Martha Ellen
Martha Ellen lives in an old Victorian house on a hill on the Oregon coast. Retired from years of social services to children and families in dire straits. Relocated to Oregon from Chicago in 1972. Old hippie. History of social justice activism working for the NFWA - Farm Workers movement led by Cesar Chavez in the 1960s.
MFA in painting and drawing from Portland State University with artist professors the late Dick Mueller and Jim Hibbard. In long recovery from a profound injury to the central nervous system the result of exposure to neurotoxins from the environment and from prescribed medications.
During the healing process her dear son has been with her often providing the needed hope when despair set in. She only need ask “Tell me about the rabbits, George” [Mice and Men] and good vibes were always forthcoming. Family relationships have been challenging at times. She takes comfort in writing the words that heal believing one day they will make whole that which has been torn asunder.
A survivor of domestic violence in the insidious form resulting in injury to the psyche and spirit. She knows how important it is to tell the story and deprive the perpetrator of the silence he so desperately needed.
She began writing decades ago to process the events of her wild and fascinating life. Her poems and prose have been published in various journals and online forums including RAIN, North Coast Squid, WELL READ magazine, odd ball press, Writing in a Woman’s Voice, Verse-Virtual, Synchronized Chaos, Words Have Wings. Spindrift [soon] and more. Her memoir, The Uphill Footpath, is under construction.
By Sharon Waller Knutson
I felt a kinship with Martha Ellen as soon as I read her powerful poignant poetry about family. Her stories are my stories. I am proud to introduce you to Mary Ellen’s strong stellar voice.
Dad
Alone, lost in my
delirium, through
the passages of my
recovery from traumas
intentionally inflicted
and accidental, from
stealth attacks of
smiling foes and
foolish choices all
my own, though
I cried out for my mother
often, only once
did I call out for Dad
and it was simply
to ask where he was.
It was not a cry for
help. I knew better.
But knowing he was near
may bring some comfort
even if he looked away.
I whisper to an apparition:
I want to come home.
I want to come home.
Though I do not know
where that would be.
Torn and Mended
Torn. April 24, 2019
During the night
of her birthday
I dreamt I looked for
her in the kitchen
of our old Chicago
apartment after I saw
some pink roses tossed
aside on the table. She
wasn’t there. I went
outside. The well-kept
grounds of a huge estate
opened before me. Recently
she had walked through
an elaborate arbor and left
dozens of pink roses and
cedar boughs scattered
on the ground, the same
flowers and greens Kim and
I had combined with rosemary
for the funeral arrangement
after my mom died. This time,
though, there was no
rosemary among the cedar
and roses. I knew she was
gone. I was left alone. I could
not be who she wanted
me to be; I could not
believe what she wanted
me to believe. In my memoir
every word is rosemary.
Mended. July 28, 2022
In my dream I knew
she was home though
I had not heard her arrive.
I saw her jacket draped
across the kitchen chair;
her phone was on the table.
She appeared. Both of us
breathless, suspended in
the alternate dimension
of unmerited Grace, she
smiled with compassion
and forgiveness. I prepared
her favorite meal,
Mediterranean-style
lamb with dill. I went upstairs
to lie down on the bed made
with the quilt Aunt Florence
stitched fifty years before:
Grandma’s Flower Garden.
It was perfect, not tattered
nor worn as it had been.
She lie down next to me.
I held her with maternal
tenderness. She was a small child.
I felt her soft, strawberry blonde hair
brush against my cheek.
We did not speak. She arose
and sat next to her brother
on the flowered tapestry loveseat
under the South windows. A diffuse
afternoon sunlight embraced them.
They were children again;
laughing. They began to sing
in harmony. I watched them
together, easy and at peace.
All bitterness, anger
and grief vanished.
You called me Mama
Last night I dreamt of you my lost
child now grown. We were on
a long night journey. Cold.
No stars. With mufflers and
coats pulled tight around.
You wore those yellow mittens.
My silly Christmas gift before
the break. Trudging on and on.
A new path. Snow crunches under
foot. I lead. Your steps in mine.
We came upon a small cabin
alone within the vast landscape.
Shivering, exhausted we
entered. Stomped the snow
off our boots. Tossed our coats
in a heap on the chair. Silent.
Warm and cozy. Heated by
the old Jøtol stove stored in
my basement unused since
you left and I did not know why.
A lush green velvet upholstered
sofa with a cozy woolen afghan
to wrap around knitted in my
favorite pattern - “Mended.”
Your pink froggie there resting
on a pillow. [I had thought it lost.]
My mom’s crewel embroidery
hung above the door with
summer vines and flowers
and birds. Love One Another.
I prepared hot cocoa with
the heavy whipping cream you
always loved. A cup for each. We
are sitting on the sofa now. You
hold my frail hand in yours.
