December 27



In the late winter evening she passes familiar landmarks.  The traffic is thick but moving. The stores are clotted with people.  The flashes of eye-catching signs making for distraction. It is dusk now, she is moving into the country… Headed home on the long curving stretches, lost in thought, egged on by the music on the radio.  By the time she crossed the river the trees were black silhouetted by the deep blue of twilight. She flew along, in the left lane only, above the limit, tired and wistful , filled with plans. Her eyes stung with tears held back.  On the seat behind her were bags of groceries, on the floor were gas slips, parking tickets stub, dog leashes and water bowls, mail that had never been opened, bills. Every scrap of paper filled with near illegible ramblings of her prolific muddled mind.  Penned at stoplights, in carpool, and even braced on the steering wheel while headed down the highway. All left on the floorboards to be trampled underfoot. Maybe the trampling of her thoughts serves her right.  

The road runs along the throat of the mountains, for most of the way there is no house visible, not a store, nothing except the long galaxy of distant houses on the hillside beginning to shine in the dark.  She turns from the main road onto a side street. She sees houses she knows intimately without any idea who lives in them. She sees parked cars she recognizes, a wooden fence with the same rail missing, the same two dogs tied and looking lonely in the same backyard.  She is nearing home, but she doesn’t want to go, she wants to keep driving. Driving till the street lights run out, till there is nothing but country. She wants to find a pasture somewhere and lie down in the dark to scream at the stars. She wants to accuse the satellites of mimicry.  She wants to feel cold ground on her back; she wants to feel something, anything but this. She wants to breathe, she wants space unlimited. If she let go of the wheel, the car would surely take her there. She rakes her fingers through her long hair in a frustrated moment. She rubs her nose, and then wipes her eyes angrily.  The tears flow now, and she hates the tears. She wonders if she could go to the barn this late, would they detect her? Huddled in a stall somewhere, her face buried in a sympathetic mane. She craves the smell of soothing horses and calm, quiet munching; the occasional shift of weight, swish of tail, anything to soothe her. She would stay there all night if she could… Hiding like a naughty child.

But here is her turn, and she dutifully puts on her blinker.  She regrettably makes the turn for home. She steadies herself for the onslaught…whether intended or not, it will be waiting for her…it always is.  

Category: Longer Tracts and Essays | Comments Off on Driving
December 27

Perilous Blue

She enters into it with faith renewed

Sometimes out of habit, heart without a clue

Faithfully, there’s only one constant true

Always with eyes of perilous blue


Her honesty disarms a man

And apparent fearlessness otherwise beguiles

Independent and stubborn

With eyes that flash of perilous blue


With creative Zeal that draws you in

Watch as she Revels in life’s Beauty and pain

Listen as she swears she do it all again

But something’s hidden under the perilous blue


Don’t box her in

Don’t tell her that you love her

Don’t think that she’s yours alone

Cos you’ll soon discover

Why those eyes are so perilous and blue


She doesn’t mean to wreck your world

Lower lip bitten in turmoil and fear

It’s just that she doesn’t know how to handle

The riches you freely offer unto her 

Left sitting there as she Fades out of view

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December 26

A Song

A song

When the time is right,

in the night alone,

I will conquer this,

and bring you home.

When this world is dark,

and the night is long,

when the time is right,

I’ll sing you a song.

When you are weak

I will be strong

I will come find you

Through the throng.

When words fail,

There will still be a melody,

And the song you will hail,

With strength and clarity

A song for all the days

For us and the tides,

Reminiscent of our ways

And our hearts all in one place.

When my eyes are dim,

And time begins to unwind,

You will remember our song

And sing it to me in kind

For one day you will be left alone

With nothing but our song,

No mistakes to atone

And forever in my heart you’ll belong.

Charlotte von Wolfle Greer 2019

Category: All of Charlotte's Poetry | Comments Off on A Song
December 26

Three Strikes You Are Out, Ole Blazer

Gone baby gone,

You went and ruined it this time

Gone baby gone

Maybe you will finally opine


She’s run away for good this time

Fled from the all too familiar  scene

It could have been frogs fur fine

But you misdirected the whole damned thing


So she’s gone baby gone

And you are left with nothing

Resolved herself before dawn

And left you the ring


So sit back most eligible bachelor

And wait for the next fool

Three strikes you are out Ole Blazer

Surely you know the rules




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December 26

Wasteful Inelegance

Wasteful Ineligance

I’ve begun to think on when one is gone from this Earth and there is nothingness, and a whole lifetime of love and pain and knowledge is extinct, experience for naught — forgotten. It all seems wasteful to me, inelegant.

