The Writing Forum Presents The Poetry of Charlotte Ann Zuzak   WRITER’S PROFILE: A resident of Pennsylvania Charlotte received her bachelor's degree from Albion College and her master's from the University of Michigan, both in foreign languages. She spent several years teaching Spanish on the high school and college levels. She also spent several years as accompanist for voice students and as a church organist. Charlotte and her husband, a retired university dean, have traveled extensively. In 2007 they spent time in France, Sardinia and Corsica. In 2008 they expect to travel to Ireland. They have a daughter who is a physician. Charlotte's poetry has appeared in The Storyteller, Hidden Oaks, Art with Words, Bell's Letters, Poet's Podium (Canada) and several other literary magazines. Her poetry appeared in Beyond Katrina, an anthology of poetry whose sales are given directly to a fund for Katrina victims. Also her poetry is seen in A Place of Amazing Grace, the chapbook put together to aid the families of the Sago Mine disaster. Email: zuz@zoominternet.net   POEMS: (click on the button in front ot any poem title in the list below to be linked directly to that poem’s location on the page)   WINTER’S OVERTURE   SEASONAL CHARISMA   VOYAGE OF SEASONS   NEW LIFE   SEPTEMBER 11, 2006   SEPTEMBER NIGHTMARE   ATONEMENT   MOODS OF FALL   BECOMING A POEM   SISTERS   NIGHT CREATURES   PENCIL AND PAPER   DECISIONS   LETTIE DIED   MINER’S WIFE   HOMELESS   BLUE SICILY   UPHEAVAL   JUDGMENT   NOCTURNE   DUBROVNIK MOMENT   MY BIRTHDAY   SEASONAL HAZARD   SPRINGTIME NATIVITY   THE RING OF KERRY   CHOICES   GADFLY   VERANDAS   WOMAN OF THE HOLOCAUST   SUMMER IN IRELAND   REMNANTS OF THE PAST   CRUEL BEAUTY   Love Is...   New Year’s Resolutions   Assissted Living   January 1   WINTER’S OVERTURE Like eerie black skeletons the trees stand Disrobed of their former raiment: Leaves of spectacular reds and golds Crumble like the fragile, transparent skin Of an elderly, worn-out woman Regal for a moment, but only a moment. Shadows imposed by darkness and wind Unfurl the sting of winter Rising cheerless and mingling In depressing, ebony mornings. Piercing sleet comes with winter’s raw blast, The blessed harvest gathered and stored As blankets of frost cover the trees And raucous geese fly in formation.   SEASONAL CHARISMA Each of the seasons Has its own personality Reacting to the moods Of the universe. Storm-tossed November Venerates soft, silky May, Admired and adored with Glances of desire. Remember love glows January to December, Playful in May, Serene in October.   VOYAGE OF SEASONS Summer bestows sweet colors and scents then whispers a bittersweet greeting to the sultry colors of fall as winter’s snows with hoarfrost wait in the wings. Bright October mornings of crimson, gold and bronze end as brown November frays the crisp departing fall, and winter takes the stage. Breathtaking maple tree’s shady beauty buried by winter’s darkness shaking with unwanted cold, is consoled by orange and gray sunset. But from the cold comes icy beauty controlling and demanding as nature and all life reacts searching warmth and nourishment. The snow queen laughs, her chilling breath throws discomfort and death across the earth until spring’s thaw provokes her yearly demise. Unforgiving winter’s chill bows to spring’s new fragrance caressing newly created life as facing the sun, winter halts her icy journey.   NEW LIFE And so I shall continue to exist in a small being I see in a sonogram—my daughter’s child. A little girl, growing in the womb a result of all life that has come before. What of me will she treasure? Poetry? Music? The knitting to create a blanket for her bed? Studying the medical photo I see the tiny beginning of a woman’s body, but where is the soul?   SEPTEMBER 11, 2006 Passing through Shanksville, quiet and modest, fog and rain reflect the memories of pain and bewilderment, as patriotic banners adorn the porches of simple homes lining the hills. A flag at half-mast in front of the post office is visible while driving the PA turnpike. Life goes on as babies are born and the elderly give way as they pass to the next life after laboring in the mines, praying the rosary and planting the gardens that sustained them through winter after another spring brought rebirth to the land bearing scars where the terrorists crashed.   SEPTEMBER NIGHTMARE In a hotel room in Venice I stare at a screen of towers demolished the Pentagon invaded pinching myself, willing myself to wake from this nightmare but the horror won’t leave. It’s not happening to me or my country or my daughter in DC who is driving and watching the explosion aimed at a five-sided building. So far from home and so helpless I want to run through the streets and tell everyone that my country is good that I’m a good person. We have our faults just like everyone. A shopkeeper in Sicily smiles from her window pointing at a sign she had posted: “For American friends your pain is our pain your mourning is our mourning. God bless you.”   ATONEMENT And so we meet again after twelve years having had bitter thoughts of each other through contagious anger spread by devious kin. Disease of falsehoods permeated us with illness of gossip that through the years kept us apart. We come together for reunion and wedding, a time of joy with siblings so long removed and kinsmen with whom we’ll make acquaintance. So nice to know that we are not alone, that someone still cares and picked up the phone. I rue the fact that I was remiss, not recognizing the fact that a wedge of hate was placed between us by someone whose anger was bitter loneliness.   