Tuesday November 16, 2010
Two Days After My Dad Died
The sun haloes
their heads
as they sit on the couch:
my mom's white
cloud of hair
and my daughter's
dark waves.
"How did you and Grampy
meet?" Erin asks.
A smile
like a flower opening
spreads over
my mom's face.
She starts talking.
We listen.
Erin reaches over
and holds her hand
while the sun rests
on their shoulders.
Showing posts with label Dad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dad. Show all posts
Monday, July 22, 2013
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
NaPoWriMo Day 15: List and Photo Poem for TOP
.jpg)
First Anniversary
Suit
tie
smiles of what have we done
arms
hands
an old car for the journey
child
first
making ends meet
Fleurette
Jim
“I loved your father so much”
Cocooned
protected
a lump in the throat
Ma
Linda
Daddy
Friday, March 20, 2009
I Come From for Sunday Scribblings
I Come From…
I come from words
like love
that jumped
from my dad’s eyes
to my mom’s,
and integrity
that was woven
into my character
the way
my mom pulls yarn
through her cross-stitch
projects.
I come from the garden
of kindness
and caring.
I come from words
like seeds
and grow
in the paragraphs
of life.
I come from words
like love
that jumped
from my dad’s eyes
to my mom’s,
and integrity
that was woven
into my character
the way
my mom pulls yarn
through her cross-stitch
projects.
I come from the garden
of kindness
and caring.
I come from words
like seeds
and grow
in the paragraphs
of life.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Foul
Sunday Scribblings February 3, 2008
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
“Take the ball
to the basket
and draw a foul.”
It’s the last seconds
of the game;
our team is behind
by one point.
The coach repeats
this and repeats
it. A mantra.
Advice, I’m always
getting advice.
I hear my dad’s voice
telling me to “tromp”
on the gas
to get the lead out.
And my mom
telling me
to never say,
“I’m hot”
when with a guy
or he might get
the wrong message.
The buzzer sounds.
The crowd cheers.
The ball is in-bounded
to me. 4 seconds.
I pivot
around an opponent.
3 seconds.
Dribble. Step on the gas.
2 seconds.
A jungle of hands and arms.
Aim. Shoot.
1 second.
Whistle.
No basket.
I can feel
the sweat
trickle over
my forehead.
First shot
in.
I breathe upward,
try to cool my face.
Release the ball.
Swish.
No time
for the other team
to score again.
Coach high-fives me
and says, “You were
so hot tonight.”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
“Take the ball
to the basket
and draw a foul.”
It’s the last seconds
of the game;
our team is behind
by one point.
The coach repeats
this and repeats
it. A mantra.
Advice, I’m always
getting advice.
I hear my dad’s voice
telling me to “tromp”
on the gas
to get the lead out.
And my mom
telling me
to never say,
“I’m hot”
when with a guy
or he might get
the wrong message.
The buzzer sounds.
The crowd cheers.
The ball is in-bounded
to me. 4 seconds.
I pivot
around an opponent.
3 seconds.
Dribble. Step on the gas.
2 seconds.
A jungle of hands and arms.
Aim. Shoot.
1 second.
Whistle.
No basket.
I can feel
the sweat
trickle over
my forehead.
First shot
in.
I breathe upward,
try to cool my face.
Release the ball.
Swish.
No time
for the other team
to score again.
Coach high-fives me
and says, “You were
so hot tonight.”
Monday, January 28, 2008
Villanelle
For ReadWritePoem
Here's a villanelle I wrote for a page in an altered book I made for my mom last year. It describes the day I was born. My dad was attending school about 3 hours away and when he got the call, he jumped on a bus but there was a snowstorm and it took him all day to get to my mom. They'd only been married for nine and a half months and didn't even own a car. This was back in 1949.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The sky she was born under was full of snow
and her father barely made it on time.
All day he traveled by bus and it was so slow.
Each beat of his heart was yearning to know
her, the missing part to their rhyme.
The sky she was born under was full of snow
that fell like poetry on the world below
creating a clean world so sublime.
All day he traveled by bus and it was so slow.
He wanted to push the bus to make it go
faster and to help it climb
but the sky she was born under was full of snow
and that bus puttered along like on tippy-toe
and her dad thought it was a crime
as he traveled all day by bus so slow, so slow.
Finally, he arrived just in time for the afterglow
of birth, their poem written for a lifetime.
The sky she was born under was full of snow
and the love that traveled to her was forever and slow.
Here's a villanelle I wrote for a page in an altered book I made for my mom last year. It describes the day I was born. My dad was attending school about 3 hours away and when he got the call, he jumped on a bus but there was a snowstorm and it took him all day to get to my mom. They'd only been married for nine and a half months and didn't even own a car. This was back in 1949.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The sky she was born under was full of snow
and her father barely made it on time.
All day he traveled by bus and it was so slow.
Each beat of his heart was yearning to know
her, the missing part to their rhyme.
The sky she was born under was full of snow
that fell like poetry on the world below
creating a clean world so sublime.
All day he traveled by bus and it was so slow.
He wanted to push the bus to make it go
faster and to help it climb
but the sky she was born under was full of snow
and that bus puttered along like on tippy-toe
and her dad thought it was a crime
as he traveled all day by bus so slow, so slow.
Finally, he arrived just in time for the afterglow
of birth, their poem written for a lifetime.
The sky she was born under was full of snow
and the love that traveled to her was forever and slow.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
A poem for 3 Word Wednesday
3WW January 16, 2008
awkward kitchen obsessed
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Standing at the sink
in our kitchen,
hands submerged
in clouds of suds,
I hear my dad
sit down at the table
behind me.
I know why he’s there
and his disappointment
in me seeps across
the old linoleum,
climbs up my legs
and perches on a rib
near my heart.
It’s Mother’s Day.
I’m maybe eight.
I made a card for my mom
in school but forgot
it there. I figured
I would remember
it on Monday
and give it to her
when I got home.
So instead
of wishing her
a happy Mother’s Day
and explaining,
I’ve avoided her eyes
all day.
Every time she glances
at me with a hurt look,
my eyes dart away
awkwardly, like fish
avoiding shadows.
My father’s words
are soft chamois
cloths that polish
my shame
until it is so bright
I can’t see
the dishes I’m acting
so obsessed about
getting clean.
He leaves
as quietly as he arrived.
I finish the dishes
and go out to the porch
where my mom
is sitting.
I feel
the softness
of her apron
as I bury my face
in it
and the strength
of her arms
as she holds me.
awkward kitchen obsessed
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Standing at the sink
in our kitchen,
hands submerged
in clouds of suds,
I hear my dad
sit down at the table
behind me.
I know why he’s there
and his disappointment
in me seeps across
the old linoleum,
climbs up my legs
and perches on a rib
near my heart.
It’s Mother’s Day.
I’m maybe eight.
I made a card for my mom
in school but forgot
it there. I figured
I would remember
it on Monday
and give it to her
when I got home.
So instead
of wishing her
a happy Mother’s Day
and explaining,
I’ve avoided her eyes
all day.
Every time she glances
at me with a hurt look,
my eyes dart away
awkwardly, like fish
avoiding shadows.
My father’s words
are soft chamois
cloths that polish
my shame
until it is so bright
I can’t see
the dishes I’m acting
so obsessed about
getting clean.
He leaves
as quietly as he arrived.
I finish the dishes
and go out to the porch
where my mom
is sitting.
I feel
the softness
of her apron
as I bury my face
in it
and the strength
of her arms
as she holds me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)