Melba Christie at Poemattic

Poetry and Art for the Soul

Young people do things differently

Young people do things differently

How quickly us fifty something forget,

How we could go at anything for hours

like making love,

or marching for a cause.

We just kept going,

feeling fantastically fit

to rule the world.

all the time knowing exactly when

to take a cleansing breath,


time was endless

it meant everything to

let the breeze

caress your face,

every moment was embraced

allowing the

rain to slide

and drip from

your hair.

We did not care.

We strolled through life

making each moment count.



No real plan

Just passion as a companion.


Young people do things differently

They certainly do.

And I am so jealous.

Yes I am.












An Ode to the Best Odes

To Keats:

I fell in love with an ode you wrote

for I love the fall

most of all

when leaves dress up in their best attire

and to you, Percy B. Shelley,

Your Ode to the Skylark

will be with me forever

for I was thrilled to know

that “like a poet hidden

in the light of thought

I too would sing the hymns of love and life.

I too would touch the hearts of others

And to you William W

I owe you oh so much

because I learned to keep in touch

with remembrances of

my childhood dreams of past and present.

Had it not been for my teacher, Mrs. Metelitz

I would not have understood

your Ode on Intimation of Immortality from Recollections of Early


And to you Pablo Neruda

I pay homage to the Maize

My grandmother

made into a sorullito and guanime

and that my mother

taught me to make

and I will past the tradition onto my daughter



so that Maize


be praised forever.

I Remember Papa

My memories line up one by one to honor you

every day since your passing.

They have been so faithful

and soothing to me all these years

Some come in so clear

and transport me

I remember papa dear

your never ending kindness and generosity

towards everyone

No one would be allowed

to suffer on your watch.

I remember papa

how you’d laugh so hard at

your own jokes

I remember papa

how you taught me to love opera

even though I did not understand it.

I remember papa how you’d sing

along with Mitch on TV

and then later serenaded mom until she danced with you.

I remember papa

how proud you were to be Puerto Rican,

and dreamed of returning to your

island of emerald green.


I remember papa

how you cherished my mother

and made her feel like a queen.


But most of all

I remember papa

that you always taught us that love

is the most important thing

you can give a human being.


I remember papa

your commitment to family

because you taught by example

and made me so proud

to be your daughter.


Dedicated to my Dad.  I was not able to post in remembrance of him this father’s day.  May he rest in peace.

On Being an Abuela

I do not know well

his habits

or his favorite color,

I do not know

the sounds he’s curious about

or the meaning of his hearty shout

or what fascinates him more

about himself

when he sees

his image in the mirror

and greets himself

with a chuckle

calling out his own name.


I want to know more about

the things he fears,

the questions he’ll form as he watches the trees sway

and catches a glimpse of his shadow

as it follows him


and quietly

I do not know well

what he feels about me

his abuela

how can he know

that I love him so

when I barely see him.

I do know

my love grows

with every smile

he grants me,

and every time he pokes

at my arm

to ask for a cookie.


I do know

that no matter

how far

apart we may be


will fill my heart

and soul for eternity.


Flowers as Poems


Where Flowers love to hang out



When you have only two pennies left in the world, buy a loaf of bread with one, and a lily with the other.  ~Chinese Proverb

Can we conceive what humanity would be if it did not know the flowers?
                                                        – Maurice Maeterlinck

Only One Life

Only one life

That’s all we get

or so we’re told

one life

just one life to become accomplished

one life to learn to live

Some of us will get one score

or four

or more

some may get an entire century to figure it all out

the irony is that we may end up

without a soul to share our findings

One life is all we will get

to prepare for the life after

some use up every minute

planning for death

Just one life

that all we’ll have

to love unconditionally

or to hate someone or something

with passion

Just one life

is what we’ll have

to make memories for others

to remember us.

Just one life

ONE! That’s it!

Live it well.

My Brain

“A poet needs to keep his wilderness alive inside him.” – Stanley Kunitz

This poem was among the notebooks I found in my attic. I do not what made me write this one.

My Brain

My brain went bungee jumping

out of control

It bounced up and down

as would be expected

furious leaps and bounds

I thought I’d  be ejected

out of my soul

my brain was out of control

but it finally calmed down

allowing  a deep meaningful thought

to rise to the occasion

It penetrated a cloud

as I yelled very loud

and rain poured down


cleansing the earth

of hatred

My brain may never bungee jump

ever again

but if peace should be needed

I want it to catapult

to the heavens above

so that the earth

is drenched with love.

Today’s Find

I found this poem written on a legal pad. I visit the book store almost once a week and I read poetry or books about writing. I wrote a note in the margin about why I was writing this particular poem. It seems I had jotted down the idea from a book which suggested to write about asking your shadow to appear somewhere in the house.

This is what I wrote:

My shadow

wrote me

a note to let me know

how annoyed it was

because I never acknowledge its existence

I mean

I know it is there

trying to out do me all the time

I tried telling my shadow

that I am not jealous at all

because when

I compared our heights

There is no doubt

I am definitely taller

but more importantly

I am funnier and have

an excellent sense of humor.

As I read this again today I thought what a silly poem. I want to work on it a bit more. I have a grandson that I am sure is curious about his shadow. So I will write him a poem about what his shadow might be thinking. I think he will get a kick out of it. This is a poem that will evolve.

Welcome to Poem Attic

We have not had much of a winter season so I started to do my spring cleaning to take advantage of the mild weather. I vowed to get rid all I could that was stored in our attic. We collected quite a bit over the thirteen years we’ve lived here. As usual I begin with great fervor then manage to sit comfortably on a big cushion and before I know it I am reading my old poems. I pay particular attention to the rewrites and the notes I had written in the margins to myself. I look at the dates and relive the moment that may have inspired the poem. Then I start writing again on related or similar themes. Sometimes I simply follow through with some of the edits I had suggested. I never get around to throwing out any of the stuff I had planned to discard.

I suppose many writers do the same thing. But I think poets become reengaged in the process. I started reflecting on how poems evolve and why the ones that end up in an attic or any place for that matter somehow come back to inspire new thoughts. I feel like I have found new treasures. Although sometimes I find one poem I really hated from the beginning and just tear it to shreds.

I will share some of the poems I rediscovered and I hope that you will send me your comments. I hope that you go back into your attic and look for those poems you have written in the past or the new ones that were reborn.


Brett Kristian

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