Music is My Mother.

Found this bit from 2007 while cleaning in my bedroom.  Made me smile…thinking nostalgically tonight.  B

Music is My Mother

Music is my mother
and all my memories of her.
She sings a hymn,
Whistles while she cooks.

I watch
I see her dancing feet
Eyes far away
Hips sway
Back in the day

My mother is music to me.

RLP

 

Stop Calling Me Shirley.

 

Surely someone will look,
but pretend not to see

Surely somehow they’ll make this
all about me

Surely somewhere lies waiting
that which I’ve lost

Surely somebody’s paying,
regardless of cost

Surely someday I won’t feel
so damned insecure

Surely something  to love
instead of endure.

 

2-11-15 RLP

 

 

 

Loganberry Jam.

IMG_20141023_183457_009

Logan 8/97 on the lid
In my mother’s distinctive hand.
I hesitate –
It’s the last one.

On my pantry shelf for fifteen years
Because every time I picked it up, I put it back:
It’s the very last one.

My childhood
My memories
My mother –
Preserved.

Today, Logan 8/97 is ripe for picking.

With a little pop,
The lid comes off,
Revealing brownberry jam:
The essence of a summer so long past.

Here’s to you, Momma:
Here’s to the countless berries
Picked,
Washed,
Mashed,
Sugared,
Thickened,
Jarred,
Sealed,
And shared.
Here’s to berry-stained fingers
And wooden spoons
And paraffin in a little pan.

Here’s to sweet, sweet memories airtight in half-pint jars.

Here’s to Logan 8/97
The very last one.

 

RLP 10/2014

Glazed Over.

Crazing, they call it,
This fine lacework of surface flaws,
Brittle, tenuous,
Smooth to the touch.

These spider web cracks betray the fault.
Passing eyes may not notice
The mark of unbearable stress,
But it’s there.
It’s always there.

Walk a little faster,
Keep your eyes fixed on what’s ahead,
And hope that your forward momentum
Is enough.

Because when it isn’t
And your pace slows
And your heart quickens
And your smile fades
And your breath catches
And the fissures widen
And the dam breaks

That’s when it shows.

That’s when they notice.

9-30-14 RLP

 

 

photo credit Tim Regan

This Is What She Wants Most.

It isn’t much, she reasoned.  I mean, it’s not as if anyone has to pay for it.  Not really. 

It was Grandma who gave her the idea.  Grandma, who proudly called herself a groovy chick, had a lot of ideas.  She liked to think about things.  Being with Grandma meant lots of thinking, and talking, about Things.  Grandma always told her, “Use your noggin.”  She wasn’t sure exactly what a “noggin” was, but she figured Grandma was telling her to think.

So she did.

She stayed awake all night thinking about it.  The more she thought, the more she had to think.  She sharpened a pencil to a fine point and scratched some words in a spiral-bound notebook.  Then she smiled a satisfied smile and went to sleep.

Her eyes flew open at the sound of Grandma calling the chickens for their breakfast.  “Bawwwk-bawk-bawk,” the woman sang, and the birds came running.  She pulled the curtain to watch.  She admired her grandma for keeping her promises.  That was one thing she could always count on: if Grandma said she’d do something, she’d do it.

When Grandma came back to the house, she found one very excited little girl.  “Grandma,” she said, “I thought about what we talked about all night, and I have an idea.”  She sat at the kitchen table while her grandmother washed up and put some water on for tea.  The girl continued.  “Remember when we were talking about what makes people sad and what makes people happy?  And you said that sometimes it takes very little to make people happy?  Well, then I was thinking about what I could do, and I wanted to ask you something.  Do you think we could do it together?  You and me?”

“Do what, honey?”  said Grandma as she set out the cups.

“Make people happy, Grandma.  You and me.”

“What do you have in mind?” the woman asked kindly.

“Well, I have to find out what they want most and then give it to them.”  She said it with a child’s earnestness.  “Will you help me?”

“Of course, sweetheart.  Now drink your tea.”

 

****************************

The above was inspired by a book that was given to me not long ago, called 642 Things To Write About, by The San Francisco Writers’ Grotto.  It is just as it says – a book of 642 writing topics.  Interestingly, it was written in one 24-hour period, from one person’s idea, but it is a collaborative effort.  It is inspired, it is terrific, and I really appreciate the gift!  You’ll see more of these topics pop up as time goes by. 

 

 photo credit: Keoni Cabral

 

 

Nightmares.

