where the writers are

Merle Huerta's Writings

Poem
Feb.02.2012
At last they're all in bed. I try to clear my head. My pen and paper beckon. It's time to write, I reckon. Alone at last, I scribble to get beyond the drivel. My thoughts might coalesce, if I release my stress. And then the children scream, it's all a comic dream. "Can I have a snack? Can you scratch my back?" "It's time to go to sleep? Don't let me hear a...
Poem
Feb.02.2012
Like the boy sitting on his "Giving Tree," I had forgotten how to relish the stillness of inactivity before my body grew too weary to enjoy it. So focused on my pursuits, I had missed the sensory pleasure of trees in lieu of what lay just beyond the perimeters of my forest. Then one Sunday, it snowed. A thick, heavy blanket, it forced trees to bow in...
Poem
Feb.02.2012
A crowd of ghostly souls intrude. They eat my food, Invade my dreams Despite my screams. "Please leave me now," on knees I plead. The ghosts concede "We cannot leave, for you still grieve." "We're from your past, old lovers' pains Held tight by reins Of unresolve You cannot solve."
Poem
Feb.02.2012
One man's scraps are another man's gruel, It's all a matter of perspective. To a beggar living hand to mouth, One cannot be too selective. Like a miner digging through dusty layers, Sifting through rocks for the gold, The homeless man dusts off the scraps seeing them as delicacies untold. A slice of moldy sandwich bread Covered with old melted cheese, Is...
Poem
Feb.02.2012
This morning, in honor of your birthday I made a favorite -- buckwheat pancakes, wild blueberries, and coffee, sweet and white. Our daughter, the one with your black mane and clever wit pushed away her plate with bemusement. And uttered with absolute candor, "Dad, I wish you would remember how much I hate pancakes." I studied your expressions in her face...
Essay
Nov.17.2011
LiteraryMama.com
Long after multiple-system atrophy, a central nervous system disease, robbed my father of his continence, virility, and final breath, I realized that I had adopted his values. A pharmacist by profession, my father worked in Camden, New Jersey, one of the most poverty-stricken, crime-ridden cities in the U.S. Despite a job without benefits, he worked 12-hour...
Poem
Sep.27.2009
Unpublished
Under a late winter's moon, my daughtersat in a boatwhile her father watched from the shore. Tethered by a taut rope, her small craft rocked precariously. She called out for him to fish her from the murky waters. Though she cried,he cut the ropestony facedwaiting for theboat to drift. He continuedto walk toward the beckoning calls of a girlfriend’s...
Poem
Aug.23.2009
March 2009 Issue LiteraryMama.com
Tuesday morningswe meet for coffee,breakfast, or lunch.On a street corner,I pick you up inmy car. In the cold,your glasses growfoggy. Holding you closeI remember carryingyou in my womb,and the smells ofa newborn's freshlywashed head and ofmother's milk on yourbreath. Now, the scent is stale.Stains mark ill-fittingclothing yet don'tdiminish your smile.You are...