its limbs reaching high.
Once it flourished,
now it's doomed to die.

The buds sprouted early,
then the leaves -- red and orange
Brought color to the tree,
that mighty, solid, symbol of me.

Yes, symbol I say,
for I too stand
Quietly peeping
at that thing called Man.

My leaves fell away,
blew to distant lands.
There to be picked at
by unfamiliar hands.

I too stand naked
in the breezy night air.
Gazing at the stars above,
striving for the beauty
so far out of reach.

All gnarled and dry,
it heaves a mighty sigh.
We're one, that tree and I,
for both are doomed to die.

    Republished by Marilyn Paluszak in 2020 from my original poem written to accompany a college writing assignment in 1966.

  • Poetry as a muse

    The first poem I wrote was as a sophomore in college. Totally depressed at the time, I had little purpose and wanted to be anyplace else on Earth, doing just about anything else. There was nothing amusing about my mood but maybe that is why I came to realize poetry as a muse. Inspiration comes from many places.

    My English professor was also one of my best friend’s lover. That’s right. I had to face this man at the ungodly hour of 8:00 a.m. every Saturday morning. I wonder now if there wasn’t a correlation there, somewhere. My class had been tasked with writing a paper about ourselves because, to paraphrase, “…we were too inexperienced to write about anything else.”

    Tortured, I handed in a paper that was rapidly returned with a note that I could do better, dig deeper. So I capitulated and tossed five pages of catharsis onto paper, double spaced and typed on a rickety old typewriter. Then, slurping a soda in the Rathskeller one afternoon, I started writing a poem about a tree. About me.

    We’re one, this tree and I …

    In the end, I drew that tree and handed in the drawing, the poem, and my revised paper as one. I will never forget his note: “I could have graded you on the drawing of the tree alone, as it is that revealing.” Damn. Then, to my surprise, he wrote: “Unlike other young poets, you did not sacrifice meaning for rhyme. A++”

    A young poet? Me? Apparently not a proficient one as I’ve learned that poems only come to me every so often. Words fill my head, an idea blooms, and if I’m very lucky there will be a pen and paper nearby.

    Poetry is personal

    I refused to share my poems with anyone for a very long time. They were personal memories held tight and hidden. A near lifetime flew past and we moved to Florida where I became a member of a Creative Writing Club and then a Journalism Club. I’ve learned from those that I enjoy writing but am not goal driven.

    Another couple of years later and a Florida friend drew me into a group called the Poetry Pals. We are not an official club-club. We just are a handful of women who enjoy hosting each other for a lunch and to share poetry. Usually the hostess picks a topic but any poems brought will do. One woman is a prolific, published poet; two of us write when the heavens move us; the others just enjoy the shared time, stories and poetry.

    Somewhere in there, Rob encouraged me to publish two short stories online, through Smashwords.com so Maybelle and Mattie: Each with a story of her own to tell is available for free to the world. I don’t advertise that and rarely look to see if anyone is still reading them. By now they must be way-way-way down the list. It isn’t as easy to format poetry so those never got recorded.

    Not too long ago, my husband and I were discussing blog and website development. Rob said I really should publish my poetry so it will be there when I’m not. Okay, maybe not that bluntly, but I got it. I surely cannot leave him with a binder of poems and the burden of not knowing what to do with it — with them. AMusingMarilyn will be my vehicle.

    If you stumble across my poems and enjoy one or two, thank you for the compliment. Please feel free to share my words but remember that written words are copyrighted as they are written. Always give an author credit for her work, for her words. I share them like leaves floating into the ethos but they are my leaves and I really do not want to see them crumpled and distraught.

    This sharing business will obviously take a leap of faith on my part.

    I understand that cheating in schools pre-COVID19 had become rampant — the new norm. That bothers me because cheating only cheats the one who cheats. To plagiarize is bad enough as it admits defeat in your own strength to create, to accomplish. That is not a satisfying path to wander. To steal someone else’s work entirely is far more offensive. Taking someone else’s intellectual property and putting your own or anyone else’s name on it is mean and illegal.

    ~AMusing Marilyn

    Me in an Amazon River water taxi in Iquitos, Peru