April National Poetry Writing Month Challenge
A poem a day for 30 days — Week Two
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Day 11: An attempt at Shadorma poetry
So still as
cotton fluff descends.
Snowflakes chill
sun burnt ills.
Peace out of time never ends.
Peace will come again.
Day 10: Woolie Socks
Woolie socks are really tops
For keeping toes toasty and warm.
The brand doesn’t matter
So, don’t stand there and natter!
Just dig in your sock drawer
And grab the first pair.
Day 9: A Nod to Marcus Aurelius, Meditations Book X
Was my soul not naked to you?
Good, simple, and content just to be?
Eyes drift down golden head to painted toe,
liquid fires in your lingering caress . . .
fingers trailing ‘cross trembling breast.
False visions, hopeful teasing, painted in vain
moments of clarity, quickly buried,
replaced with impressionistic studies dulled
by jeweled wine and stolen time.
Was my soul not naked to you?
Good, simple, and content just to be?
Day 8: First Thing This Morning
You called first thing this morning,
No greeting beyond, “God, mom, you sound like shit!”
Your head wrapped up where 20-somethings’s sit.
I pondered the apple, and its distance from the tree —
Set aside the measuring tape, considering
The long years and paths that lay ahead.
Perhaps, just perhaps, we could walk together again?
I suppose I should answer for this odd division
Of concern for your friends, for yourself, but no other.
On the one hand, I admire your careless compassion.
On the other, I find your heedlessness quite tiring.
A curious mixture you bring to life’s field,
Of independence and boldness, of an uncertain child.
You called first thing this morning.
It’s a long-standing habit, this idea of yours
That parents’ hand over scant money, scant time.
I could point my finger at other devotee’s
Of giving in to the whim, to the moment, to the plea . . .
How many fingers would then point back at me?
So, no wonderment is allowed — that when you called there was
No greeting beyond, “God, mom, you sound like shit.”
“No money, no time” deepened the pause
You struggled and mastered the terrible frustration:
“I need to get home,” you said, “my friend is having a
hard time, I can help him, I should, he needs me . . .”
I bit my tongue on the burble of harsh judgment.
Tasting metallic coppery fluid, breathing deeply, knowing that
Your head’s wrapped up where 20-something’s sit.
Just a phase, a space, a piece of time
That reflects honestly your own curious mix
Of life’s lessons learned and choices long made.
Small lumps of clay held in cupped hands long ago
Patted, petted, cuddled and loved
Paddled, scolded, molded – now gone. Silently,
I pondered the apple, and its distance from the tree.
So much hope, so much grace, the promise you bring
To a world in need, to a world that laughs, a world that cries
To a world more often known for its wars, its battlements
Stark and forlorn.
You reject that vision, and like the babe of old
Keep reaching up and out, to have and to hold.
I set aside the measuring tape, considering
That in two long decades
You survived and thrived where many would not.
Vulnerability and strength go hand in hand
Not usually an even mix
But there nonetheless
As you forge your own trails into
Long years and paths that lay ahead.
And they are long, and sometimes weary
The years and paths ahead
When a mother’s mind is stuck in perpetual rewind.
“Do-over, do-over!” wee gremlins shriek
“No good, no good!” they poke and prod . . .
The unkind voices give substance to a dream —
Perhaps, just perhaps, we could walk together again?
