Where did all my toys go?

I had a sock monkey

his name was JoJo

but he is gone, I don't know where

they're all gone

I had toys, once

I saw pictures of me with them

They have disappeared, by magic

Or maybe it's just me who's gone?

Some were sold to buy

Mommy and Daddy new toys

And then Stepmommy and StepDaddy

and their new kids

I didn't have many toys

but they were mine

gifts from Gramas and Grampas

Aunties and Uncles

A Barbie with camper

games of Clue and Life

A long-hair Chrissy doll and

Blythe whose eyes changed color

And books collected and saved

A complete Peanuts set

Sad Eyes and fairy tale

puzzles in cardboard cans

And Disney and Bible LPs 

They didn't get lost 

as things do when one ages

I didn't sell them

or give them away

They were taken almost 

as soon as I got them

well, I wouldn't have a place 

to keep them anyway

Homes and bedrooms being

thin on the ground 

shuffling between parents' houses

them moving every month or so

Why didn't they go along?

These past friends of childhood?

One day they were there, the next, gone

Why did I not ask after them?

I treasure my children's toys

lovingly stored in the basement

because they loved them 

and I love the children

I miss my  old friends now. 

They would be good reminders 

that I actually existed

beyond the few, sad memories

that are so different from what

they said were happy- real

but then, the little girl

would have had to be treasured too

So farewell, JoJo, Chrissy, Blythe

I hope you found happy homes. 

Thank you for being my friends

for awhile, back then.

Love, Marilisa

if i had my way...

whatever doesn't kill you

makes you stronger they say

it also leaves pain and scars

that never go away

we've allowed ourselves to be

conned into accepting injury

inflicted purposely by others

as something fortifying

nix, nyet, BS, WRONG

just excuses from perps

to hurt and hurt unchecked

and expect thanks and praise for the privilege 

if i had my way

we'd grow and mature

from love and care

not hurt and scare

that's what i tried to do

with the littles entrusted to me

not perfect nor even always well

operative word being try

to show up, to keep keeping on

to see, feel remorse, admit, apologize

when things went south

our little home version 

of sacrament of reconciliation

Alaska on my mind

me at 5 moved to Alaska from Michigan 

the big people who were parents 

were very busy they said doing missionary stuff

in which they had to be gone for a long time

so i got to play alone. A lot. 

with Mrs. Hammond the blind Tlingit lady

who made giant totem pole animals 

in tiny seed beads on blankets

i sat under her card table 

and collected the dropped beads

she was too old to play outside

and mommy and daddy were too busy

telling people about the good news

i never saw them much

except sometimes at dinner Mrs. Hammond made

so i roamed the beach collecting baby pink shells

i called them and sometimes abalone 

which i thought sounded like balony

climbing rocks at the base of 

the mountains, my mountains i fancied

and in the woods with my rolltop desk

an old stump with acorns and moss

i imagined were desk type stuff

with the bears and moose

too busy foraging to bother with a little girl

i watched an eagle fly over the bay

and a baby whale letting off steam

i admired a gushy snail who'd left her shell

and tasted the berries that grew in the swamp

that smelled like paradise might smell

happiest and scariest of memories

all live in the Alaska on my memory

being alone too much too young

having the adventures of a lifetime

Alaska on my mind

What a friend we have in Jesus

Heather was my best person friend 

for the time I was with her growing up

God should have been so the songs told me

but He was too confusing

too fair weather

Daddy and Mommy said they were God's voice

preaching the "good news" 

of what I was never sure

the god Mommy and Daddy were always gone 

And what's good about that? 

they said we were we

but we weren't they were they

and i was me, just me

and then they weren't they

they were he and she with new they

they said their new People were gods too

they had to be obeyed too

i thought there were only 3 gods in one person

and that we have a friend in Jesus

but they didn't want to be my friend

i tried, so hard it hurt

to do, to fix, to help, to be for them

but not hard enough for the new god People 

who didn't like me or want to be my friend

any more than the first god People. 

