Tina Blondino

Photo by Pat Won on Unsplash

a poem of connections

It fits easily in my hand, an old friend,
this broom handle, this broom.
I place my hands where Mom
caressed it in the fingerprints of Nana.
I sweep the kitchen floor,
smoke grey porcelain tiles
where brick-shaped linoleum had been.
I feel the rhythm of the sweep –
long, short, short,
long, short, short.
Mesmerized…

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Art by Jennifer Hunter, posted by author

Head thrown back, arms wide, dancing woman, alive.
She’s glad God is watching ―
she twitches her skirt, flashes her bronze thigh.
Magenta satin, saffron velvet clutch her curves,
vitality, Lilith, drive and verve.
Jet beads fling, a visceral aura
swirls on her breasts, accentuates her bounty.
Her feet, a dancing blur,
tap, demand, a force of their own.
Watching women feel the stirring ―
feel blood rising, cheeks burn, sisterhood;
she dances a dance stronger than fate,
dancing a charm so he’ll never die.
Head thrown back, arms wide, the dancing woman, alive.

If you like this poem, you might enjoy this as well ―

Sometimes Parts of My Past

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Photo by Oziel Gómez on Unsplash

Here’s what I want to tell you –
you have done more good in your life
than you know.
Comments, asides of encouragement,
times you were silent so others could grow.
Life continues.
There are prayers to be prayed,
silences to be held, blessings yet to give.

Although you can’t know,
you have played a significant role in this world,
been an essential color in the weaving.
You made a difference; make one still.
Just breathe in life –
you who have rushed,
who skipped now for perhaps
is
for could be.

Exhale, lower defenses,
lay aside prickly words,
self-justification,
used to declare
you are worth life.

This is my gift –
forgiveness, amnesia,
a fresh world at dawn.

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Photo by David Peters on Unsplash

Like a clowder of cats, the past
skulks out the broken screen
and disappears.
Yet a few feral ones turn, slink back,
sulk behind the couch,
hover in the shadows.
They prowl. One slips under a pillow,
nightmare at the ready. Others wait behind
the wedding picture on my dresser,
in the aroma of banana bread,
the blue bowl of beef stew,
sharp scent of lime cologne.
Sometimes the feline ones pull together memories
in yarn-like strands. Tatters of the past,
once a cats-cradle of confusion,
ignored,
spring together.
Friendship, misunderstanding,
embarrassment, rash choice,
confusion, argument, rift.
As a cat with a mouse in its mouth,
the past presents itself as new.

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