A Poem

Photo by Matt Joneson Unsplash

Do the dogs know pain
Time just passes
without want
but for the moment

How I want to laze — 
Run like them

From waiting
for the car to show up
To pull into the driveway

Like it’s nothing

And everything
to hug your daughter

And remark on the pride
of seeing her grow and rise
to eminence
before your very eyes

Waiting for the showing up
is different from chasing

With chasing there is something
to go for

Even if it is imagined

How I long
to chase free
and have the dogs
tell me what to do

so I can walk away
from the bay window
of my childhood

Give me a reason to stop
watching the hill

© Samantha Lazar2019

Thank you for reading. Here are links to more writing:Paper Dolls
A Short
This Canyon (2)
Courage looks deep into that canyon
and says — I see you
and I am coming down to feel
the pain
and what blossoms in…



I remember so clearly
Aware of my thinking
How it felt good when
He touched me
What a soothing way to
To help me fall asleep
A friend of the family’s
Teenager son
Left in charge of me
tucked in
the bedroom of my mother’s
childhood home
I was in my mom’s bed

My mom’s bed
where once
She may have
dreamed me up
Or fought off trauma
Us! Maybe as warriors
Together! Maybe my mom
Raising horses in the backyard
Dreamed of me there in
My mom’s bed

Where he touched me
I remember his rubbing
And then the shift in me
When he whispered
Don’t tell
Don’t tell
Your grandma when
She gets home
Left imprinted-confusion
How I knew then
I had felt,
I had enjoyed,
Was wrong and that
If I tell, it is
My fault.
So if I keep a secret-
My secret of liking the
attention or the secret
that he told me not to tell
or the secret
that it happened
This was what he taught me:
That if I keep the secret
It will still be
my fault.

As he grows

And as he grows
I am reminded to
Pay attention
The days of his total
Dependence are
Almost forgotten
He can open the
Refrigerator and take
Out the jelly
Demanding it spread
On his uneaten peanut
Butter only bagel in
His lunch box
He has a lunch box!
How quiet are our nights
How quickly his mind expands
Telling me the red thread
On my shirt
Reminds him of red blood cells
Magic School Bus!
I kept a list of his words
When he was first saying
Mama and Daddy
And bug and moon
All the things I forgot
To write down
To capture every moment
As if it wouldn't escape
Me anyway


Still Waiting (1)

Many things can wait. Children cannot. Today their bones are being formed, their blood is being made, their senses are being developed. To them we cannot say “tomorrow.” Their name is today.
– Gabriela Mistral (Chilean teacher 1899 - 1957)

Still Waiting

You did not specifically say
Tomorrow I will break
my promise
You never even promised
Somehow I knew that to
ask you
​every answer
Would leave me

But even though
the bay window
of my lookout days
is as forgotten as
the smashed glass in a once
up and coming dream

Though a new generation
arrived and they barely speak
your name, if ever

Though I filled the hole
a thousand times
Spilled over my cup
with distractions and delights

Though I have lived my life
without you and I am

Though over the hill,
It is your car
Your arrival,
knowing that I don't actually
want what is real

Though you don't know me
or my child
and You missed the window
for pride,
I am still waiting for your return

S.R. Lazar. 6/26/17

Still Waiting (2)

Still Waiting (2)

My dad may die tonight
There is a helplessness taken hold
Left outside the door like his own
Father confused and lost down the street
Who just needed to get out of that Apartment
but could not find his way back
Frightening sure
but fine all the same
While the worry settling in from this Late summer-
the worst kinds of moons
Rattled tides and washed up triggers
Send it back
I am not interested in the humanity
Of these memories

My dad may not die tonight
But I may not sleep
There is too much
not to do that
I will look for a list to make until
My restlessness will overtake me
And in it, a staggering realization
Like his mother knowing her mind was gone or
Slipping but too late to even succumb
To anger
I am numb
until I can wait no longer

We are leaving without you

Little (excerpt 2)

When I was little, I was a flying champion swinger.  I could swing for hours and hours, a little aspiring trapeze artist, although we only had about 13 minutes of recess.  And that was only if we weren’t made to stand silent on the painted footprints on the black- top, our backs turned toward the screaming delight of our classmates. Standing silent on the those footprints meant we had gotten our names on the board with a check, and possibly two checks if we had been especially naughty.  Our music teacher, Mrs. Gish, was constantly putting our names on the board. It was just that she was a source of ridicule. She had been seen, at some legendary date, putting what we thought was lipstick, on the tip of her nose, where a small wart lived. She was seen, probably by a sixth grader, the source of all things known and unknown in the school, applying some cosmetic while hiding behind a cubby in the band room.  From then on, we third graders had a really hard time singing for her, playing our recorders for her without short bursts of contagious laughter behind her back. She could only guess who had started it. And so it went that the last child left smiling when she looked up from the piano, was sent to stand on the footprints at recess.

When I was not in trouble, I would often participate in the flying contest.  It was not so much about the swinging, as it was about the leaping off from your swing and landing on your feet, no matter how badly the stab to the heel and then up to the knees. To win you had to land on your feet and from a great height, furiously pumped. There was the one, two, three, and all would leap that forbidden arc.  One day, when I was involved in this contest, feeling quite confident in my abilities, I found myself flat on my back and unable to move.



This is what the instructor told me to do in some way. Go up to your room, open up a notebook, fresh and blank- take out the markers- the new set you just got, and make a list. First list all of the things you could do today. List even things you know you are not ever going to do, but they could be done. Then make a list of everyone you love and have ever loved and ever will love. Then make a list of all the things that make you happy- be sure to switch colors for each item on this list- so they stand out and you can use each color- which is something that makes you happy.  Then turn the page and draw a picture of the first thing you see. Then space out and doodle in the details, stick out your tongue a little bit, and don’t notice you are doing it. Lay down then on your stomach, for surely sitting on the floor all this time has made your lower back ache- a sign that you have been creating hard. Next cross your legs behind you and let them sway while you pause to draw something else in the corner of the paper- up at the top- something you have not drawn before but for sure plan to go back to. Then breathe for five minutes. Even though you have been breathing this whole time- probably a little too loudly for concentration, now just breathe, and let the out breath come first and then the in breath. Let go, then take in what you can. Let go, and then make room for the newness, and in this way- the rage downstairs becomes possible to bear.