Tag Archives: Mother

THE ALBUMS

THE ALBUMS

Mother’s shrinkage was marked by domicile

House, apartment, retirement and nursing home
shedding at each move, furniture, china, and art
except for, and never, the old photo albums
heavy in padded leather brown and green

Each visit when conversation stuttered to a stall
(Religion all but Baptist drowned
and what use is weather without crops)
out would come the albums
and in we all would dive
for pennies
bright and shiny at the bottom of the pool

Here’s one from 1958
how young the queen looked then

MOTHER’S POEM

MOTHER’S POEM

The kitchen has always been the center
of the universe of any farm or ranch

She feeds their sleepy forms in morning
clothes them for the cold or warm
and prays them safe from harm

Looks out her window to the East
where barn shadows and rolling hills
greet them as they start their day

Men in firm direction to their work
children scattering to play

The South across the lake to catch
the water’s mood foretelling wind or calm

Sometimes
sees in morning
mirages of cut banks rising
like mountains along the Eastern shore

Or more directly to the South
forms of her old neighbour’s homes
rising and shimmering
like memories of her youth

Seasons spiral out and in from this center
crocus and buttercups in the greening grass
cactus flowers and the joy of newborn calves

The growing season of the grain
and golden glory of a well stooked field

The shortening of days into winter
and the ever present stars
joined by the dance
of Northern
lights

Within each season she has watched
the play of seasons of each day
men return from roundup
children from their play

While she waits always at the center
to warm and love and feed

and safely tuck away

MOM – HAPPY BIRTHDAY

MOM – HAPPY BIRTHDAY

Oh we would circle
rattling tin wheeled trucks and trikes
and drive her crying to her bed

Gather soot enough from here and there
to keep her forever scrubbing
at our souls and skins

And worry her near to death
while she stayed up to worry us alive
from many a snow and beer filled drive

I know she does it to this day
and I’m afraid anything else I’d say
would all be mush and love
and angels watching from above
and yet still, I think I will

FATHER’S POEM

FATHER’S POEM

My father’s poems
did not come down to us on paper

He was eight years old when his mother died
his youngest brother not yet three

They say he adopted the care
of the sweet sad child
and told him a story each night

Night after night after night

New stories he made up each night

And he would gather him up in the story
and hold him there
until he slept

EAGLE ON THE MOON

EAGLE ON THE MOON

When the Eagle lands on the moon
the Indian will come back
into his power

When the mother is in pain
the children who never forgot
will remind

They will have the medicine
to heal her wounds
They will sit with her while
strength returns

And the children who forgot
will remember

and bring flowers

THE PIETA

THE PIETA

Michelangelo
polished the Pieta, polished the Pieta
polished the Pieta

Tired past all tired
polished the Pieta, polished the Pieta
polished the Pieta

Polishing her breast
he fell into a sleep, fell into a sleep in the
arms of the Pieta

When the polishing was done Michelangelo
stood back

The Mother was alive, the Mother had an
Aura and the Mother was alive

And yet the Son, the Son lay dead, the Son
lay dead there in her arms

In the mind of Michelangelo a thought began
to grow

Unworthy, unworthy, unworthy
yet I know

I must take the red black blood, I must take
the red black blood
From his side of cold white marble

I must take the blood within me, I must take
the blood within me, I must take the blood of
death, I must take the blood of death to the
center of myself

Unworthy, unworthy, yet unworthy
in my prayer
I must change the blood that’s there

In the mind of Michelangelo, in the mind of
Michelangelo, in the midst of Michelangelo
the red black blood was changed to light
unworthy, unworthy, unworthy
Michelangelo
the red black blood was changed to light

Then the mind of Michelangelo
saw the light return to marble through the
marble hole in side

Saw the Aura of the Mother
saw the energy of Mary
Saw the energy of Mary through her arms
into her Son

Saw the Christ no more of death, saw the
Christ to be reborn

When Michelangelo lay dying
When Michelangelo lay dying and his
friends were gathered round

They saw him tired past all tired on a cot
within his home

When Michelangelo lay dying
When Michelangelo lay dying, he saw the
statue and the stone

Saw the polishing was done

And fell into a sleep
In the arms of the Mother, in the arms
of the Mother

Of the Mother of the Son.

I NEVER SAW MY MOTHER ON HORSEBACK

I NEVER SAW MY MOTHER ON HORSEBACK

I understand that
she used to ride to school
but she was little and it was a farm
and somehow that didn’t seem to count

When she was about 75 she told me
about going with dad to the far end of the ranch
on a beautiful day a long time ago
to help round up some strays

She said that she liked it a lot
and couldn’t remember why she didn’t do it more