How do you describe a nightmare?

Unimaginable terror?

Inconsolable sorrow?

Devastating loss?

Paralyzing indecision?

Unquenchable thirst?

Unavoidable doom?

Irreparable damage?

Shocking revelations?

Shameful regret?

Irreversible harm?

Prolonged suffering?

Gripping fear?

Unconscionable evil?

Endless longing?

Infinite emptiness?

 

All of the above.

 

– RLP 9-6-14

 

 

photo credit r.nial.bradshaw

What I Meant (This Time).

Traveled hard.

No, not on roads:

On shrugged promises
Worn ragged with worry.

On disquieting dreams
Whose occupants have long faded.

On bitter regret
Too painful to forgive.

 

Perhaps hopeless,
But not without hope.
– RLP 7-27-14

 

 photo credit andronicusmax

A Remembrance or Two.

photo credit: The National Guard

 

I remember April 19, 1995.  I remember where I was when I heard that the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, had been bombed, resulting in the deaths of 168 innocent people and injuries to nearly 700 more.  I was stunned.  Finding out that it was a domestic terrorist act was even more of a shock.

I remember so many thoughts and emotions during those initial days; one morning about a week later, words came and I wrote them down.  I never gave it a title, just the date:

4/28/95.

From the soil of hate and vengeance
sprang an evil unforgiving,
Which sowed acts of pure maleficence
And death among the living.

It was in the hearts of cowards
that this wicked plan was hatched;
The result of their conspiracy
was tragedy, unmatched.

Broken lives and broken bodies,
broken spirits there abound
And for those who lost their loved ones,
broken hearts are all they’ve found.

In the midst of this disaster
stand the hearts and hands that mend:
Easing pain, allaying suffering,
bringing comfort and a friend.

It is through the tears of empathy
that we see beyond despair
And stand resolute and strengthened
by the faith that bonds us there.

If we think there’s more to living
than this brief time here on Earth –
If we look on death as not as much an end
as a rebirth,

Then the hope that’s deep within us
gives us peace and springs anew –
And we’re blessed with understanding
what it is we’re here to do.

Fast forward six years, to the horror of four coordinated attacks on September 11, 2001, claiming 2,977 victims and injuring several thousands more  Everyone knows what happened that day and how our country changed as a result of it. 

photo credit: PeterJBellis

Again, I was stirred by words that came to mind, and I revisited the 1995 piece. 

9-11-2001

From the soil of hate and vengeance spawned an evil unforgiving
Deep within the hearts of cowards it was hatched,
Manifest in purest malice, sowing death among the living –
A conspiracy of tragedy unmatched.

Broken hearts and broken bodies, broken spirits, broken lives
Heroes fallen, image burned into our minds –
Though grief and sorrow haunt us, human dignity survives,
What was rubble now becomes the act that binds.

In the middle of disaster, dust and ashes, twisted steel
We have empathy to see beyond despair,
Forgetting for a moment how detached we used to feel —
Standing strengthened by the faith that joins us there.

If we know there’s more to living than this brief time here on Earth
Then within us hope and peace will spring anew
If we look on death as not as much an end as a rebirth –
Then we’ll understand what we are here to do.

I remember trying to explain to my young sons about what happened; of course, there was no way to explain ‘why.’  I’m sure most, if not all, parents found it difficult.  You want to comfort your children and make them know they’re safe.  You want to keep the bogeyman and nightmares away — but sometimes, you can’t.

Number Young Son, six at the time, was frightened when he’d hear an airplane near our home.  There is a small private airstrip nearby, and we see and hear small planes on a regular basis.  It took a long time to convince him that planes weren’t going to crash into our house.  I remember Number One Son being very angry about it and wanting to hurt the bad men who hurt the people in those airplanes and buildings.

Time has eased the memory, as it is wont to do, but the utter shock of that day still rings in my ears.  Personally, it brings back memories I don’t want to entertain.  I pray we never experience that kind of a day again.

photo credits: The National Guard and PeterJBellis

The Technical Writer

Neck-deep in the workaday words
of engineer argot
and industry,
Practically drowning in practicality,

I feel a flutter
of gypsy-colored heartsong;
Carefree, it does not belong
with crisp and careful language.

I welcome the diversion
of sweet, emotional perfumery;
Then, with a sigh, return
to the task at hand,

One pithy paragraph at a time.

4/30/13

photo credit Bitman