MOODS OF FALL Filminess of webs on ground warn of changes to come. Gray skies and sharp touch of rain preclude the snow and treacherous ice that will will appear in the all too near future. Like an aging human the year follows its own pattern and proves that life is eternal when spring comes forth in early months.   BECOMING A POEM It has been so long since I have written, since inspiration has touched me, but I have been moved by the rough beauty of Eire, in spite of the cold and rain. I returned to the land which touched me in a way I cannot describe on paper. I can only stand and observe the rough beauty of green hills imbedded with craggy stone. The music and stories which entertain at the end of a rough day of labor, a sharing of talent handed down by the bards in the pubs where the whistle, the bodrhán, the bagpipes and fiddles combine to create a setting of the past as the dancing begins. I surrender to feelings of pain and joy, of the present emerging from anger, war and death. I retreat to my beginnings, the land that formed me, becoming part of a poem.   SISTERS We are together after years of absence because of what someone else said. The pain is gone, and anger vanished, we are family again in spite of differences. The years of important events for both of us not celebrated together now come alive as we rejoice with each other not mentioning the one who brought anguish to each of us. We are not alike, what you take sustenance in I do not, but I respect your right to live and love as you wish.   NIGHT CREATURES Changes occur under the moon at midnight as denizens of the dark not accepted by day emerge and take their space. Discarded street people with abandoned animals take comfort from each other huddling in doorways for warmth and cover, a moment of caring and concern.   PENCIL AND PAPER Such power contained in a number two pencil and lined school paper, humble instruments of creation, whether of arrows of love or hate. A word entered or dropped can indicate feelings never uttered, open to misinterpretation. That which is written can create turmoil or pleasure, tell lies, cause tears or lessen deep pain. The choice is the writers: a document of peace and love or an instrument of vindictive evil.   DECISIONS Please, dear God, I know I’m getting older, but don’t let me falter like the blue-haired ladies that I see around town. Miss Hinton has a post office problem: to buy two stamps or three. She’s not a letter writer and is computer illiterate. She was my typing teacher during her first year of educating. Old Mrs. Maxwell has problems with groceries: she studies the bean cans, reading the labels and deciding food value. Her cart occupies the middle of the aisle as she leans on her cane to examine the foods. “Am I in your way?” She turns away not really caring. Mr. Newton is the one to avoid as he comes close to self-destructing in the parking lot. He glares and stares when you stop for your safety, barely able to see through his bottle-bottom glasses. I love these people, I really do. But, oh dear God, keep me safe.   LETTIE DIED Lettie died, the house is empty, no one in the family left. Flowered sheets once used as curtains faded now by brilliant sunlight rot and crumble to the floor. Beer and coke cans thrown at windows, no one seems to care; The lock is broken, all may enter. Look! the bed where Lettie died! The front porch sags where Lettie sat passing all her summer days diabetic and overweight, withdrew from life when Mama died. Noisy tots on tricycles pump their legs to get on by. The house of ghosts, or so says Grandma, restless souls who cannot sleep.   MINER’S WIFE How do I explain to my children Dina, four and Danny, six that we’re waiting to hear if the mine collapsed, that Daddy’s involved and may not come out. I ran through the snow in my bare feet, not feeling the numbing cold when the announcement ran through the patch and Mom came and took the children. “Wild and Wonderful” says the license plate, but then there’s these moments of anguish where we sit in the union hall or church praying for a miracle and wondering why we allowed our husbands to go underground.   HOMELESS The woman smiles vacantly waiting for the bus, but not climbing on; eyes lined, hair matted, hands in moth-eaten gloves. She talks to a photo she grasps in her hands of sorrows and pain of the past, oblivious to those who stare or ignore her. Her old knit cap covers reflections she refuses to share as a refugee from a life of comfort now at the mercy of the elements and the law.   BLUE SICILY The morning haze lifts off the clear, blue waters of Sicily and moves on revealing an azure sky reflected in the water. Levels of blue from light to dark display life forms not seen on land, with actors performing in a theater under water. The religious sisters emerge from the convent out on a shopping day, laughing, whispering as their blue habits wrap ‘round them, Mary’s color moves down the street. Etna spewed last night sending out fiery orange lava, but today the peace of blue sky and white clouds settles back to a pattern that is Sicily.   