Summertime at Zuma Beach by Connie Webb

That fluorescent orange bikini, 

Baby oil rubbed in my skin,

To shoot for that magazine ad Coppertone tan.

Watching the tanned Lifeguards keeping an eye out for any dangers.

KHJ Radio playing the Beatles, the Monkees, Diana Ross and the Supremes on my store brand, tiny portable radio with the long antenna,

Getting so hot with that sunshine all over me;

Turning over on my stomach, and then back on my back, for an even tan –

So relaxing!

 

Four brothers run, from out of the ocean, telling me to join them as they shake water all over me and run away back to the cool water.

I might as well go in the ocean “now”.

I run back toward the boys and swim out far beyond the crashing waves to where they are headed, with that small tire tube lots of us take turns hanging onto,

While others of us dog paddle or float about.

We talk of all kinds of things out there in the ocean.

We dream of owning a house on the beach –

We are sure we will all be millionaires one day.

 

We start to think about riding the waves back to shore.

We all swim back together. 

Some of us catch the waves the right way

Coasting back to shore easily;

Others of us mess up and get tossed and turned every which way,

Holding our breath with all our might under those roaring waves almost sure we will drown,

But we make it back to shore enjoying the fact that we are ocean survivors.

 

We have our picnic lunch of warm store brand, peanut butter and jelly on white day old bakery Wonder bread.

Drinks are store brand warm root beer, cream soda or coca cola.

More sunbathing.

More 93 KHJ with the Temptations, Herman’s Hermits, Rolling Stones.

More watching the waves roll in and out.

More swimming.

More sunbathing.

Store brand potato chip time now with our warm drinks.

Seagulls begging nearby.

Sun starts to go down.

Our day is ending.

We compare our tans, or sunburns, feeling wealthy even though we are not.

We gather our meager belongings, hating to leave, but hopeful we will return soon.

 

When I, Sometimes, Don’t Write

 

By

 

Connie Webb

 

When I, sometimes, don’t write,

It’s because I don’t want to tell you

About the emotional pain I am feeling.

 

I don’t want to tell you how it hurts to see a loved one hurting.

I don’t want to tell you how it is so stressful living on a low income with a disability.

I don’t want to tell you how difficult it is to have a mental health label.

I don’t want to tell you about my physical pain.

I don’t want to tell you about my PTSD label and Clinical Depression label.

I don’t want to tell you of the pain in losing a brother who was murdered when I was only 20 years old and he was only 18 years old.

I don’t want to tell you the pain of losing my Grandma, who fell backwards down a long flight of stairs to not survive it. I was only 17 at the time and I felt she was the only person who I ever felt really loved me for me.

I don’t want to tell you what happened to me as an 18 year old who ran away and lived on the Los Angeles streets homeless.

 

When I, sometimes, don’t write,

It’s because I don’t want to tell you

About the emotional pain I am feeling,

But now you know why

Sometimes, I don’t write. 

 

The presents look lovely.

The egg nog looks great.

The gingerbread men look like they could dance.

I got a great man to date,

But there’s no toilet paper in the bathroom.

 

The china is grand.

Boy does the silver shine.

Love those Christmas phone calls.

The decorations of red and green divine,

But there’s no toilet paper in the bathroom.

 

The stockings so lovely.

The mantel with greens.

The smell of the pine boughs,

The best scent ever it seems;

But there’s no toilet paper in the bathroom

And I don’t know what to do,

But Merry Christmas everyone

Just hope you don’t have to poo.

(Posted here in 2011 and just re-posting this poem for the holiday season.)

“What is enough?” is what I said,

before the pillow on my bed.

Is it enough to just succeed?

Or do some just and noble deed?

Is it enough to be the one

we love to see and admire some?

I asked myself some more this night,

before my room had no more light;

“What is enough?” is what I said,

when thoughts of

“loving”

filled my head,

I no longer questioned.

By, Connie Webb – Written in 1996 and published in “The College of the Redwoods” Student Magazine

 

 

I think my problem is I mostly just like really, really, nice people, but they are hard to find. So I need to make an adjustment and learn to like people who are basically “kind of” nice or I never will have relationships with anyone.

Connie Webb 7/30/19

I have come to the conclusion, that in order to survive in life, and not be agitated or angered, I have to continually forgive a huge amount of insanity for my peace and sanity.

Wasn’t good at playing the violin or the piano

Too shy to try out for cheerleader, tried for drill team, but didn’t make that

Never worked a job for that many months

But I was good at breathing.

***

My marriage didn’t work out

Raising two kids alone in poverty was hard

Many trying days and nights

But I was good at breathing.

***

Old age is upon me

Harder to get out of bed, but I do

My heart breaks for the way the world is

But I’m still good at breathing.

***

I won’t let life get me down

There are still many beautiful things to see

Many lovely moments to encounter

So I pray to stay good at breathing!

– Written by,

Connie Webb 2/27/17

 

Election is over.

Not sure what is in store,

But it will be Christmas soon,

So will focus on family and friends.

 

Will enjoy the Christmas carolers,

The lit up festive store windows and homes;

The warm hot chocolate;

The bright colors of Christmas at every turn.

 

The warmth of a good heater with the bitter cold outside,

The gratitude for all the good in my life.

 

Election is over.

Not sure what is in store,

But it is almost Christmas,

And for now

I will focus on love and peace

And pray that will always prevail!

By, Connie Webb 12/22/16

 

Ramsay is a cute little kitty cat;

He loves to play and he loves to bat;

He loves to bite and he loves to scratch,

But he doesn’t really mean it if he hurts you bad;

Yeah, he doesn’t really mean it if he hurts you bad.

By, Connie Webb 3/15/16 dedicated to my kitten, Ramsay.

 

 

 

On the movie “As Good As It Gets,”

Jack Nicholson said the woman he liked

Made him want to be a better person.

I say, “My cat makes me want to be a better person.”

Photo and poem by Connie Webb