#1 inspired by Robert Frost The Road Not taken
I took the one
less traveled
because it’s always new.
Every day opportunities vary
making excitement ensue.
What I saw yesterday
is gone and different today.
The path still there
calling me to explore.
Retirement
as you retire
we acknowledge your
years of achievements
fancy paper, fancy
words, fancy frame
but heartfelt gratitude
we wish you
well with a
cake bidding adieu
signed a card
wishing you much
happiness, success, contentment
keep in touch
see you around
this not goodbye
as the days
weeks, months pass
your memory neglected
there is no
keeping in touch
seeing you around
we return to
the reality of
work until retirement
and once again
we will repeat
the fancy goodbye
Silver#2
silver
can you see the sheen
on the coat of a silver tailed fox
or the cool handful of tinsel
on the Christmas bough
the Mexican ladies dangling from ears
.925 stamped on the small of her back
the weight of the drawer
laden with mother’s and her mother’s silver
spoons and knifes and forks
the ones that you polish twice a year
and hope you haven’t missed a spot
silver plate ,sterling silver
is it the same I can never remember
I should know being my mother’s daughter….
Poem One: There to be Found
There to be Found
That’s not the way she found us
Huddled in sheets tossed to the wind
No puzzle box limbs expertly locked
In tension, loaded for action,
Already commenced.
That’s not the way she found us:
Hands on hands on face in hair,
No sweet nothing whispers, promising
Favors, forgetful behaviors,
Lost in the trance.
Three coffee cups, two lipstick stains,
One incautious laugh, incautious smile,
Incautious stare.
She couldn’t find what never happened,
But I guess she could see what was there.
The Treasure
9 am – (1)
With thumb firmly in mouth,
she was born,
seeking a hold in a precarious world.
With closed eyes, she searched.
She found me – her sustenance for food,
more importantly, she found
my pillow and the corner.
It was twisted with milky spit
and tight little fingers,
perfect for rubbing on nose,
while the thumb in mouth
made a satisfying sucking sound.
Never meant to be carried,
it went everywhere.
Unforgivably I washed it,
took three days to dry.
Inconsolable, she held the damp corner,
until it dried smellier.
And the stuffing was removed.
We flew overseas and I was terrified,
not of crashes but of losing my child’s treasure.
The pillow was cut into many pieces
and every pocket, every bag
contained one.
When she turned twenty-one,
a piece was stitched into her memory quilt.
And when she married,
a piece inside the dress -something old.
One piece is mine –
memory of a time,
when it was my child’s
most cherished possession.
Hour #2: Weather-Witch Moon: On a line from Kristin Mills
The weather-witch speaks of secrets foretold,
in shadows between washes of moonlight.
Sweetgums reach limbs, looming like gnarly arms
over children who cry in fear, hide from long-fingered
twigs reaching to grab the backs of their necks
as they walk the night. I pray to the weather-witch
for protection, her sassy shimmer whitening my skin.
My plea—free me of fear, from the poisonous spell
that controls my days. Even with votaries promising
a new awakening, a positive outcome, good events
on the horizon, the moon penetrates my dreams,
stripping my spirit of pretense in the light of her fullness.
Such nonsense, her power of witchery, yet how do
I explain my dream coming true just as I crawl from bed.
Life
Mama was another calico used in waving old souls goodbyes
Smiles they said grow palm trees in places of rest
Tears were nother known fertilizer for mourning joy and misdeed too
Grandma shenanigans about the rivers was written as a tittle on our little palms
Placed on papa’s old shelves
The abnormality in the winds cause tides to turn our memories into rocks use to throw I into the ocean
Fantasy
A machine doesn’t forget
(until it breaks, of course)
and the hinges snap
an engineering flaw
succumbs to the inevitability
of time
at the point of weakness
or the data iterates
within itself into
final nonsense
or the delicate
chemical
production
methods
get lost
in the war, or better yet, replaced
by something new, better,
exponentially more destructive.
A machine doesn’t forget and I can barely remember.
To take the fall.
It wouldn’t matter to you
when I stand and watch,
a meek flower fall it’s way through
in the pattering of the rainfall.
What might the flower be feeling?
Was she happy? or dismal for her end.
perhaps did she dreamed
To birth fruits of her own.
Was she ready to take the fall?
Was she ready to give it her all?
Or did her dreams falter her
and ended up lost so far.