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Multigenerational Mom Muses on Twin Toddlers & Twenty-Something Daughters

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Lines Written a Few Hours Before Tintern Abbey Departs 

(Or Cleaning out My Pocketbook)

 

Five more hours with my uterus 

tucked inside me like a coin pouch,

calcified stones rattling like spare change, 

making their presence known.

 

For nearly 58 years she’s been with me, 

snug above her pelvic foundation,

inside alabaster birthing-hip walls,

and a flying buttress of ribs,

my pear-shaped cathedral, 

host of clutch and caul,

of four miracles total —

once (deep in her aged patina splendor and

a glorious display of gothic revival)

even two at a time.

Yes, she’s always been there.

 

And now, just five more hours 

with my clutch built for precious cargo.

(Well, more like four-and-a-half now.)

She’s been a dedicated little pocketbook,

sloughing and sluicing, building and producing

and though she’s more paunch than pouch these days,

more crumbled cabin than cathedral,

she’s a part of me —

and bruised and battered,

torn and tattered though she is —

I will miss her.

 

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Her Haiku

Shimmering bright but

She’ll crumble like eye shadow

if you touch her. Don’t.

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Spotted

Like

a calico kitten or a Dalmatian pup?

An appaloosa’s flanks or a speckled green toad?

Ladybug shells or butterfly wings?

A giant giraffe neck, a ginger’s freckled chest?

Cheetahs? Leopards?

A lantern fly nymph?

Or more like

Blueberry muffins

Or chocolate chip scones?

Or more like red-capped, warted

mushrooms? Poison hemlock stems?

Or spotted like

Cruella Deville’s floor-length fur coat?

Daisy Buchanan’s skittering pearls?

Desdemona’s strawberry handkerchief?

The sleep-haunted hands of Lady Macbeth?

Gertrude’s black and grained soul?

Or spotted like

The hiccupping sun’s surface,

Brewing disruption in planet-sized

Storms of magnetic mayhem…

Pretty much like this thing

Spotted

There on the monitor,

Blooming like Rorschach’s inkblot

Amidst the hollowed-out, round, sound-

Waves spinning didgeridoo vowels amidst

Rumbling, bubbling bowel sounds.

A shifting, sizable storm cloud.

A pale and pockmarked moon.

A shadowy, seething portent.

Marring the vault of a once

procreant cradle.

A dappled dollop of disorder.

Spotted.

Get it out, out.

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Spring Blankets

Just yesterday morning, rain clouds filled the sky in gray velvet folds draped heavy over the newly hatched woods, leaves shivering, sagging from the weight, the wait. The dogwood blossoms — bright as match flares – trembled, knowing soon they’d be doused, tender petals downed and drowned. The cardinal couple, wings flame-stitching the shadows as they lit from sod bank to branch and back again, banked on a breakfast cut short and shared their worm like Lady-and-the-Tramp pasta boiled well past its prime. While the cat, shoulders knuckled, crept toward them, one ear cocked to her prize, the other to the threatening cloudburst, the roll of thunder overhead. Then the clouds split wide –not with rain, but golden sun – showering treetops

in cream soda light,

leaves glowing lemon and lime,

blossoms blinding white

Today the same skies are different still, pale pink haze over lavender-blue, lying whisper-soft as an infant’s shawl above the feathered limbs of fizzy trees. The cat naps on her pillow. The dogwood blossoms tremble still, at the brevity of it all, the beauty of it all, as does the cardinal couple singing cheer, cheer, cheer through the

baby soft hiccup

of this morning’s scene, dogwood

blossoms losing steam

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How Can We Fix This?

A child was lost.

A child lost.

The world beat him

Battered him, bruised him to breaking,

And – go figure —

He broke.

 

His spokes gave out.

His wheels flew off.

His handlebars torqued.

And he tumbled.

He’d been tumbling awhile. 

But this time, 

He tumbled so far

He could not,

Would not –

Refused –

To get back up.

 

On the front end of a warm Tuesday 

At the ass end of a cold month,

Sick to death with hurt,

He took charge.

With a discharge that fixed 

And dilated 

His pain

In a huge, gaping hole.

That opened to a ravine 

That swallowed a family

And shook a school

And rattled a community.

 

His mother unhinged

His father undone

His siblings unstrung

His promise unsung

 

His lyrical, beautiful, 

Guitar-humming

Soul-strumming 

Sweet promise,

That could make this place beautiful

– so, so beautiful –

Left unsung. 

 

How can we fix this? 

 

Not this, that’s impossible —

Fixed forever in a curled dark hole

Deep in his family’s ribs 

Howling unchecked —  

But this? 

 

This brokenness

This curled dark hole

Deep in society’s rib

Howling unchecked

… and ignored.

 

How?

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Pivot like Rilke, Pause like Oliver

You must change your life, Rilke said.

There is no place that does not see you.

So, burst like a star from all the borders

of yourself.

 

And to do that, you must:

Pause 

and attend to 

the riotous performances 

of those that

recognize life 

and its beauty in the 

here and now,

in the being,

said Oliver.

And to do that, you must:

Be alive in the fresh morning.

Be the dark center where procreation flares.

 

So, pivot like Rilke. Pause like Oliver.

Be permissive.

Like a poet.

Like roses, 

fully blown,

drinking the air of the silver morning

with their petal-soft mouths, 

tasting and celebrating all that there is,

in moment after moment of perfumed possibility.

 

Pay attention. 

Do that.

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Cold January Light

Lavender air sifts

through pine trees

cold as the silverware

left on the back porch

overnight. Winter is 

here, the season has

changed, and the light 

has changed, and the

temperature too.

Layers of chill like river

sediment, like somebody’s

nose against your nose,

like a traitor’s kiss, lips 

dry, cheeks chafed,

earlobes berried 

as the lavender air,

clanging with goose calls

and church bells, hollow

and cold as the spoon 

on the back deck, as the

hoarfrost on the handrails,

as the saplings and sentinel

trees, backlit, starkly naked

completely exposed above

the sleeping groundhog —

oblivious in his burrow,

of the season changing,

of you changing —

knowing only that

now is the time to curl

up before being reborn.

 

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Stacked Beauty

I

want

to write

words

stacked with

beauty like

magnets

or rock cairns

attracting and  

guiding readers to

breathtaking views

of tangerine skies

sea glass windows

into cliffsides

cranberry bogs

lavender fields mercurial

storm-swept sea beds

to find coral and almonds

the mottled man in the moon

drink twilight smoke

cloud wisp bite

bourbon and

shoulders

hear stars click on

feel fireflies sext

in the gloaming

wings beating in wild

persimmon percussion

hearts lit limoncello bulbs

see me and see me 

and see me please be seen

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Which Loss is More Catastrophic?

Millionaires chasing dreams to explore the depths of the ocean and failing?  

or

Migrants chasing dreams to explore the depths of democracy and failing?

Both sets determined to know the unknown.

Wanting more.

Entitled to more.

Pushing the limits of possibility.

Risking it all:

Children

Families

Futures.

And both paying dearly for their audacity

with catastrophic loss.

The fact that this is even a question

shows how deeply we have suffered 

a catastrophic loss

of humanity.

** Like most of the world, I’ve been caught up in the Ocean Gate submersible saga with no knowledge of the refugee ship sinking in the Mediterranean until now — nearly a week-and-a-half later. The revelation has left me gutted, yet (in a sad, self-loathing paradox) still hungry for more Ocean Gate details.

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