The universe is usually so parsimonious, conservation of energy and such, but not when it comes to knowledge and experience or even love. When it comes to love, the universe is hardly profligate.

I know there is my maker, does he keep all of my knowledge dear? How does one explain ghosts? Some discorpor of human personality that has survived mortal extinction?

Empirical evidence for such aside, I have witnessed the opposite — a body that has outlasted the existence of the personality… and that is a ghostly horror in itself.
Category: Like Soliloquies | Comments Off on Wasteful Inelegance
December 26

Try Again

Try Again

It’s like a nightmare,

Just the thought of going up against him again,

Suddenly feel stripped naked and bare,

My whole being I must defend.

As if I’m back in the torture chamber,

Every nerve lain bare,

Failing completely to remember,

Any defenses I prepared.

Like the cream atop the milk jug,

Every insecurity surfaces,

Left alone once again with this thug,

I am at cross purposes.

Be courageous and fight for my girls,

Run, hide, find solace far away,

A myriad of hurts this next move unfurls,

Much to my ardent dismay.

Do I face a thousand more tiny pricks?

Day, after day, after day,

Or renew my efforts and get one big lick?

Either way I am easy prey.

I have mustered my courage time and again,

Only to be struck dumb by my attempts at defense.

But my children’s happiness impends,

Life is often lacking in pretense.

Charlotte von Wolfle Greer

Tuesday, September 25th 2018

Regarding petitioning courts for better custody again.  My PTSD is getting the best of me, even contemplating opening this can of worms again, and with no attorney as a buffer…

Category: Hurting When I Write | Comments Off on Try Again
December 26

My Mother’s Hands

My Mother’s Hands


Dear gentle hands have stroked my hair

And cooled my brow,

Soft hands that pressed me close

And seemed to know somehow,

Those fleeting moods and erring thoughts

That cloud my day,

Which quickly melt beneath their suffrage

And pass away.


No other balm for earthly pain

Is half so sure,

No sweet caress as filled with love

Nor half so pure.

No other soul so close akin that understands,

No touch that brings such perfect peace as Mother’s hands.


~Charlotte G. Slater       1.18.01

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December 26


I stand here under the golden dim of the gas light. 

As I have for fifteen years.

Afraid to move or relieve myself from this plight,

afraid to give up the fight. 


The yellow cast of sulfur light washes the color from my face,

denuding my visage of its true colors,

humiliation my badge

waiting for time to turn wrongs to right

making great attempts not to cadge


Who knew the torture had a name?

A phrase for his invalidating ways

I was part of his control game

Oh how the heart betrays


Instilled doubt denudes reality

overwhelms perception

Ceases to honor boundaries

draws the real truth away like a siphon


I doubt my world

I doubt my sanity

retreat to the little girl

where I pray he can’t hurt me


I find myself isolated

try harder to do his right

all the while my sanity is debated

many cannot see my plight


His opinions are fact

His stories carry impact

deftly applied with great tact

He continues to distract as I slowly begin to crack


Shamed for standing up for myself

accused of abuse for reactions in self defense

suddenly comes the big crack in your health

up and over psychoses’ fence


Borderlines feel like the victim

Narcissists make you theirs

wisely fear the narcissist’s conviction

while you marinate in you own despair


go ahead and run circles around me 

It doesn’t make you right, 

only lies presented cleverly

In the dimness of the gaslight

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December 26

Artifacts of Change

 Artifacts of Change

Teardrops meet my face.  I am fearless in my resolve.  I must devolve, reprogram, and loosen his hold on me, so I don’t spasm with nervous ticks at the thought of being in the same place as he.  I must build my wall ever higher. I must not tire in my vigil. I must repair the cracks in my façade- Hide the worry and present a strong face.  I will not allow him to debase me, efface me, and disgrace me any longer. Love is a doing word- Love is not in this equation. Teardrops are mere artifacts of change.

~Charlotte Greer Slater


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