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I am my mother and my mother is me.
I grew up watching her on stage.
We have written two books of poetry together.
We are both writing novels of our own now.
Click on our picture to see our book site.
I grew up watching her on stage.
We have written two books of poetry together.
We are both writing novels of our own now.
Click on our picture to see our book site.
Collection
by Dene Hellman
So much beauty!
"How can I throw away
something like that?"
she asked herself,
piling up the lovely bottles
that held salad dressing and
honey, the magazines
with covers celebrating
flowers, cats and cleavage,
the chipped dishes that were
too good to dismis.
Later, it became more problematic;
newspapers, artificial plants
rescued from trash barrels,
scarves dumped at charity auctions.
It was never quite bad enough for someone
to call the health department.
But, in her last ailment,
shuffling among burdened chairs and tables,
she apologetically remarked to the visiting nurse,
"I always meant to sort through these things
but it was so hard to choose.
by Dene Hellman
So much beauty!
"How can I throw away
something like that?"
she asked herself,
piling up the lovely bottles
that held salad dressing and
honey, the magazines
with covers celebrating
flowers, cats and cleavage,
the chipped dishes that were
too good to dismis.
Later, it became more problematic;
newspapers, artificial plants
rescued from trash barrels,
scarves dumped at charity auctions.
It was never quite bad enough for someone
to call the health department.
But, in her last ailment,
shuffling among burdened chairs and tables,
she apologetically remarked to the visiting nurse,
"I always meant to sort through these things
but it was so hard to choose.
Midwest Tornado , 2006
by Annie O'Dell / Published 2007
Albert,sitting in his favorite round bamboo chair'
watched his rented movie with relish.
Popcorn at hand, cat on knee, he was happy alone.
Wondering if a beer would be good, he envisioned
the splash of a "cold one" on his tongue. Pausing
he pondered the wisdom of leaving his chair.
The night sky, a kaleidoscope of bruise colors,
lit up green to yellow to black in rhythmic pulses of lightning.
The dog was nervous; the south wall exploded,
and Albert, bent like a pretzel, was sucked into a
vortex tail, hurled into the night by an F-3 tornado.
"This school sucks!" Cell - Phone Laura yelled to her mother.
In pajama pants, she stepped amongst twisted
sheets of gas station awning that lay on a sacred
Alpha Chi Omega pathway that wound around the lake
towards the terminal of a wind torn town.
Jabbing at ankles like silver demons, fly - away tin
wrapped around trees like abstract sculptures.
Tornado-stripped apartment roofs, whisked away,
exposed square rooms naked to the sky, ready for
God's play amongst underwear, lamps and books.
White clouds coiled like snakes against blue sky.
Homes opened to the bone like medical - lab cadavers.
Tossed like sticks, historic trees lay on
neighborhood cars and porches, spring buds aborted.
From all directions, work began. The children watched.
Saws buzzed, wlwctric wires were put back in place,
News cameras clicked as java mingled with incense smells
from old hippie-street neighborhoods.
Paisley curtains billowed in surviving windows where, inside,
the artists created "tornado works" for the next thieves market.
by Annie O'Dell / Published 2007
Albert,sitting in his favorite round bamboo chair'
watched his rented movie with relish.
Popcorn at hand, cat on knee, he was happy alone.
Wondering if a beer would be good, he envisioned
the splash of a "cold one" on his tongue. Pausing
he pondered the wisdom of leaving his chair.
The night sky, a kaleidoscope of bruise colors,
lit up green to yellow to black in rhythmic pulses of lightning.
The dog was nervous; the south wall exploded,
and Albert, bent like a pretzel, was sucked into a
vortex tail, hurled into the night by an F-3 tornado.
"This school sucks!" Cell - Phone Laura yelled to her mother.
In pajama pants, she stepped amongst twisted
sheets of gas station awning that lay on a sacred
Alpha Chi Omega pathway that wound around the lake
towards the terminal of a wind torn town.
Jabbing at ankles like silver demons, fly - away tin
wrapped around trees like abstract sculptures.
Tornado-stripped apartment roofs, whisked away,
exposed square rooms naked to the sky, ready for
God's play amongst underwear, lamps and books.
White clouds coiled like snakes against blue sky.
Homes opened to the bone like medical - lab cadavers.
Tossed like sticks, historic trees lay on
neighborhood cars and porches, spring buds aborted.
From all directions, work began. The children watched.
Saws buzzed, wlwctric wires were put back in place,
News cameras clicked as java mingled with incense smells
from old hippie-street neighborhoods.
Paisley curtains billowed in surviving windows where, inside,
the artists created "tornado works" for the next thieves market.
Free Flight
{Outside the Holocaust Museum}
Emerging from the Metro,
blinking at sunlight,
the first image
was kites,
dozens of kites
in free flight.
I remembered you.
You loved kites
and the way they burst forth
and blossomed,
announcing to the world
that they were IT,
the most important thing going
in a half assed agenda
of trial and error.
Loath to leave them
but schedule -crowded,
I entered the place
that is dedicated
to the events
that nearly killed you.
Fists clenched
at last I comprehended
why you had loved kites.
I`m glad we flew one
when we scattered your ashes
in a peaceful place.
Dene Hellman
{Outside the Holocaust Museum}
Emerging from the Metro,
blinking at sunlight,
the first image
was kites,
dozens of kites
in free flight.
I remembered you.
You loved kites
and the way they burst forth
and blossomed,
announcing to the world
that they were IT,
the most important thing going
in a half assed agenda
of trial and error.
Loath to leave them
but schedule -crowded,
I entered the place
that is dedicated
to the events
that nearly killed you.
Fists clenched
at last I comprehended
why you had loved kites.
I`m glad we flew one
when we scattered your ashes
in a peaceful place.
Dene Hellman
