Category: writing

Do We Ever Know?

Did she know,
setting the empty bottles
on the stoop,
or later, reading the daily
while sipping first morning tea?

Did she have an inclining
as she dropped a letter in the post,
stopped to chat with an old friend,
then hurried home from the shops
to get out of the rain?

And later,
returning from Judo,
as she gave into sudden malaise
and lay down on the bed,
pausing before tending to dinner,
did she know this was the end?

(I wrote this thinking of my Grandmother on her last day, and of course, contemplating my own demise.  I post it here in light of the anniversary of 9/11.  Do any of us know?  And does it matter?  Death leaves so many unanswered questions in its wake.)

 

Cedar Waxwing

A spot of red
and dash of yellow
bandana masked eyes
how you transport me
to simpler times –
childhood days
when you and I
wiled away hours
hidden deep
beneath summer
canopies – maple,
beech and willow –
listened for whispers
on the wind,
searched for treasure
on rocky creek bottom.

Years since our paths
have crossed like this,
have you returned
as reminder –
your sweetness
a blessing, now
that I only linger
at woods’ edge?

No matter the reason,
I am content
that we meet again,
my friend of old.

(For Granny Shot It’s Bird of the Day.  Photo from personal collection.)

 

Self Portrait In Colours

Found an old diary –
days when I painted myself white,
prayed to angels, believed God
cared about personal forever after –
painted myself pathetic.

Took me back –
days when I painted myself pink,
altruistic heart committed to indifference,
yearned for the unrequited, sacrificed –
painted myself foolish.

Read between the lines –
days when I painted myself yellow,
so desperately co-dependent,
projected sunshine, risked it all –
painted myself delusional.

Wonder that I’d survived –
painted myself broken,
found strength, moved on,
made better choices –
painted myself indigo.

(Self Portrait in Colours originally appeared here in August of 2016.  Edited.

 

 

Advocate for Wonder

I know what infinity means:
it’s one hundred plus one.

Voice of innocence
serene her sense of self
of life’s complexities.

Should borrow from her,
embrace that confidence,
but worry intervenes.

How do we preserve
the wonder of youth,
save her from cynicism?

That it is! I reply,
my smile a warm hug –
vow to be forever advocate.

(I submit this poem, inspired by my six-year-old granddaughter, to three challenges:
Ragtag Community’s, serene;  Fandango’s advocate; and Reena’s Exploration challenge.  Image from personal collection.)

Chronic Companion

She sits with me at breakfast,
follows me to the park,
hovers on the drive home,
celebrates when I lie down,
snuggles in with warming pad,
and moans…

Not a companion
I would have chosen,
preferred the active,
athletic life, and yet

She complains with me
in the afternoon, invites
excuses during dinner,
grounds me in the evenings
and tosses me at bedtime

Not a companion
I would have chosen,
but at least I’ll grant her this –
she’s chronically devoted.

 

 

The Queen Is Missing

She’s not in the kitchen
presiding over preparations,
thriving amidst the chatter,
tutting away thieving fingers.

She’s not in the classroom,
mastering subjects,
upholding order,
ruling with charitable hand.

Nor is she at social affairs,
head bent in rapt attention,
smiling cordially,
gracious with compassion.

The Queen is missing –
the poise and composure
that marked her carriage
has vanished without a trace.

Don’t ask the old woman
tottering down the lane,
stooped and stumbling –
she’s not all there.

Her mind’s a trickster,
her ego a petulant child,
unwilling to concede wrong –
she’s merely the court jester.

(The Queen is Missing first appeared August of 2015.)