RUTH Z. DEMING - POEMS

​Ruth Z. Deming, winner of a Leeway Grant for Women Artists, has had her work published in lit mags including Hektoen International, Creative Nonfiction, Haggard and Halloo, and Literary Yard. A psychotherapist and mental health advocate, she runs New Directions Support Group for people with depression, bipolar disorder, and their loved ones. Viewwww.newdirectionssupport.org. She runs a weekly writers' group in the comfy home of one of our talented writers. She lives in Willow Grove, a suburb of Philadelphia. Her blog is www.ruthzdeming.blogspot.com.

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                                WALK AT MIDNIGHT
 
Listen to the noises of the night!
Cicadas, crickets, tiny toads with
their chirrup chirrup, all hidden
from view like ancient tribes of
Iroquois, clearing the way
for the lot of us.
 
In my striped nightgown with
lacy neck like Rembrandt’s
burghers, I step lightly on
the sidewalk. It is night
and I wish to wake no one.
Half moon stares my way.  
 
Why? Why am I here?
Why was I sprung forth
from mama’s womb
seventy-one years ago?
 
Lonesome is the feeling
lonesome as the moon
darkness all around
not a single shard of
light pierces the
darkness.
 
Once when I attended
college in Vermont, I
stole someone’s bicycle
and rode down the
streets, far far from home,
but knowing then for certain
I was grown and the
world awaited me.
 
I pick a white daisy and
hold it in my hand. The
moonlight makes it shine.
High on life am I.
High on the moon.
 
 
***
 
                                   PAIN
 

Every morning I would stretch,
roll from bed and run like a
girl to part the drapes of the
new-broken day.
 
What a sight! Sunshine
splashing from behind
Charlie’s tall oak
 
And the contingent of
dog walkers, greeting
one another by name
 
Oh beautiful world!
 
Now all banned from me.
Every gulp of bliss that
was once mine. A pain
 
like broken glass twisting
inside my left foot. Oh Lord
how have I failed you?
 
I am strung up with an
orthopedic boot that
scuffs my shin. Lying in
bed watching Charlie
Rose the bubbles of
glass strike again
and again.
 
When pain enters
joy is sucked out
a tree full of leaves
heaped now on
the barren ground.
 
Howl! For the world’s
turned to a miserable
heap of dung. 
 
 
***
 
                                IN THE SNOWY KITCHEN
 
Dark kitchen
surrounded outside
with newly fallen snow
 
I slip through the
window and tiptoe
pajama-clad
 
Underneath the maple
that’s dressed in
a Christ-like
white shroud
 
I worship beneath
the tree, God’s
in every little
snow flake
and in me.
 
 
***
 
                                        THE BLIZZARD
 
I pace back and forth
refrigerator full
hummus from the
Mediterranean
yogurt with chocolate
and raspberry so I
won’t pass out from
a diabetes low.
 
I stare out the window
such whiteness
a fresh bridal gown
laced with moon beams.
 
Slipping on my clogs
I step onto the front
porch. At midnight
an otherworldly glow bathes
my skin a milky white.
 
Listen! Does snow
sound as it falls? Do
it click or tap or
make melancholy
sound? 
 
Its tiny arrows fall
from the sky, piercing
the peach fuzz on my
warm cheeks with
a cold ouch!
 
Barely protected
beneath my
polka-dot PJs
I land in Siberia
where the cold
killed the right arm,
yes, the frost did
it, to a newly anointed
painter name of
Stankowski, not young,
 
His brilliant reds,
the oranges, the
Rothko blacks, slashed with
poetry, reach out to
embrace me.
 
I’d like to have his
work hanging on my
wall. There tis:
a painting
Huge –
squares of white
white and more
white
feathery white
 
Hands on canvas
I take a deep yogi
breath, the paint
smells like snow
as I walk right in
 
I will stay awhile
If I sleep, do not
disturb. Wake me
when it’s over
a live mummy
with frosty-
white hair and
a body that glows.