HUGS BUNNY

Your eyes are black and vacant
Yet they completely understand

Your fur is matted and worn
But nothing could provide more warmth

You arrived in my infancy
And here you are still
Providing a listening ear

You have been a guardian angel at night
Keeper of my most personal secrets by day
And an unconditional source of love

You are my “HUGS BUNNY”

HUGS BUNNY

My Chair

Cup of coffee
My favorite cotton sweats
And a good book
I sink down into the soft, overstuffed cushion
And pull on my blanket
Brisk, autumn air smells of
Fires burning on the hearth
Late afternoon sun beats warmly
Through the glass
Burgundy and gold colored leaves add a calm, Soothing touch
Then you climb into my lap and snuggle me
“Ready for my book, mommy!”
The best thing about my chair
Is it is big enough for two


MY CHAIR

STILL OF THE NIGHT

What do you think of
In the still of the night
When your mud settles
And you’re feeling just right

When your mind is clear
Your heart rate slows
And your body tells you
All that it knows

Can you hear the whisper
The call of the wild
Do you feel the presence
Of destiny’s child

Has she taken liberties
In your subconscious mind
Does she flow through your veins
Are you two of a kind

When it’s calm and quiet
Can you see her face
Does she take you back
To a time and place

When your soul was liquid
Free flowing and pure
Like the fountain of youth
She would assure
You were never more alive
More connected or loved
Part of the universe and heavens above

This is no illusion
No dream that must end
For destiny’s child is
Not only your friend

You’re what beats in her heart
The spirit in her soul
A love like no other
And what makes her whole


STILL OF THE NIGHT

AS NATURE WOULD HAVE IT

As Nature Would Have It...


When winter winds
Blow through naked limbs
Clinging to their trunks
Howling and moaning

When the sun submerges
Into a cold dark sea
Not allowing the sky to blush

When thick fog
Breaths heavy on the ground
Indifferent to the beads of rain
Slipping from the lashes of
The meadow’s wild flowers

Mother Nature did not prepare
Her daughters well

For the forces known as man

Why I Write

It's been a few years, my daughter is starting college in the fall and my son is a high school Jr.; but the sentiment has not changed....

I never thought about “mid life;” age has not been a tangible concept for me. I work out, am in fairly good shape, healthy, and at close to forty feel pretty good over all. I am married to a wonderful man and great father. I have two active, intelligent, school age children, and am fortunate to be with them full time insuring, to my satisfaction, their childhood security and happiness.

One day, however, as my best friend Nancy describes it, my euphoria seemed to hit a brick wall. My youngest was in elementary school full time, and the need for mom’s around the clock attention was waning. My good friend and neighbor moved away, and other mothers were back to work, so I did the sensible thing and took some college courses to prepare myself for the day I too might return to the civilized world of adult interactions, and let us not forget the almighty paycheck.

Petrified of re-entering the school arena, I was pleased with how many brain cells had not been caricatured to format Nick Jr. or Maryland Public Television. Writing, which had been my worst nightmare earlier in life, became my way of telling the outside world a viable adult still resided in an entity that knew more about Main Street USA in Disney World than Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington DC.

Words flooded pages expressing concealed emotions about friendship, love, and rediscovery of myself. This was the scary part, for beneath the inner workings of my “perfect life,” lay dormant the youthful, energetic, dreamer whose spontaneity had been put on hold while adhering to the rules of parenting; scheduling is everything.

Emerging slowly, with the help of a mentor, was that of a woman who would become more than the sum of her children and dreams of their futures. Once upon a time, it may have been believed that when you become a parent your life ends so as to promote that of your family’s. In today’s world, life at thirty-eight is a second chance to become, what I didn’t know I even had in me.

Of Ways Of Looking At A Woman represents a journey for me, one of insight to the deepest crevices of my soul. While writing, I am allowed to revisit the beauty in my life, but too must face many demons. I relive passion, intimacy, love and desire combined with failures, rejection, and loss. My ability to recreate the pain is the most rewarding, for it is the most healing. Putting into words that which is sometimes unspeakable, somehow deadens or numbs the nerves. The loss of a loved one, for example, may never leave you, but identifying it can bring understanding and acceptance.