and i guess i got the love part wrong too

My bible said God is love

and He cares like a shepherd for sheep

But the for god People didn't care, weren't there

for me, just their new they

i saw other daddies and mommies who weren't god

who took care of their kids, kept them safe

loved them and liked them mostly

some even liked me

and wanted to be my friend

maybe the god People were love for other sheep

and their good news was only for them?

kids who weren't bad little lambs like me

sheep who were prettier, not fat, ugly 

who didn't get in their way or need things

i don't know how i made the god People mad

i never cried when god Dad left 

or god Mom didn't want to be with me

i tried to smile when god Mom's god Husband laughed at me

i tried to serve god Dad's god Wife as She said

But Gods knows everything and hate sin

maybe the god People saw sin i didn't  

i must not be good in my heart

that's why the god People don't like me

and why they don't want to be my friend

i am glad for Heather friend

A tale of a little vagrant

Life did not give me

what other kids took for granted.

bed, home, care, love 

those they said were for others

not for me

i spent most of my time

alone and lonely, wandering

no mom or dad care

in the street, at age four

anthrax notwithstanding

I pet a bunny with bloody nose

I told mom when I got home

she said he was dead and and I shouldn't have 

then at 5 in the park with the pedo

sounds like a Clue game

just don't use the bathroom, she said

but i did then lied and felt bad

for lying and upsetting mom

6 was at the docks that smelled of fresh coho

playing fisherman in my silly striped pants

jeered by other fishermen

for my twig pole and string

with barnacle bait

All these strange cities

lived in but a short time

they moved more than most people 

went in their attics

Always different places

with unfamiliar faces and new names

but the aloneness for the child

remained the same

and the dangers and risk

with no parent to watch

and confusion

at seeing other kids with theirs

But who cares? She's fine

We have more important things to do

She'll be okay and if she isn't

Oh well, one less mouth to feed

How much is that child in the window?

How much is that child in the window?

The one with the sad face and long hair

Not the one on the inside looking out

The girl on the outside staring in

Why does she look so lonely?

why are her small hands so cold?

did the little kitten lose her mittens?

or perhaps they were never there?

Why is she huddling all alone?

Shouldn't there be someone to care?

She very much much too young

But no mommy or daddy is there

She must have had people to love her?

Maybe they get lost in the night?

The story alas is much sadder

They lost their own girl in plain sight

There is nothing so invisibly clear 

as the child you refuse to see

the girl outside the window

when inside is where she should be

So please, how much is the child?

I haven't a great deal of money 

but you can have all that I've got

for she's worth a fortune to me

and if there's no one to love her 

then coin doesn't matter at all 

for I have the world of love 

so please, sir, give her to me? 

Achy-Lake-y Michigan scent at the grama-grampa house

lake Michigan scent lingered

in the grama --grampa house

you could smell the beach

and the sun and sand

in their basement

and in your clothes 

when you went home

little Molly could still smell it

in her beepee

her softie nighttime cuddle

so she put it in a Ziploc

to store and savor 

when she came home 

from the grama-grampa house 

till she went again

it smelled of sun-toasty sand

lake water with algae

of driftwood campfire smoke

with notes of pine and hemlock and fir

from the woodsy back dunes

it was happy with a little wistful

joy mixed in with some sorrow

evergreen sweet and spicy

with a hint of salt and pepper

like tears that won't fall and sting your eyes

a good kind of hurt

yearning heart hurt

from loving too much

and missing it even when it was right there

Lake smell was best at bedtime 

in the room and walls and blankets

smiley-quiet, not going anywhere

like a mommy and daddy

hugging and wishing me goodnight

I liked the hear of the lake too 

as she sang me to sleep

with her purring and growling

splashing and hissing

soft yet endlessly tameless

rocking me in her perfume

the grama-grampa house was 

the only place I ever smelled

this wildy, salty, piney

sunny, dear, sad-sweet

achy-lakey Michigan scent 

now the house doesn't smell the same

because the grama and grampa are gone

and they took it with them

to their new home where I can't visit

and finally the tears start to fall...

