Donna Grabel

The scent of a woman is more than her perfume,
more than the curl of her hair,
more than the length of her nails,
more than the color of her skin.

Magnificence destroyed by ignorance and greed,
aged pepper trees sawed in half for convenience, its
pungent aromas burst forth as it cracks and topples, 
its pain is her pain, bird cries are her cries, 
silent screams and tears of surrender
fall on deaf ears. 

Jealous lovers, liars, and thieves,
meetings perchance on the loneliest of days
took what they could over the years,
and left in their wake the shadow of her youth.

Babies are born and then move on 
with children of their own  
Did she do enough, get enough? 
Did she laugh enough?
Was she proud enough?
Was she enough?

Resistance, acceptance, indifference
she cares to fight no more for 
things that matter not.  
On-going progress
and changing times
she abandons the din
and embraces the moments of love.

Her world is hers alone,
beliefs, beauty, and identity delicately crafted
by her own making, 
the judgment from others be damned.

Life and years highlight the lines on her face
lit by an inner glow that exudes radiance
from deep inside.
The scent of a woman is so much more than her perfume. 

Femme

Published in Expressions  2025 

Wandering through the sprawling open field,
I find it difficult to distinguish the vibrant weed from the delicate flower.
What truly separates beauty from ugliness? Both sway gracefully in the gentle wind,
as if joyfully celebrating life together in the radiant spirit of springtime.

I meander aimlessly,
a wave gliding over the sea,
nourished solely by the sweet, fragrant aromas
that drift softly on the edge of a whispering breeze.

Embracing this exquisite harmony,
like a newborn before it learns to smile,
I accept that I am at Nature’s nurturing breast.

I immerse myself in this harmony,
attending to the smallest, intricate details,
the timeless mystery of Nature unfolding before me
ebbing and flowing at my feet.

The flower boasts not of its enchanting beauty,
The weed embraces its quiet allure,
and as I journey through this vibrant tapestry, I leave no trail to be followed,
leaving no questions to be asked.

Voyager

Returning to a time
when family gathered in the
shade of the backyard
to forget the week of work and worry

Men sitting on wooden chairs
drinking ice-cold beer
wearing freshly laundered undershirts
telling tales and listening
to the Yankee game on the
transistor radio

Returning to a time
when simmering marinara sauce
cooked for hours on the stove,
kitchen window open,
the sweet aroma filled the
shaded yard
where children played

And later in the day
when the sun set and the
evening cooled,
we gathered in the dining room
to eat the Italian feast the women made
twirling spaghetti around our forks,
red wine flowing and
grandpa peeling apples and oranges
with his small penknife

At night when all was calm
we joined the darkness
where the crickets chirped in the distance,
the men smoked cigars on the stoop,
the women talked in whispers,
and cousins snuck up behind
lightning bugs to catch them in a jar.

Summer Sunday

Published in Tidepools 2025

All her life she was considered the strong one.
The fixer of problems and gadgets,
The caregiver of children, then parents,
The shoulder to rest on,
The armchair psychiatrist,
The ear for all seasons.

Now, she has become the fragile one.
A lover of migrating monarchs,
A hugger of trees,
An admirer of flowers,
A weeper of slaughtered animals,
A lamenter of missing children,
A griever at gravestones.

Tears wash away the hardness in her eyes.
Kindness softens her face,
Gentleness colors her cheeks,
She was not able to see herself
Until now.

Transformation

My father wasn’t a saver. I discovered the extent of his minimalism after he passed away. While he was alive, he handed down to his only son the cherished gold pocket watch that had been a family heirloom. Intricately etched on the back of the case were our grandfather’s initials, a testament to the once patriarch of our family’s history.

I came upon, and opened the small Whitman Sampler box hidden on the top shelf of the closet he shared with my mother. I uncovered dozens of black-and-white photographs from World War II, each depicting faces and places from a time long past. Many of these images were so small that they required a magnifying glass to reveal their details; fragments of memories that held significance solely for my father. Tucked between these photographs was a dull and well-worn cobalt blue Parker fountain pen. I imagined him using this pen to write heartfelt letters to friends and family back in the States, reassuring them that he was safe and well, despite the chaos of war. Alongside the pen lay several pairs of elegant French cufflinks, including a pair that glimmered in his wedding photographs. His neatly folded clothes, his aviator reading glasses that now rest on my own nose when I chop vegetables, and his most precious achievements; the vibrant oil paintings he had passionately created after retiring, collectively represented the essence of my father, and were all that pretty much remained.

In vivid contrast, my mother devotedly preserved what I now recognize as treasured memories of our family history. In the garage, various shelves bore the weight of containers that felt almost hermetically sealed. These unassuming boxes lay untouched since my mother’s passing 12 years ago. Recently, I was drawn to a substantial puddle that had formed in the corner of the garage, a telltale sign that the roof above had leaked after the last rainstorm. As I relocated the boxes to

safer ground, I could hear my mother’s voice ringing in my ears. “Look in the boxes; it’s time to look inside the boxes.”

I carried the boxes into the house and set them down on the large, polished dining room table, a piece of furniture that had been the focal point of countless family gatherings and celebrations. As I opened the largest box, a wave of nostalgia washed over me. I discovered hundreds of handwritten letters and lovingly preserved greeting cards, brimming with heartfelt wishes for anniversaries, joyous birthday celebrations, sweet Valentines’s sentiments, congratulatory notes for new additions to the family, uplifting “get well soon” messages and tender sympathy cards. To my surprise, nearly all of these letters and cards were accompanied by their original envelopes, beautifully adorned with colorful stamps and long-forgotten addresses written by each sender. Other boxes revealed a treasure trove of photographs; what seemed like thousands, each snapshot bursting with life and emotion. They captured joyful gatherings, tender moments, and significant milestones of family and friends.

I spread the letters and greeting cards before me, creating a colorful display of paper; an overflowing collection of secrets waiting to be uncovered. Taking a deep breath, I reached into the first envelope and pulled out a letter from my grandmother, Sadie. It wasn’t just the words she penned that held my attention, but the artistry of her expression. Her beautiful language from the Old Country was delicately transformed into the words of the New World. I could feel her distinctive European handwriting speaking to me once again after so many years of silence. She was tangible, her very essence brought to life. It concluded with a heartfelt “Love, Mama” at the end of a two page written snapshot of that day when she wrote to her daughter in 1954.

I carefully folded the slightly yellowed paper back into the timeworn envelope and set it aside. A wave of emotions washed over me; the task ahead loomed not only as a daunting challenge but also as a deeply personal and emotional journey. Was I truly ready for this? I was still grappling with the recent loss of my childhood friend, Howdy, who had passed away from breast cancer less than a month ago. And what about all the others who are no longer here, but left words, feelings, and whispers behind for me to read? I found myself pondering how their stories intertwined with mine, and what cherished memories may be waiting within the depths of my own heart.

The letters sat on the table emitting a light musty smell, like a library filled with old books. I found it increasingly inviting. After three days I pulled out a dining room chair and sat down. I placed my father’s glasses on the tip of my nose and formally accepted the invitation. l readied myself and picked up the next letter.

Love, Mama

I embrace the moon

as it rises on the horizon

in the early morning sky.

I am the great wave

that swallows all

in its path.

I stand as the tree that thrives

on a cold rock in winter,

finding strength in the absence of warmth.

Fragrant pink cherry blossoms

dance in the first snow of spring,

I am the flower.

I create my masterpiece

and cast aside

all that I am not.

Zen