My Poems: Beau Fleuve

All posts in the My Poems: Beau Fleuve category

“In My Arms”

Published October 16, 2011 by Susan Woodward

Come to a room that’s warm and inviting

Enveloped in perpetual sunset– the sun’s blush,

Cuddle a baby in soft, fuzzy jammies

With a sweet smell of spring in his hair.

Warm lips against a petal-soft cheek

Drink in fragrance like nectar,

Tiny laughter mixed with yawns fills a yearning soul.

All too soon this too will fade

Like the blush on the face of the sun,

The child will grow leaving longing arms

Wishing for Springtime again.


Published October 16, 2011 by Susan Woodward

It hurts to be in love with a friend,

Albeit a friend with special privileges.

All the ingredients are there

Including the lemon that curdles the cream—


The sweetness of what I feel is

Soured by the

Paradox of spoiling a friendship with love.

“Feeding Frenzy”

Published October 16, 2011 by Susan Woodward

“Variety is the spice of life”

And I half-heartedly agree.

Not that the buffet isn’t ample—

Quite the contrary!

But I’ve sampled enough to be selective

While he’s still eyeing the appetizers.

As he feasts his fill,

I savor the knowledge that

His plate does hold some substance

Among the empty calories.

Once gorged on quantity,

Indigestion will lead him toward quality;

Then he, too, will become selective.

But will there be anything left then?

“That Ol’ Greasy Spoon”

Published October 16, 2011 by Susan Woodward

Oh, there is no substitute for the experience of the Ol’ Greasy Spoon!

Something about surviving the Garbage Plate

Should earn one a badge of honor…

What is a Garbage Plate, you ask?

(As if the name weren’t self-explanatory!)


Pull up a greasy booth

And feast upon a platter half covered with macaroni salad,

The rest with a mound of mushy, burned homefries

(Or were they once mashed potatoes?

The absorbed grease might make one think so!)

Onto this delectable pile add:

Two cheeseburger patties (hold the buns!),

Plops of mustard,

An orgy of onions,

All topped with a gray, minced mystery meat

Seasoned with the unidentifiable.


Now why, you might ask, are you awarded two slices of bread with this concoction?

Well, you need something to soak up all that grease

Or else it will slosh and slip through

Your digestive tract amidst waves of nausea.

A quick glance tells me I’m the only female in the place—

Uh oh!  My curiosity might bring the fate of Blue Beard’s wives

To become that gray, minced mystery meat

With the unidentifiable seasoning!

A misogynist’s delicacy subliminally served to the

T-shirts and ties,

Khakis and jeans,

Cell phones and pagers amongst ball caps and key rings

Lined up seven deep for their daily lube jobs.


Published October 16, 2011 by Susan Woodward

“What if…?”

“If only…”

“Will I ever…?”

Run through my lonely mind

Like a skipping phonograph left to run,

The words echoing like Chinese water torture

In the silence of my emptiness.

Filling the void by filling my bed—

Uncleanliness lingers after lust prevails,

Requiring more than soap to wash away

The impurity of putrid passion

In the arms of a stranger;

A reminder of what I don’t have

Once the encounter is over.

Loneliness intensified by a line of lovers

Who vanish after taking their fill

Leaving me with

“What if…?”

“If only…”

“Will I ever…?”

But friendship turns loneliness to solitude,

For even when absent, a friend is there,

Present in my life is not present in my sight.

Solitude is filled with




Whereas loneliness is a bottomless chasm

That all the physical presence in the world cannot fill.

The gift of a willing ear,

A knowing smile,

And unconditional trust

Alleviates the pain and

Elevates my soul to a heightened awareness

That absent does not mean gone

And that solitude can be a

Precious prelude to intimacy.


Lifting the needle from the phonograph,

I smash the vinyl disk

Like the outdated mode that it is,

Confidant that I can hear the

Golden silence of solitude.


“Insurance Assurance”

Published October 16, 2011 by Susan Woodward

Invisible does not equal non-existent…

Blood tests will not reveal its presence,

But it’s there all the same,

As debilitating as its physical counterpart…

Mental illness….shhh


Shhhame on those who look the other way,

Shhhaking their heads and

Shhhrugging an indifferent shoulder!

Shhhame on insurance companies who

Shhhould be looking out for our best interests!

But they say…

“You’re not sick”

“Get a hold of yourself”

“Snap out of it”…

We have a right to wellness,

But only if we can afford it, eh?

The rich carry Blue Cross…

The poor carry blue hearts…

Too bad the mind is not as visible as the brain;

Maybe then there’d be compassion.

“A Safe Place”

Published October 16, 2011 by Susan Woodward

Where can I go when I am overwhelmed?

What place is safe from my fears of the past?

Don’t tell me to just let go of them–

That doesn’t address the pain;

It merely stuffs it within where it will eventually

Writhe its way to the surface once more.

That’s not healing;

That’s avoidance.

But where can I go to collect myself when the memories flood in?

There must be running water;

Its song will soothe my soul.

Let it wash over and cleanse me with its healing power.

Summer breezes, birds and Celtic pipes replace lies and cruel words.

Trees will be free from the insects and snakes

That threaten to crawl over, around and inside of me.

Only soft leaves providing a shelter of safety adorn their branches.

Lilacs and honeysuckle replace the stench of halitosis

While a steaming blend of brewed herbs washes away

The semen forced down my throat.

I will be safe in my garden–

As long as there are four strong walls surrounding it.

Skylights in the ceiling allow me to gaze at Orion

Without the fear of being the hunted.

Passage is granted through one door

To which I alone possess the key.

Here I will gather my strength to slay the dragons of my past,

Its construction complete in the recesses of my mind.

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