Selah

Dune days and forest moods

in high noon dune

blue jay joy

sings praise to pines

as cheery fir frogs 

creak croak their lament

at waterside, brave waves rave

across bleach white beach

as bathers on striped blankets

repose in sunny-sun sand

and gulls queue for stale snacks

at gathering dusk dune

muffled dryer lint fog fluff

creep-sneaks in 

shadowing jewel-bright surf and 

shooing off bathers and greedy gulls

turning berry blue sky

to charcoal smudged cloud

gull formations dot empty beach

as cardinal kiss calls goodnight 

and bats fly their evening maneuvers

in deep dark dune

owls shush hush hoot

on slow dancing trees

and flowers fold themselves

into twilight slumber asanas

as sharp pepper pine

scents sklish, swish wind

and the moon makes her entrance

with her usual flair

curtain calling today's wonder wander

so poet wanderer

dog ear's her notebook page

zipping hoodie against chill

wends her way homeward

Dreaming of new beach day

Misty moisty Michigan walks

 (preface another ode to my childhood Lake Michigan beach walks with grampa. I write a lot about him and grama Kinney. I miss them a lot. Side note: the word uffy in stanza 3 means softy. As in "pink uffy" Emma's blanket)

misty moisty Michigan days

are the best ones for walking

with grampa and the dogs

to the beach in the woods

sunny days are nice too

but grey rainy are even better

soft days my dad called them

its a good word

drizzly clouds make things look

fuzzy and comfy and cozy

i want to wrap up in clouds

like an uffy blanket

its quiet so you can hear

bugs and birds and rustley leaves

and furry, fluffy wind

makes sklishy waves and creaky trees

you can talk if you want 

but you don't have to

on a moisty misty walk

and probably shouldn't 

the big lake woods 

are like a church

and we don't talk in church

if grama is there anyway

on soft beach days

nothing bad exists

no school or work or mean

just happy with a little sad

but it's good blue sad

not mad red sad

sad that helps not hurts, or not too much

sad that time and people pass

grampa and grama are not here

but they're not gone

they still live in the red brick house

and we still walk the lake

in my heart. 

Big Lake lost on Sunday

Sunday was the best day to walk

to the Big Lake Michigan

with grampa and the fat poodle Pierre

and the neighbor's German shepherd Duke

that grama called a police dog

On Sunday we could not do anything

grama and grampa were Dutch reformed 

so we couldn't watch TV or cook 

I could walk with grampa in the woods

But that wasn't why I liked Sunday lake days best

I didn't like Sunday because it was boring

But I did like being at the lake which was not boring

Sunday was best because it felt like it would never end 

you could get lost in the woods for always

I told grampa I wanted to live there forever

in a little hut I'd imagined I'd make

I'd live on chewing gum wintergreen berries 

and make pancakes from acorns

Grampa said I'd soon get sick of it and come home

it was nice to think of grama who never lake walked 

waiting at home with the lazy dog

who had given up and braunschweiger sandwiches 

But I haven't forgotten my Lake Michigan 

back dune woods mind fort

made of beach grass and driftwood

like African kids' cozy hut homes

in my Grama L's Childcraft books

My grandson Milo felt quite the same thing

when we went Sunday walkabout at Lake Michigan

We agreed we'd like to live there for always

in the big sand dunes with tall beach grass

in a cantonment we'd make for ourselves

and sister Juno of sand-scrubbed sticks

tied together with maram grass

dining on berries and nuts and such

I am very sure that my mind fort of 5

is the same one 5-year-old he sees too

If only there was the grama grampa house

with sandwiches and them waiting for us

I'm the grama now, making sandwiches

at the Omi-Opi house for after walk Sundays

I see the old treasured faces in now people loved

I meet grama and grampa in them, again

such is the circle unbroken.

