…continued from The Home, Part 7

Father, Part 1

There were a number of very old nuns who came through to help with the Little Girls. Some were sweet, filled with nothing but a desire to give everything their ancient hearts could muster. Others, like Sister C., ravaged by physical decay and a lifetime of giving, lost the spiritual war with their good side, allowing aching, aged bones to rule, where once they were lead by youthful vitality.

My rage was out in full force when one Sister G. arrived to help. She came occasionally to care for us when Sister M. was…

…continued from The Home, Part 6

Pierre — Part 2

In retrospect, Pierre seemed to be Sister’s escape from pain, loneliness, hard work and perhaps daily exposure to the effects of trauma on the little girls she cared for. Her own abuse was common practice in those days — it was an old world approach to child discipline and control that she more than likely experienced herself as a child.

Later in my life, I heard ideas about why Catholic nuns were so strict, sexual frustration being the most unkind theory that floated. …

Now available on Amazon! A collection of poetry I’ve posted on Medium from the beginning. Available as ebook and now available in paperback. Many thanks to all of the support I’ve received from Medium friends.

https://www.amazon.com/Road-Yellow-House-Poems-V-Plut/dp/B08DSS7MQM/

Thank you!

Spring is a free verse

the poet regales her pink
praising
purple lilac
yellow forsythia
apple
dogwood
tulip daffodil crocus
silvery-white birch
each singing
a solo song

before the chorus of green

tree
mired in dirt
shadow swaying on
sunlit fence
her bombs bursting in
bud
snowing petals
at her feet
throwing her babes
to uncertain
wind
blowing over
emerald grass
where
robins
worm

love

becomes one with hate in spring feast for the eyes beast for the nose take your medicine she’s a free verse a rough road to heaven constrained only by time her rhyme a kind of…

…continued from, The Home, Part 5

6. Pierre, Part 1

The name of the parakeet escapes me now. He was a minor character in my life, but an important one to Sister M. It may have been Pierre or Louie, something French, probably Pierre. Sister found him dead one summer day and allowed us to gather round and view him.

He lay stiff on the newspaper below his perch amidst a few last droppings of meal and poop, his little beak slightly open and his claws still curled a bit as if they were still clinging to the little round wooden dowel from which…

…continued from, The Home, Part 4

5. Carrie

Mornings were busy, making our beds, brushing teeth, dressing, lining up for breakfast, then school on the second floor. The prayers I sent up the night before were always forgotten in the rush of my new morning ritual. Sister would walk down the aisle of beds clapping her hands loudly to wake us. Breakfast was usually cereal with milk, which was at least more palatable than liver in milk. And there were always reminders that we would never get such food where we came from. …

…continued from, The Home, Part 3

4. The Sacred Heart

There were times when we heard that my mother had called or asked about us and perhaps she would be allowed to take us one Sunday, but it didn’t always work out. She had a large cake delivered for my birthday, decorated like a piano, with keys and all — my heart leaped at the thought that she may have heard that I wanted to play. I had fallen in love with the old piano in the basement auditorium on which my older sister was getting lessons, but Sister M…