I've Kite Surfed Over to a New Spot

You may have noticed that I haven't posted here in a looooonnnnnggggg time! That's partly because I'm trying out a new platform: Medium. Ironically, Medium was started by the same guy who started Blogger: Ev Williams. He also co-founded Twitter, by the way. His idea for Medium, as I understand it, is to create a strong platform for good writing that is not ad driven. I like the Medium platform so far because it seems to make it easier for new readers to find my writing. I don't really know if this is true, but that's the impression I have. The layout looks more like a magazine, corralling many writers onto each page. So I'm experimenting with posting on Medium instead of Blogger and seeing how many people I don't know sign up to follow me. You could be the next one! :p

At the same time, I don't want to abandon this spot, since it has many layers of painstakingly developed links and loops and ways to get in deeper and find my writing. One of my goals for 2019 is to clearly determine how best to use Blogger and Medium and Amazon's self publishing platform and any other sites that present themselves to my thirsty writer's mind!

Meanwhile, if you'd like to see what I've been up to lately, take a hop, skip and a kite surf over here:
https://medium.com/@patsyfergusson

I believe they'll let you read three pieces before they ask you to sign up, so choose carefully if you don't want another account to keep track of! So far, readers have liked "My Christmas in the Woods," "My Tattoo," and "Thank You, Dr. Ford" best.

Here's a pic to amuse you. And here's wishing us all a healthy, happy and connected 2019.

Wanda

From murals at San Francisco's Beach Chalet painted by Lucien Labuadt in 1936.

Wanda was the most magnificent woman

I’ve ever seen

with her

shiny black hair and sparkling brown eyes

strong thighs in tight jeans

striding back and forth

behind the bar

pouring drinks

for the supplicants

who hung on every word

through her

red lipstick lips

in her
wry honey drawl

even telling, perhaps

what she’d cook for dinner:

white beans with a ham hock and

a mess of greens

I loved Wanda at once

but couldn’t fathom how much

till one night she jumped the bar

with a club in her hand

to chase a bad drunk

outside

The sight was so dazzling

I could scarcely comprehend it

She flew over the counter knees tucked

like a gymnast

eyes blazed

like a Fury

arm raised

like a God

For all I could tell

she had holstered the lightning

It was everything I ever wanted to see

in a woman

everything I ever wanted

to be

Another day she rode up

on her 850 Norton

cockless and cocky

in her aviator’s cap

on her way to

a crawfish boil

on Lake Ponchartrain

where she'd show me how to pluck

the delicate white flesh

from the small red tails

and suck the heads

And on the pool table

at Sonny’s

she’d make all her bank shots

pointing to the places she’d hit

before dropping the ball in the pocket

Never choking at the endgame

like me

Challengers would line up

bright quarters on the railing

but Wanda held the table

for as long as she wanted

laying her body on the green felt

squinting one eye as she lined up the shot

sliding the pool cue back and forth
over her fingers

until ‘CRACK!’

She loosed the ball

Wanda was the most magnificent woman

I’d ever seen

and I never understood

why she suffered me gladly

did not find me lacking

all cloaked in my grief

and inadequacy

But we were 20 years old

when I slept on her couch

in the Quarter

and when I went back to California

there were 2,000 miles

between us

and I didn’t return the favor when

a bad marriage

a baby

a car crash

money troubles

came to sleep on her couch

instead

We had a few good phone calls

then a bad call

then nothing

And now I search for Wanda

at nighttime

I scour the web with her name

scanning thousands of images

crammed onto my laptop

and not one of them

is the woman I loved at once

in New Orleans

Not even the one with her face

only 40 years older

sitting on a porch in the Seventh Ward

drinking beer with a friend

in a shabby shift

and scabby legs

after Katrina

After the hurricane destroyed it all

You Are My Spiritual Practice

You close the door in my face
as I stand on the porch
with my basket of gifts
and hear the loud lonely sound of the
bolt clanking into the lock

red leaves fall on the bright green lawn behind me
and white snow falls
and tiny yellow flowers push up through soft brown earth
while I wait and wait and wait and
hope
with my basket of good bread
and money for the vending machines
and new shoes without holes
and fresh white socks

You are my spiritual practice
as you chase me down the front stairs
and out into my car
screaming my faults through the window
as I turn the ignition
You paste yourself on the driver-side door
clutching the roof with two palms
while I drive away
slowly
praying
for you to give up and peel off
unharmed

You are my spiritual practice
as you spy out my sore spots
and poke them with a sharp stick
as you bend my spine to your will
and stretch every tendon taut
until I'm almost snapped in two
and cry out
NO!

You are my spiritual practice
as your blue baby body's aborning
and the kind nurse dabs the blood from my thighs
after
in the darkened room

You are my spiritual practice
when your brown hair full of vaseline and chicken pox
stands stiff in the wind
as you run across Ocean Beach
in the dazzling gray morning
with your siblings chasing after
your wild energy all uncontained

You are my spiritual practice
particularly when
you lock me out
You chase me away
and still

I don't forget you
I do remember me
and all it means
for a mother
to love