Selah

(love, Omi Sachteleben)

My husband is the sexiest man alive

My husband and I met in college. I was energetically pursuing my degree and he had taken up residence in the cafeteria, energetically pursuing a world record in coffee drinking. He would speak ex cathedra from his monobloc chair on the evils of Reaganomics, British motorcycles and the poetry of Pink Floyd. He smoked like an old Dodge with bad exhaust. Dressed in his prized American made black leather jacket and smelling deliciously of Aqua Velva, this guy was mouthy, cocksure and funny as hell.

He had a lopsided smile that managed to be silly and seductive all at the same time. When he smiled at you, you felt like the prettiest girl in the world and wanted very much to have babies with him. His blue eyes shone like Lake Michigan after a storm. 

In a time when you were one or the other, Albert was both. Or neither. He's a gear head philosopher. A Catholic liberal. A progressive anachronism. His favorite books were Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, The Communist Manifesto, The Complete Joy of Homebrewing and Animal Farm. 

He can repair anything, from our daughter's necklace to our son's Firebird. All while deconstructing the Weimar Republic. Or some obscure part of a Royal Enfield. He loves Polish food, Armenia, IPA, women of every color, stray cats and babies. He's not ashamed to cry, laugh and hug his boys. 

He goes to confession every week and really does try to swear less afterward. He's as rambunctious as a Michigan thunderstorm and his anger blows over about as quickly. He reads stories to the kids, decorates with cheesy streamers for each birthday, is ruthless at Battleship, tells every he loves them every day, is kind to everyone and has even been known to paint his little daughter's toenails. 

 37 years, six babies, including two stillborn daughters and 11 grandkids later his smile still charms and the baby blues still shine. He still has that child-like joie-de-vivre. The hair is a little more silver but he still works 12-hour nights and makes me coffee every morning. 

This man and I have been up more steep hills and down into more deep valleys than I could count or rename. I'm sure there are more. And we haven't even gotten started traveling! So the rest of the world has yet to meet us! I'm glad indeed to have such a sexy guy to go through life with. Ad Infinitum et Aeternum, lover boy.

The Little Girl at the Window

 a chubby little girl with a permanent squint that looks like a scowl

that's what I see in my kiddie pics

what was I thinking behind that funny, awkward face?

I don't remember

I don't recall a bedroom. Or bed.

What was the wallpaper like? 

I lived in so many places. 

38 before 20, if I counted them all

I can't visualize a dinner table 

except at the grama-grampa house

There are few doing-stuff together memories 

I played alone a lot 

I wandered around cities alone

at 6

I was a latchkey before it was a thing

I was sick alone

I never called any place "my" home

It was always dad's or mom's 

And later stepmom's or stepdad's 

I "lived with" them, I said

I slept on their couches

On makeshift beds with someone else's pillow

On unheated porches

in the baby's room 

toys came and went with no warning

One day they were there 

and the next, they were gone

sold, I think. I never asked. 

food was thin on the ground

vitamins for breakfast  

a power bar for lunch and salad for supper 

I have stolen food before

Chores were never in short supply

lists and lists for me to do

no one else 

just me

I've always felt outside

looking in other families' homes

my little face pressed to the window

steaming up the glass with my breath

Always seeing  but never really seen

till someone needed something 

a job done or a target

Apart but not a part

I never felt anything about it

I'm told I looked miserable

at family gatherings

I can't remember those either

I didn't know it was wrong

this nothing having but work

I know now it was.

At least, I think I do.

I still don't feel it's wrong

for me anyway

for others it would be

For my kids, hell yes

They had beds and toys 

some are still in the basement

and memories

happy and a few sad

I still cook oversized meals

even though they've flown

I treasure their drawings

and stuffed animals

I'm feeding the little girl at the window

I gave her a bed and some toys

She has a home

She can call it hers

She still frosts up the glass

when she forgets she can come in

or is afraid to

or locks herself out

She still stays small 

But she's staying longer

and smiling more

and remembering

Amen