The Poetry Marathon

Poem 9. The Saturdays of My Youngest Youth

Saturday mornings
we piled into the den
TeriDebbieBethieJimbo
on our blue shag carpet
in front of the console tv
all with overflowing serving bowls
of cereal… Captain Crunch, Trix
Pebbles (fruity and cocoa)
and my favorite, Freakies.
We watched early morning cartoons
until the good stuff came on…
H.R. Puffinstuff, The Buggaloos
Sigmund the Sea Monster…
these were the best times
to be a quiet little sister.
The Teri of us doted over me
made sure I was full and happy and clean
before Mom and Dad woke up.

On summer vacation
we were in the pool
as soon as we saw
their feet on the stairs.
We played in the pool until
we couldn’t hide our pruny
fingers and toes
and Mom pulled us out
to sit on our towels, wet and exhausted
on the blue shag carpet in the den
in front of the console tv
cereal bowls in our laps
watching Saturday afternoon cartoons.

prompt #9: tea and memory

My grandsons ask for tea ~

Tea, GiGi! Tea!

They like it English fashion:

hot black tea with milk & sugar

served in a Beatrix Potter cup.

The way my own two sons drank it

the way I drank it as a young woman

long ago & far away. Before

there were rabbit cups & saucers.

And strong mint tea, served

in ornate glasses, gilded traceries

along the rims. Syrupy with sugar,

held carefully between fingertips.

And cool herbal teas, tall & frosty

with condensation, sweet with fruit

& Demerara, stirred with my mother’s

sterling spoon, on my grandmother’s saucer.

Tea’s steam rising    curling

winding around us like a daisy chain

holding us together. Memory

blossoming along its links.

 

Hour Nine Candy House

Playing Candyland in the Candy House

One would think it was a Hansel and Gretal dream, if theirs hadn’t

ended for the worse;

The “healthy stuff” were fig newtons and graham crackers

the large molasses cookies with sprinkled sugar on top

came after spaghetti dinners

Grandpa’s den always had ribbon candy around for months

stuck in clumps

there were jellybeans, he would take the forgone black ones

the red gumdrops were deceptive, that too had the taste of licorice

One year he bought cases of Necco wafers excited they were

still made, or rather unearthed from somewhere

Ice cream came after roast beef dinner

Grandma wouldn’t keep a slice of beef on her plate

instead she would pile up on steamed spinach

but she ended up taking so many bites of roast beef

that grandpa had a little more than half left

Vanilla ice cream topped with strawberries with a light frozen crust,

at times peaches and crème,

Grandma would always tell her childhood story of sticking her

finger in the jello that was supposed to be served after supper

needless to say she was still scarred because she went without.

Then there’s the famous chocolate pudding story when my mom

helped herself to my bowl that sat unclaimed the fridge.

Issues, I was left with issues, I’d say to this day.

 

The Journey (Hour 8)

There is growth hidden in the pinions of abandonment.
A rose with thorns sharp yet healing as they pierce.

One must turn inward deliberately
Almost cruelly and with intention
to open the scar tissue and bleed out.

Very few are brave enough to go there.
No one warns of the jagged edges or the depth of the plummet.

Travel alone at your own peril.
Better to pack for the trip; bring a poultice.

Better also to leave room in the satchel for the gems
for there is growth hidden in the pinions of abandonment.

Very few are brave enough to go there.
I am on the journey now…will you join me?
I know the way; we can support one another.

And if you too abandon me, know this…
My wound is my friend now, I will survive.

Hour 9 Perfect Scents

Thank you Drakkar to this day I can’t smell you without remembering a generation of the late 80’s on Long Island  known as the guidos. I borrowed Mom’s amari to match up to the boys.

Thank you Tommy Hilfiger.  Remember smelling you through the 90’s at clubs with Freestyle and Hip Hop. For a time I was a Tommy Girl.

Thank you Polo for bringing me back to 1989 and Frankie holding my hands as we were partnered with to square dance in gym class. Victoria’s Secret shared with me in appreciation of him.

Today’s AXL can never compare to the male scents of yesterday. Britney Spears too floral and Chanel too expensive.

I spray Innisfree from the isles of Ireland. It accents my floral body sprays. Wait for Old Spice to find us.

The Fisher’s Wife

Another ship has just arrived
On fierceblown wind and stormbanked tide.

The fisher’s wife has fair contrived,
With sweetsong voice and sparkling eyes,
To carry home its cargo prize.

All is well, the cupboard’s full
There’s plenty brandy, gold and wool,

There’s spices, necklaces and teak
And feasts upon fine silver plate,

And as the waters grim arise,
Another ship has just arrived.

All is well, the cupboard’s full
See you now, through azure cool,
The shelves packed tight with glass, like jewels,

And in each tightly sealed jar
A sailor’s soul burns like a star.

Hour 9: Ink

I have to start afresh each time the ink blots and another pen takes its own life

The words will not flow from the deceased carcass of my companion in strife

“But there are only so many pages you can turn” I tell myself

“Only so many excuses you can churn” and compel myself

To blame another tomorrow for my empty pages

January Tracks

Hour 9, Prompt 9

 

January Tracks

 

Come January when family’s tire tracks are frozen in the drive

And the cookstove pumps its heat through his roughshod shack

Wind whistles lonely hollow along the edge of camp

And mem’ries come quick on its melody’s tail

Of all the decorations Ma took home in her boxes

The one she missed is sweetest and dearest

His room’s bare bulb’s light reflects off its red Avon glass

Alone on a shelf where garland recently draped,

Then obscuring the silver screw-on ball,

Now mirroring his image back to him

Imagining Ma with a touch of Sweet Honesty Cologne behind her ear

Sweetening the cinnamon spice bread pudding with which she filled his place

Just looking at this ornament left behind swirls

The scents of nutmeg and pine

Reminders of Ginny laughing at presents unwrapping

And Ma blushing at the extravagance he offered

In a box of cordials and bracelet of gold

That he’d offer again just to see her smile

Before packing up Christmas and leaving frozen tracks in the drive

 

 

Poem 9

A Plate for the Whole Family

Here, my boy,
have some food
have some joy
in a plate of spaghetti.

Here, my boy,
this is all for you
take my love and
this plate of spaghetti.

Thank you, mom!
But we are poor
so why do we have
a plate of spaghetti?

It’s your birthday, boy!
“What’s birthday, ma?
We can share
this plate of spaghetti!”

The Other Side of the Bridge

The Other Side of the Bridge

 

When both of my husbands

were alive, we spent

Thanksgiving together,

 

our feast culminating with

an extended walk

across the Tacoma Narrows bridge.

 

The two of them paused

beside an iron railing

so I could take photos:

 

a sort of black-and-white

study in contrasts, but

captured in technicolor.

 

My ex had yellow teeth

and cheeks that hung

like a gaunt bulldog’s.

 

He smoked a cigarette

every fifteen minutes—

frail shoulders

slumped in the rain,

 

frantic mouth devouring

smoke, like it was candy.

 

My husband perched beside him,

happy for sailboats

that passed beneath our feet,

 

and a sun break that seemed

to come out of nowhere.

 

No one knew both men

were marked—my ex-husband

would be dead

 

in less than a year,

my current one in three.

 

And I, the photographer,

doomed to continue my trek

across the span, alone.

 

I’m glad no one can predict

the future, or there would

be no point in going on:

 

still, I trudge ahead

anyway, half-believing

I know what awaits me

on the other side of the bridge.