“Mama, do remember your
dream of the millions of luminous
threads joining all living things
within our garden and without?”
“Yes, I do, my baby.”
My Sister Has Cancer
To see my sis today.
She loves when I tell
her stories. [Laugh.] So I’m
wearing my fossil bracelet. A
chambered nautilus [66 million
years old]; Amber [I'll make up
a date]; A shark tooth - not a fossil.
Removed from some poor
shark or surfboard. I'll tell
her “If I ever meet a shark
I'll show him I have one of
his teeth, but he has none
of mine…..yet."
Also wearing other bracelets.
The cartographer’s coordinates
of Chicago - our home. The prayer
of St. Francis. “Make me an
instrument of Thy peace”
[Though I’ve never proclaimed
any success at this.] First
a little Sonic Reducer.
Sex Pistols. [Angst.] Next to
meditation, Episcopalian
style. [Grief.] Finally, the
best - my dearest sister. Have
happy days. They are
…….. numbered.
Puppet
By accident I saw him
standing on the corner
by the Post Office
known to many as
the mild-mannered,
upstanding citizen
out for his morning walk.
I ran from him long ago,
on the last day,
when he forgot to lock the door.
Today, standing there,
he saw me as I drove by.
He smiled that fake grin
menacing and chilling,
meant to mesmerize,
disarm and charm,
the knowing smile a lost girl
once mistook for care and safety.
I was alone. No one knew.
“He looks like a puppet”
I whispered to myself, “Run!”
I drove home slowly,
in the familiar, comforting,
dissociative fugue state.
Nevertheless, dread broke through.
All day and into the night
I could not quell the rising fear.
I checked all the locks
and pulled the shades.
I blocked the front door
with a chair.I smoked some
dope. The terror swelled until
it owned me as before.
When we were first together
I learned to cry without a sound,
to survive, to freeze,
when behind locked doors
he raged and pushed my face
into the floor delighted
with the panic in my eyes.
Don’t move a muscle.
At home, upstairs in the back
of the closet, I crouched beneath
the clothes, and hid under a blanket
diminished into a small, insignificant
ghost. Heart pounding. Silent.
He may not find me. I was gone.
I wondered if the sound
of my breathing was too loud.
The puppet was gone, too.
He had returned to his place
on Bond, flicked on the TV,
microwaved a can of chili,
flopped down in his easy chair
enjoying a peaceful afternoon,
another silent girl no one knew
secretly ensconced in a back room.
MFA in painting and drawing from Portland State University with artist professors the late Dick Mueller and Jim Hibbard. In long recovery from a profound injury to the central nervous system the result of exposure to neurotoxins from the environment and from prescribed medications.
During the healing process her dear son has been with her often providing the needed hope when despair set in. She only need ask “Tell me about the rabbits, George” [Mice and Men] and good vibes were always forthcoming. Family relationships have been challenging at times. She takes comfort in writing the words that heal believing one day they will make whole that which has been torn asunder.
A survivor of domestic violence in the insidious form resulting in injury to the psyche and spirit. She knows how important it is to tell the story and deprive the perpetrator of the silence he so desperately needed.
She began writing decades ago to process the events of her wild and fascinating life. Her poems and prose have been published in various journals and online forums including RAIN, North Coast Squid, WELL READ magazine, odd ball press, Writing in a Woman’s Voice, Verse-Virtual, Synchronized Chaos, Words Have Wings. Spindrift [soon] and more. Her memoir, The Uphill Footpath, is under construction.
By Sharon Waller Knutson
I felt a kinship with Martha Ellen as soon as I read her powerful poignant poetry about family. Her stories are my stories. I am proud to introduce you to Mary Ellen’s strong stellar voice.
Dad
Alone, lost in my
delirium, through
the passages of my
recovery from traumas
intentionally inflicted
and accidental, from
stealth attacks of
smiling foes and
foolish choices all
my own, though
I cried out for my mother
often, only once
did I call out for Dad
and it was simply
to ask where he was.
It was not a cry for
help. I knew better.
But knowing he was near
may bring some comfort
even if he looked away.
I whisper to an apparition:
I want to come home.
I want to come home.
Though I do not know
where that would be.
Torn and Mended
Torn. April 24, 2019
During the night
of her birthday
I dreamt I looked for
her in the kitchen
of our old Chicago
apartment after I saw
some pink roses tossed
aside on the table. She
wasn’t there. I went
outside. The well-kept
grounds of a huge estate
opened before me. Recently
she had walked through
an elaborate arbor and left
dozens of pink roses and
cedar boughs scattered
on the ground, the same
flowers and greens Kim and
I had combined with rosemary
for the funeral arrangement
after my mom died. This time,
though, there was no
rosemary among the cedar
and roses. I knew she was
gone. I was left alone. I could
not be who she wanted
me to be; I could not
believe what she wanted
me to believe. In my memoir
every word is rosemary.