UPHEAVAL Nights of music in the French Quarter, courageous faces sweating and fighting the elements that destroyed the links to French ancestry as Grand-mere’s house drowned in filth, while memories of galas swept out to sea. There was Angelique who cleaned the house, beautiful smile set in warm, brown skin, the blend of the French with native charm, has left taking nothing because nothing remained.   JUDGMENT I have often wondered if at my final moment I will be judged by the tedium of my everyday life or the few great moments when I have shone. Life has been a performance with no time for rehearsal. Perhaps what I consider my finest hour is not what the Divine finds acceptable, if indeed it is touched by vanity and the need to be judged by my neighbor’s standards, or refusing to listen to my inner voice because no one visible is following me, prodding me, holding me.   NOCTURNE Lights appear in dwellings, eyes piercing the dark, life stories seen through the windows set against the background of night. Footsteps and noises ignored during the day create fear of unknown monsters; bats circling chimneys with frenetic moves play out their fictional role of the gothic. Cats in the alley stalking each other with their ancestral mating calls staking their ground, their partners; animals settle on the banks of the creek, not quite asleep, guarding their young. The mournful cry of the midnight train combines with the ambulance siren wailing and piercing, announcing a tragedy. The hospital is sleepless, A “do not resuscitate” in room 309. The convenience store clerk, young and afraid, jumps when two headlights approach. A change of shift at the factory means business, candy bars and coffee for dinner or breakfast; dusk to daylight has its own song.   DUBROVNIK MOMENT Sitting in the square of the fortified city a jewel in Croatia’s crown guarded by Mestrovic’s sculpture of St. Blaise, one enjoys a coffee while observing humanity in all its astonishing aspects. His favorite hymn is background as the flags fly low for the holy man in Rome who gave all of himself to vows made in secret, fearless and unafraid. Emerging unnoticed among tourists and churchgoers an old man shuffles, a bag in his hand; he gazes at the pigeons crowding the square talking to himself and smiling, wearing an old ball cap with shabby jacket and threadbare pants. The smile on his face is beatific, a replica of the man who has died. Ignored by the crowds walking by, he opens his bag and throws breadcrumbs. The birds surround him as he laughs for joy at feeding the least of God’s creatures. Throwing the last piece he folds the bag placing it in his pocket. Smiling and humming he leaves the square unnoticed but happy, his communion completed.   MY BIRTHDAY It’s my birthday and I don’t want to celebrate, It’s my day and I want it my way; I had the cake with candles As a school girl When Jenny O’Malley Threw a tantrum Not winning a prize. I don’t want to go to a restaurant Where someone will whisper And arrange for a cake where The servers surround me and sing Happy Birthday, not knowing my name, And some woman is hollering For her needed martini. But I will go through the motions So that you are happy, my dear; I’d rather sit home in my new recliner With a mystery, scented candle And the dog.   SEASONAL HAZARD Crisp perfume of cold air Proclaims the coming of more snow Adding to the crackling crunch Of footsteps seeking warmth of home; Forbidding gray skies warn the traveler Of possible dangers as icy flowers Form a hazardous blanket, A challenge to all creatures until The glow of sun dispels the peril, Erasing all signs of winter.   SPRINGTIME NATIVITY It’s left to her to create the nest, seek the twigs to form protection, build it deep to hold new life, keep the eggs warm with her body, waiting for the moment of birth. Hungry mouths like any baby reach to their mother as she leaves and seeks the big, juicy worms drawn forth from the earth. Mama perches on a nearby branch as the babies try their wings, landing on the sidewalk in shock at first flight. Scrambling for cover in a bush, the realization that there are enemies pushes the babies toward maturity; Mama looks on until they leave. Standing on the nest edge for the last time, she has fought obstacles awaiting her fledglings and now the cycle will repeat.   THE RING OF KERRY Fragments of earth set in water, scabs remaining from the ice age, a haze surrounding the hills embedded with rock which resembles a craggy-faced Irishman who stubbornly refuses to change. The sheep roam the hills soon lost in the clouds, land disappearing in delicate mist, a curtain gently cutting off time. The silence is thunderous, the beauty breathtaking. No queen's jewels compare with this work of the ages, a cathedral created by nature. The green land contrasts with gray water and sky, the smell of the land is a perfume of time. At the top of the Ring sits a strange, little figure, a leprechaun playing his whistle, caught up in the music which tells a sad history of famine, the British and exile. The tourists throw coins and speak into cameras. The little, old leprechaun is amused, for he knows the land as they never will, even through film and travel brochures.   CHOICES Crayola imperfections appreciated by Mom, sign of beauty and love of child. Staying in lines is not important, beauty is not rigid. Looking beyond the lines is like the road less traveled: it can make the difference.   