Jean M. Hendrickson

Jean came to me through Sharon Poch [thanks!] and I am pleased to present some of her work, which is really fine. She has a gift for vivid and lyrical imagery.

About Jean:

I am an adopted child of Virginia, having moved to Annandale in 1971 and to
Hampton Roads in 1975. Traveling "home" to Maine in winter and to visit my
daughter in Wisconsin this April when snow still slicked the ground and
melted from snowplowed piles into rivulets that flowed to the creek, I know
my choice was the right one.

As a proud army brat, I traveled widely, attending sixteen schools before
graduating from high school in El Paso, Texas and on to what was still Texas
Western College in 1964, UTEP and, much later, to UTA, for a MSW.

I retired from the City of Hampton, VA and moved to the shores of the
Chesapeake Bay where my backyard was sand, waves and salt air for fourteen
years. I've attached two of my photos from my backyard.

I am a member of the Poetry Society of Virginia, Hampton Roads Writers, and
the Albright Poets.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Bayside Summer               

Lacy waves embroider sand
leave shells shaped like broken hearts
near dunes, molded like mature women's breasts
and sweet-sweated little boys
splash sand on young girls toasting tan
under the watchful eyes
of old women wrinkled like watered silk.

Slivers of dolphins slip by in ancient waters
and seagulls bully sandpipers
while planes grumble overhead
and buoys float like soap bubbles
in mercury-thick water.

Moonlight skips over the bay
like the laughter of lovers
promising tomorrow.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Hot Southern Summer

City of sullen shadows
back alleys profaned
by viscous whiskey
stale smoke             
fading laughter
scattered blues
tarnished women
pop of gun fire
crash and clack of glass.

Humidity, like blood stains
drip from fire escapes
to iron grates
on sweaty sidewalks
where first-light
leaks over curbs 
cracked like thugs' teeth

until dawn transforms
the exhausted city,
to a painted slattern,
bright skirts raised
to welcome the world.     

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

American Woman
(1941-2014)

Girls, woman-born
woman-loved
woman-raised
while their men
commanded battlefields.

Factories, towns, cities
a country,
woman-manned,
until their men
came home
and told them
they didn't know how.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Sitting in the Noonday Sun       

White-shirted old men
sit on the liars' bench
in the square,
and speak truths that never were.

A young woman passes
flashing dimples,
red hair stung behind her
like a signal flag.

The men peer over their glasses
until she rounds the corner
then slap their knees,
and hoot, Whoo-eeeee
They are twenty, forty, even sixty again,
but happier, now, in their way,
as they sit in yesterday's sun
brag about the past

repeat war stories,
become more the hero
with each telling,
complain about pains, enumerate pills.

They bend double with laughter
over old jokes,
watch their wives
through the beauty shop window

across the street
and after much discussion ,
agree to meet for poker,
Thursday night,

as if it were a new plan.

*****************************************************************************

Cimarron River

The river clatters over mossy stones
to reach release at a small waterfall
where old leaves float at the speed of the tide
catch on roots of black-fingered trees.

The slick surface catches light,
quicksilver trout divert the eye
from waxed paper cups
old rotting tires
circlets of plastic
drowned rusty cars.

A spiky fence runs part way along
exhausted, it stops
before the tired town
where sun bakes rooftops like fever in May
and dust is a blanket that covers the cars
the windows
tractors
sleepy little boys
who slouch on drooped porches
swinging their legs.

The girl in the hammock hums to herself
bow-legged aunties snore in the shade.
the dusty dog lies under the car
the neighborhood tabby purrs in the yard.

The cycle of life and the river flow on
little remarked by the dusty small town.

Comments

[Sharon Poch]

Jean's poetry sings--and sings songs in voices rich with imagery, with feeling. Real life told in lines of exquisite exactness. I love every word.

[Jean]

Thank you, my friend!

Readers of Dee's The Word Ocean should also read Sharon Poch's poem from February by clicking on her name!

[Jeanette Gallagher]

Each of Jean's poems are vivid with imagery and easy to put yourself inside the picture. I was there and loved every moment. Enjoyed the integrity and lucid language of life in her magnificent poetry.

[Marty Basden (Fellow Albright Poet)]

I like the sensuality of Bayside Summer, the edgy crevices of Hot Southern Summer, and the bucolic haziness of Cimarron River. American Woman made me laugh with what might be your fellow Albrights' imagined thought . . ."Ain't that just like a man". My favorite is Sitting in the Noonday Sun, because I am there. Damn good work, my friend.

[Jean]

Oh, Jeanette and Marty! Thank you so very much.

Dee Thompson's The Word Ocean seems to be an excellent venue for all sorts of poetry, and I thank her for it!

[Murray McLeod]

Listen to this woman. Read all her works.

[Jean McLeod]

Oh, Murray, today as s the first time I'd seen your comment here. Thank you so much.