Literary Orphans

Three Poems
by Pamela Hirte

More_than_words_by_DianaCretu

THE FAN COLLECTION
She gave me her fan collection, all at once, much like how she gave me her attention. Mom’s love opened and closed in measured proportions. It was opened wide to view the blue and red hand painted Mexican flowers on black cloth, or, closed showing only fine black lace peeking out of the top, bunched up tighter than stifled emotions. There was no in between. Mom’s love open and shut according to her moods.

 

There are ten fans in all, collected from foreign countries during her travels with my father. The fans together are an international array of color and culture. The fan from Japan shows a woman tentatively holding a black cat. Her yellow and green kimono drapes over worn luggage, and her ebony hair pinned up with two wooden sticks. Our relationship is a fan collection. When open it is authentic, an exchange of stories from the heart. Still other times the fans are closed. Then, a great distance lies between us, like the faraway places of the fans’ origins. From a wide span, when open, the fans entice with a stunning display of glittery scenes. Castles and palm trees in Spain finished with a gilded edge and white lace. Get too close and you see the lace is tattered and some paper edges are torn. I keep the fan collection at a distance to hide the imperfections. Now, I can open and close the fans according to my moods.

 

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FACELESS DOLLS

A red truck pulls up to a worn house in the Dominican Republic.

Guaranteed to see a typical rural home the tourists drift inside.

A girl sweeps the dirt outside the house-

built by her grandfather, now shuffled through by a stream of strangers.

 

The house is sparsely furnished and clean for the glaring eyes.

On a shelf in every room is a faceless doll,

the dolls are looking for the lost warmth of human eyes.

Empty stares reflect off the whitewashed walls.

 

Outside the oldest family members wait and watch.

An elder man sits in a chair under a rosewood tree in the shade.

The wind carries the aroma of fresh baked bread through the trees,

an older woman tends to an outdoor oven where dough is baking.

 

In the distance, church bells are ringing for noonday Mass.

The sightseers wonder out loud why there are no faces on the dolls,

as they fish for dollar bills to drop in an empty jar by the gate.

Back on the truck they face each other with blank stares.

 

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OLD SOUL

Across the hills over a blue lake,

An eagle soars within my shadow.

I reflect upon who I am,

An ancient mountain soul.

I am massive. I am old. I am Appalachia.

Home is woodlands, wildflowers, and whitetail deer,

I live deep within every ridge and valley.

Hickories shade sunlight from my forest floor.

Cool waters trickle downstream,

Aged memories float away.

I gaze downward at life below.

Rivers alive with fish and beaver,

Black bears binge on blueberries,

The hunter-gatherer savors his catch.

I am fertile, filled with life.

My hills hued like a rainbow.

Azalea drips with purple petals,

Ripe, red strawberries, sweetened by the sun.

I paint nature with every color of the universe,

I am wild, without constraint.

From rhododendrons bluebirds sing,

My heart beats an ancient rhythm,

Heaven, hear my humble hymn.

I reflect upon who I am,

I am massive. I am old. I am Appalachia.

 

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Pamela D. Hirte grew up in Florida where she lived in Jacksonville and St. Augustine. She later moved to the Midwest to earn a Master’s degree in Business Administration. She is a poet and Master Gardener and likes to spend her time outdoors writing poetry or weeding. Hirte has been published in the UK Poetry Library, the Kentucky State Poetry Society Journal, and her work will appear in the Spring 2014 issue of the Milo Review. Today, Hirte lives in Ohio with her husband and two sons .

photo

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–Art by Diana Cretu

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