My goal in sharing my poetry is to help you, the reader, connect your feelings of pain and joy with that of someone else. I have been known to search hours on end for just the right card, expressing the exact thoughts and feelings as my own. That connection, that knowing, someone else feels the same, is somehow irreplaceable.

Theresa

Theresa

Greek for
“Late Summer”


Her smile is infectious
Vibrant, glowing
It injects us with a feeling of
Somehow knowing
All are welcome in her world

As if a late summer sun
We bask in her rays
Feeding our memories
On long ago days

Then, Releasing all reticence
We return in kind
Sparkling eyes and dimpled cheek
Secure in mind
All are welcome in her world

RECALL

Recall


I stood in the shower. Beads of steaming hot water pelted my back like ammunition to numb the pain. It sounded as if the heavens had opened up in the midst of a downpour. The kind of rain you hear playing a tune on your roof during a thunderstorm while snuggled in your bed. And the floodgates of my mind opened as my body began its full release; every muscle went limp. Memories, fluid like water and tears, were washing away. The way your eyes connected to mine, and the feelings of you; the taste of your lips, and the presence of your body in mine, were all slipping through my fingers as the soap glided along. How I longed to be snug again in my bed; in my room filled with dream catchers to sift out my nightmares and leave behind once welcomed fantasies of lying on a beach blanket soaking up the suns radiant glow. But the water runs cold and the step into reality is cushioned by red shag. What’s left of my memories are soaked up in cotton and wrapped around me as a fading reminder….

MORNING DEW

She took the rose
Gently pulling it across her face
Holding with extra care
Two, soft, wrinkled leaves

The smooth petals and aroma
Like a philter
Were the perfect aphrodisiac

As the flower began to bloom
Morning dew escaped
Dripping on her lips
As if to quench a parched tongue

MORNING DEW

MY ANGEL

I met an angel. No, there was
no halo, nimbus or radiant light,
no corona or presence with an aura.

I do not know if it was male or female;
it came just as a distraction, a diversion
of sorts, from an unholy alliance.

A pact I would gladly make,
not for the sake of fortune
or fame but for love.

Yes, I would sell my soul to feel again,
that which sets my heart on fire; I
would burn, to know the heat of passion.

I would have fought Michael himself,
to know what it takes to make one’s
fists clench and body convulse within.

Then, there he was; I say he, because I
believe him to be; a calming, soothing voice
from a distance, preoccupying my thoughts.

And in my head I hope he will stay,
that voice in my ear, gripping my attention,
until I’m strong enough to stand on my own.


MY ANGEL

Of Ways Of Looking At A Woman Review

Previously published in chapbook sections, Of Ways Of Looking At A Woman has received wonderful reviews from specialty magazines and on-line publications.
Kara L. C. Jones of KotaPress.com reviewed Of My Soul saying, “So many of Nancy’s words remind me of those unforgettable in-the-body experiences that are so overwhelming yet simple and almost overlooked in our day to day lives.” “Nancy is able to write about a loss that is specific to her experience, yet finds a way to address that loss so the poem will speak to anyone.” “ You just need to get your hands on a copy of this book in order to unearth the layers of meaning waiting here for you.”
Kwil of Kwil Kids Quarterly said, “My Reading Chair is a poetry chapbook filled with light, warmth and love. Children’s poetry is woven in delicate strands all snuggly warm… like a winters glove.” “If you are a lover of words and images, poetic insights both old and new… Nancy Watts is a poet and novelist whose reading chair is big enough for two!”
Russell Fulcher of Samsara Magazine says, “The language in Of My Soul ranges from simple and sincere, to passionate and haunting.” “The author is well-centered and a welcome change from most poetry dealing with this subject, adding a sense of hope and well-being in the face of grief and adversity.”





ISBN # 0-9718492-0-X