J.E.Goldie Writes

A Woman

She gave a childlike glance to the left and shrugged it off.

She stared icily into his eyes, and quickly retreated, as though

spurned by his presence.

She jumped up and ran toward the noise of potential disaster

ready to come to the aid of a stranger.

She dialed the phone fuming, ready to accost the injustice

she had just received.

She ate an entire package of cookies as if she’d never eat again.

She walked quietly into her Church, comfortably

 at ease with her God.

She received a Miss Congeniality award with grace and a smile,

from people she’d never met.

She chastised her children, she comforted her children.

She sat childlike on the floor and waited, for what?

She is a woman, a mistress of everything, a mistress of none.

A lover of everyone and lover of none.

She is the twenty- four- hour woman,

The Head Mistress of life, the maker of fun, the chauffeur,

the bookkeeper, the payer of bills, the supporter of many.

Where does she become herself?

Where does she see herself?

Her life is one big accommodation

to her loving and loved relatives,

to her adored and cherished children,

to her steadfast friends.

She is giving. She overextends.

What does she want? Does anyone ask?

Does she want anything beyond what she gets?

Maybe, maybe not.

What else is there and who has time?

She is a Woman and essentially alone.




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A Eulogy

Her name was Alice. Ali to everyone.

She was a part of us all, whether we liked it or not,

whether we liked her or not.

That’s the way it goes.

Whether we liked her, or not,

depended on whether we knew her or not.

A conundrum.

She spoke her mind. More than that,

she said what was on her mind at

any given moment.

A fault? Who hasn’t faults.

I personally loved and hated the woman

at the same time.

I’m sure that I cursed her more

than anyone I know.

You could curse her to her face.

She knew where it was coming from.

She was strong, she was weak.

She was all of us wrapped up into

a five’ nothing package,

that warmed us one moment

and riled us the next.

She stood up for all of us and was ready

to take life to the limits.

She knew what fighting for yourself

was all about.

She was proud and demanding, persistent and loving.

If you knew her, I need say no more.

If you ever met her you’d remember the meeting.

If you never met her you missed someone

very special on this planet.

She is gone now,

but she’s still with the lucky ones

who knew her.


Keele St. Lady

I mean, I just could not believe this woman. I was standing on the outdoor platform at the Keele Subway, waiting for the Weston Rd. bus and in walks this woman completely ignoring the NO ENTRY sign. It was understandable, because, well, you should have seen her. I've seen bag ladies before, you know, on Yonge St and in and around it, but wow... Maybe it was the heat.

Anyways, I stopped to look on the bright side. It's great! I have my own Bag Lady. She was beautiful! From the moment I saw her I could not take my eyes off her. She was incredible and even pathetic! Not all of them can be called pathetic. But mine's pathetic, oh yes, for sure!

She had sores, red and painful looking, on her face, uncovered arms and back. Her faded floral print dress was torn at the back and bottom front, revealing a white lace slip. That slip, something about that slip gave her a prosperous past. The same thing crossed my mind about her hair. It was obviously quite long. She wore it up in a kind of messy Katharine Hepburn way. And you know what? She had what amounted to a beard. I kid you not! Strands or clumps of hair about six inches long were coming out of her chin here and there. She had sandals on and I could see that she had callouses on her callouses. A natural shoe, I supposed. I wondered it her feet hurt. Mine did.

So, she walks right in with the NO ENTRY sign staring her in the face while ignoring the TTC guy in the ticket booth who was banging on the window. "Hey! Lady!". At first, I was annoyed at him, then I thought it was kind of neat, him calling her lady, somehow.

She walked another few steps with her bags, then turned around and saying nothing retreated to the street. She then stopped, bent over her bags and removed a wallet, or change purse, opened it and looked inside. She then returned it to her bag and proceeded to walk north on Keele St. and out of my sight.

My Lady doesn't seem to give a damn. I think I like that. My Lady is proud. I admire her somehow. Her only problem is that we have a problem with her. She's doing some of us a service. She reminds of that familiar phrase, "There but for you go I." We all face the same kind of reality every day. She doesn't give a shit what she looks like, or maybe that’s only our perception. She probably looks just fine in her eyes. Her only problem is how we look at her and that may only bother her, from time to time...........



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