Tag: Patricia Wellingham-Jones

The remembering bones
collect pieces of tales
snippets of song
flashes of color
Gather them deep in the marrow
mix and blend
swirl them through the blood

About the Author: Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Patricia Wellingham-Jones is a widely published former psychology researcher and writer/editor. She has a special interest in healing writing, with poems recently in The Widow’s Handbook (Kent State University Press). Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: poems about breast cancer, End-Cycle: poems about caregiving, Apple Blossoms at Eye Level, Voices on the Land and Hormone Stew.

Like the pin-up on the calendar
in the neighborhood garage
she feels male eyes as if they
were fingers greasy from car parts
rub over her body. They linger
on bumps that seem mountainous,
probe like dirty wires into folds and crevices,
laser with surgeon’s skill
on every mole and blemish.

She’s new to the game,
hasn’t picked up the model’s saucy strut,
the flare of the toreador’s cape
as she unveils her flesh.
The camera loves the sweet young package.
The man who promised her fame
at a so-called chance meeting
leers behind the lens,
ignores the naked terror
trapped in her eyes.

About the Author: Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Patricia Wellingham-Jones is a widely published former psychology researcher and writer/editor. She has a special interest in healing writing, with poems recently in The Widow’s Handbook (Kent State University Press). Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: poems about breast cancer, End-Cycle: poems about caregiving, Apple Blossoms at Eye Level, Voices on the Land and Hormone Stew.

You may think I look blowsy and fat,
perched here naked with that red
ribbon dangling down my cleavage.
Not quite naked, matter of fact,
as I’m wearing those wicked
high black boots and a sparkling
butterfly clip in my storm-tossed hair
(that’s what one guy called my ‘do).

Sure, I billow over that ridiculous chair
the artist sat me on and my flesh waves
and ripples in enticing hills.
But, honey, my breasts are soft pillows
where grown men nestle their heads
and sigh and my hands have cute little dimples
they like to lick. I could go on…

Men want a bit of comfort, you know,
and that skinny arm candy with their lettuce leaf
diets don’t offer much cuddling
with those bony frames. Nope, I’ll keep
my billows and pillows, deck them out
with wild colors, big sizes, and swallow
every bite of everything tasty
that comes my way.

About the Author: Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Patricia Wellingham-Jones is a widely published former psychology researcher and writer/editor. She has a special interest in healing writing, with poems recently in The Widow’s Handbook (Kent State University Press). Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: poems about breast cancer, End-Cycle: poems about caregiving, Apple Blossoms at Eye Level, Voices on the Land and Hormone Stew.

Today I walked that mile and more
other mothers have walked before me.
It doesn’t matter that my child
is long grown, long flown.
When the verdict came of only weeks
to live, he was still my baby.
I walked those miles, cell phone to ear,
as arrangements formed, road miles
swept past. Then I walked more miles
along hospital corridors
and around his bed in hospice.
I expect to put further mileage
on these worn-out shoes
grappling with the sorrow
of a child leaving
before his mother.

About the Author: Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Patricia Wellingham-Jones is a widely published former psychology researcher and writer/editor. She has a special interest in healing writing, with poems recently in The Widow’s Handbook (Kent State University Press). Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: poems about breast cancer, End-Cycle: poems about caregiving, Apple Blossoms at Eye Level, Voices on the Land and Hormone Stew.