Reading Poetry With Mother

 

Reading Poetry To Mother

You may say it is akin to shop talk
Poetry on poetry
But stay with me and think again
Of playfulness and rhyme
For I say, oh the things we learn
From poetry
Carved into
Yellowed, aging lines
Meant for
All of us
Though hidden in the open
in children’s
Poetic verse
Prose
And rhyme

Penned for children

Such as Christopher Robin
And Pooh
The silly old worn bear

Try reading
Yes aloud
To those who
Hold it buried
in the wrinkled folds of
Youth
Fertilizer for the soul
The where they went to run
And play
To hide
To laugh
The words that they grew up with
Those that
Comforted, provided calm
A place to run away
To laugh
When life was not so
Gay

No, not at all
No, not all all

You may say you silly goose
Sitting round in broad daylight
Uncovering a mother’s past
Through words of poetry
And prose

But  have you seen
The cover, stained
By water marks
Made from rings of iced cold tea
Or glasses
Of sweet fresh milk, or
Is it a more
A ring of tears, perhaps

And  have you seen the belly jiggle
Born witness to a head cocked laugh
Pausing to catch one’s breath
Choking on the silliness
The
Dawdling on the page
Savoring the humor
Of simple, ordinary rhyme

Lingering on every word
Of boys, and woods
And bears
And of
Dragging off
Sleepily to bed

Poetry with mother
Reveals
As poetry is known to do
It is
Nothing short of healing
As poetry is known to do
Too
Especially when it’s Pooh

Yet in our stale and stoic state
Of almighty grownup-hood
We find no time for rhyme
And lines of boyhood
Ramblings
Written from the hand of
Such a tender man

We muse and wonder
How did he
Crawl into the chidhood soul
How could he know so much of
Loneliness and hiding
And making up new friends
Pretending this pretending that
He is all of us
When we were oh so very young

You may say its akin to shop talk
Poets writing poetry on reading poetry
Aloud
But I can say
Quite humbly
I met and made
Some friends along the way
Milne and Pooh and all of his
Friends and relations
Are now mine

But so much more than that
I grew to love my mother
As a child
Once again
For we both became children
In one poetic moment
At the exact same place in time
Reading Milne’s most
Cleverest of rhymes
Sitting there together
Soaking
In the wit
Making memories
As we laughed and lingered
On the page
Without so much as a worry
Or a care
Lingering over life
And rhymes
About a boy and his bear

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Healing


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Healing

Bend into the silence
Let it
Tell you much

Guard your heart
From bitterness 
While you journey
Into
A quiet, sacred place

Just as 
Blind men read
The world in
Bumpy Risen Braille
Cup your hand
Against your ears
Bend into peace
Again

Welcome each
Soft syllable
Let it sing
And heal

Inside the inner
Chambers
Quieting the fear

Gentleness
Speaks to you
In a holy hush
Peace
Amid the 
News
Noise wrapped around
The spinning world

Quite
Deafening

With
Tenderness
It appears
Cloaked in gentleness
Precision in each move

Now
Lift the bumpy, broken language
From a 3-D page
Read it through a
Grace-filled lens
Come heal our 
Brokenness

Awash in crimson stained
Mercy
Robed in
Hope 
As you slowly
Turn the page

Now
Listen
To
The quiet, what it  has to say
The poet
Introvert
The timid one
Afraid to add
Another voice 
To join
The
Popular debates

Lean in close
While
Silence adds a
Voice
Somehow, in some
Cryptic
And poetic way
Remain 
Hushed
To hear
No,
Really listen

Listen to the whispers
Decode unspoken words
That never make it
From their frightened
Lips

The words, the cries
Stuck
immobilzed

A blend of sadness
&
Pure joy 
Her world within a hurting world
Lies in
Layered silence
Buried in the dark

As ruins in Pompeii

Archivist
Unburies and unearths
Beauty from the ash

Cries
Whispered
Asking for
Sweet
Release
Remind us of the joy
Recall for us the beauty

Hidden in the ash

Weak, wounded
The message will break through

Listen to the silent ones
The meek
The mild
The child-like
The songstress, artist
Friend

Bend into the silence
Oh, learn from it 
Again

Silent night
Holy night
All was calm
All was bright
And will be once again

Silence bears
Breathes anew
Silence redeems
Have mercy
Teach us to do the same

Healing 
Come
Healing
Calm

Healing ride on sacred wings 
Born in humble beds of hay
And on a silent night
Oh
Healing come again

With Laura today at Playdates at The Wellspring

Swells

 

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Swells

Flounder-like, belly side down
Arms as elbowed paddles
Ten-toed fin, to guide her stern
She points her freckled nose
As dolphin do
Toward horizon’s
Faint thin line
Goal to nowhere
Far, far, away
As if to aim for nothing,
Or toward everything
Invisible to the eye
Every now and then
Covered by the pulsing salty ebb
Pulsing flow
The water’s wet heartbeat
Slower than her own

This aquatic journey
Finds her rolled, in seconds flat
Into a soggy silk cocoon
Tossed, her torso bent, curved
Into a salty spherical swell

The beginning of the giving in
A bit
And riding
With
And not against

The swells
Of good intent

Eyes now skyward
Focused
Even heavenward
She learns
From wave on wave
Those cotton white
Glistening
Mirrored on the sea
Yet dancing freely
Against the sky
No with

Yes, with
This is how she learned
To
Just
Float

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Joining the folks at Tweetspeak for the poetry prompt: swell

Turning Corners

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Cancer came
Shadow-lurker
Stalker, thief
Took (euphemism for her thievery)
Hauled away some valuables
Uninsured, gone for good
Precious jewels, antiquities
Time laced in silver threads of
joy
Stories of the disease
Giving too
Hovering
Somewhere
Perhaps,
My eyes will see them
Once again

Around the corners of a rounded globe
Are wars,
beyond mere rumors
Rather, raw, real, raging
Robbing
My ears have heard of hidden
Gifts
Tucked  in the outskirts of the pain
Perhaps
My ears will behold the
Telling,
Once again

Dementia crept in
Beneath the shadows
Into the soul of those I love and loved
Stealing memories by the thousands
Robbing us of stories still not told

But I have held the gifts,
Frail, wrapped in parchment
In my ever-wrinkling hands

Gifts uncovered in the dark
Those revealed by light of day
I’ve held these too,
Too many to tell
Entitled
Redemptive love
Story without end, amen

Waiting captures me
Clothes me
Wraps me in robes of knowing
Assures me to

just

Turn the corner
Once,
Again
Touched by a ghost-like
garment passing by
a holy haunting
Threads of silky hope

Redemption clothes us
On the heels of waiting
Out of  moth-balls
I unwrap
Velvet, violet
Comfort from a garment
The ancient
Robe of holy peace

At last.

 

 

Joining Laura for Playdates at The Wellspring