Mended. July 28, 2022
In my dream I knew
she was home though
I had not heard her arrive.
I saw her jacket draped
across the kitchen chair;
her phone was on the table.
She appeared. Both of us
breathless, suspended in
the alternate dimension
of unmerited Grace, she
smiled with compassion
and forgiveness. I prepared
her favorite meal,
Mediterranean-style
lamb with dill. I went upstairs
to lie down on the bed made
with the quilt Aunt Florence
stitched fifty years before:
Grandma’s Flower Garden.
It was perfect, not tattered
nor worn as it had been.
She lie down next to me.
I held her with maternal
tenderness. She was a small child.
I felt her soft, strawberry blonde hair
brush against my cheek.
We did not speak. She arose
and sat next to her brother
on the flowered tapestry loveseat
under the South windows. A diffuse
afternoon sunlight embraced them.
They were children again;
laughing. They began to sing
in harmony. I watched them
together, easy and at peace.
All bitterness, anger
and grief vanished.
You called me Mama
Last night I dreamt of you my lost
child now grown. We were on
a long night journey. Cold.
No stars. With mufflers and
coats pulled tight around.
You wore those yellow mittens.
My silly Christmas gift before
the break. Trudging on and on.
A new path. Snow crunches under
foot. I lead. Your steps in mine.
We came upon a small cabin
alone within the vast landscape.
Shivering, exhausted we
entered. Stomped the snow
off our boots. Tossed our coats
in a heap on the chair. Silent.
Warm and cozy. Heated by
the old Jøtol stove stored in
my basement unused since
you left and I did not know why.
A lush green velvet upholstered
sofa with a cozy woolen afghan
to wrap around knitted in my
favorite pattern - “Mended.”
Your pink froggie there resting
on a pillow. [I had thought it lost.]
My mom’s crewel embroidery
hung above the door with
summer vines and flowers
and birds. Love One Another.
I prepared hot cocoa with
the heavy whipping cream you
always loved. A cup for each. We
are sitting on the sofa now. You
hold my frail hand in yours.
“Mama, do remember your
dream of the millions of luminous
threads joining all living things
within our garden and without?”
“Yes, I do, my baby.”
My Sister Has Cancer
To see my sis today.
She loves when I tell
her stories. [Laugh.] So I’m
wearing my fossil bracelet. A
chambered nautilus [66 million
years old]; Amber [I'll make up
a date]; A shark tooth - not a fossil.
Removed from some poor
shark or surfboard. I'll tell
her “If I ever meet a shark
I'll show him I have one of
his teeth, but he has none
of mine…..yet."
Also wearing other bracelets.
The cartographer’s coordinates
of Chicago - our home. The prayer
of St. Francis. “Make me an
instrument of Thy peace”
[Though I’ve never proclaimed
any success at this.] First
a little Sonic Reducer.
Sex Pistols. [Angst.] Next to
meditation, Episcopalian
style. [Grief.] Finally, the
best - my dearest sister. Have
happy days. They are
…….. numbered.
Puppet
By accident I saw him
standing on the corner
by the Post Office
known to many as
the mild-mannered,
upstanding citizen
out for his morning walk.
I ran from him long ago,
on the last day,
when he forgot to lock the door.
Today, standing there,
he saw me as I drove by.
He smiled that fake grin
menacing and chilling,
meant to mesmerize,
disarm and charm,
the knowing smile a lost girl
once mistook for care and safety.
I was alone. No one knew.
“He looks like a puppet”
I whispered to myself, “Run!”
I drove home slowly,
in the familiar, comforting,
dissociative fugue state.
Nevertheless, dread broke through.
All day and into the night
I could not quell the rising fear.
I checked all the locks
and pulled the shades.
I blocked the front door
with a chair.I smoked some
dope. The terror swelled until
it owned me as before.
When we were first together
I learned to cry without a sound,
to survive, to freeze,
when behind locked doors
he raged and pushed my face
into the floor delighted
with the panic in my eyes.
Don’t move a muscle.
At home, upstairs in the back
of the closet, I crouched beneath
the clothes, and hid under a blanket
diminished into a small, insignificant
ghost. Heart pounding. Silent.
He may not find me. I was gone.
I wondered if the sound
of my breathing was too loud.
The puppet was gone, too.
He had returned to his place
on Bond, flicked on the TV,
microwaved a can of chili,
flopped down in his easy chair
enjoying a peaceful afternoon,
another silent girl no one knew
secretly ensconced in a back room.
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