GADFLY That nasty old squirrel taunts my sly, clever cat in a language known only to him. My tabby observes, her eyes half-closed, sunning herself like a pampered queen. Her move is sudden, the squirrel is startled, as my tabby starts the chase up the tree to a branch. Sir Squirrel starts to trip, he's hanging by front paws, the branch snaps a bounce, he's thrown to the roof. Miss Tabby yawns and blinks on the ground where she's jumped, and scornfully struts to her pillow on the porch.   VERANDAS I love the old houses with wraparound verandas of a bygone era when relationships mattered, sitting on swings or wicker sofas greeting the neighbors walking by. Musical breezes from leaves on the trees act as nature’s symphony orchestra. Sitting on the porch while a soft summer rain brought calm and a moment of rest; writing a letter, a poem or a story the veranda was also an office. Talking with Grandpa or that very special one, talking of the past or creating a future, the veranda was a stage setting for life.   WOMAN OF THE HOLOCAUST Thoughts at Auschwitz, July 2005 Who was I? Does it matter? I had a voice, I was a mother, grandmother, wife and daughter; but one day they came, the ugly, brown uniforms, loaded us on trains to be relocated. Why would I wish to move? I was happy in Krakow with my family and home. Only one suitcase, they told us. Crammed in like animals, what was happening? Everyone was crying, some were praying. Where was my husband? The train door slid open: women and children one way, men and healthy boys another. Act strong, someone whispered, don’t cry or be weak. I was sent to the showers and my lungs burst in death, but no pain at crematorium, the horror was complete. I hope my ashes nurtured a tree of new life that helped cover the killing fields.   SUMMER IN IRELAND I’ve experienced great art in the Vatican, walked through the Louvre and the Prado, but nothing compares to God’s amazing creation of an island called Ireland. To stand in the mountains is to see God’s work in all its raw splendor reflected in a people who laugh and sing in spite of famines and struggles. Rocky sheep-covered hills reach down to the waters where wee tiny islands, molded by earthquakes rise in proud splendor. The gray, misty clouds, touching the mountaintops, open a door to another world. Old Celtic crosses reflect the Christianity that replaced the Druids and gods of nature. Down in the pubs they sing and dance with an intensity that comes from working the land. They have known adversity and rise from the ashes to stand and pray, drawing deep breaths, continuing to fight.   REMNANTS OF THE PAST The dusty, old farmhouse sits in the hills part of the past of Mail Pouch barns and Burma Shave signs that we paused to read on afternoon drives. The veranda is sagging, an old hound is scratching, cattle lethargically react to the heat as ducks scurry nowhere cackling and scolding. Mister and Missus, oblivious to all, sit on the porch waiting for nothing, she with a fan from First Bible Church and he with a plug in his cheek. An old wringer washer stands in the corner, been there since they can’t remember, but possessions are hard to part with.   CRUEL BEAUTY The alabaster snow hides the scars of dead earth with a cold, cruel beauty fierce and crippling, lacking in warmth. The snow queen battles with moaning wind refusing to withdraw as her anger increases, veiling any promise of renewal and rebirth. Laughing she challenges all rights for survival humiliating both man and beast.   Love Is... receiving as well as giving, allowing the beloved his or her space, leaving the other to use their talents, time away from the other in order to come together, being there in time of pain, joy at the other's accomplishments, encouragement in moment of failure, a handkerchief in time of grief, flowers for no reason at all, hugs and kisses at all times.   NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS Resolutions made the first of the year, vague and illusive, significant at the moment, but fleeting as foolish, idle thoughts. "Absorb and observe" sum up my needs as I become an element of wherever I am: perceive the aura surrounding me, enjoy the soft rain, the warmth of the sun, the fragrance of nature and its untouched settings. I will walk and feel the earth under foot trying to put my thoughts to words as I seek to become as one with the setting.   ASSISTED LIVING Life is down to no-frills necessities in a room with the chest of drawers, double bed and television. The walker stands in the corner waiting to be used to get to the dining room, the social activity three times a day. The nurse's aide, with her lilting Haitian accent, comes around to check during the day: time for meds, channel change? a walk down the hall? a glass of juice? You know that you musn't drive a car. The house is gone, and so are its furnishings, let's face it, life is over. Grandchildren come to visit, sighs of relief when it's over. Dreams of the past when life was real occupy time until dinner and bed.   JANUARY 1 The holidays end with the start of the sales, Christmas decorations tarnished and sad look like leftover buffet casseroles; the long glitzy season of overindulging died with a whimper this morning. One more cigarette, one piece of candy, a drink to welcome the New Year, Chia plants and clappers are packed away as the public starts buying Valentine cards. From Christianity to the pagan god Cupid we celebrate love with prayers and dark chocolate.