MOTHER’S DAY
Before Hallmark got ahold of it
Mother’s day was not
the second Sunday in May
Less commerce
but more meaning by far
in spring’s first crocus
in a jelly jar
MOTHER’S DAY
Before Hallmark got ahold of it
Mother’s day was not
the second Sunday in May
Less commerce
but more meaning by far
in spring’s first crocus
in a jelly jar
GRAVEL LANE
You turn off the main road
head east over the little rise
and down the long slope
to the buildings
Crushed rock, crushed again
talking back to your tires
as eloquent as Demosthenes
spitting pebbles at the sea
On ranch-house porch
half a mile away
sight blocked by
trees and hedge
she knows which truck
who’s driving and
what kind of day
you’re having
FAMILY TREE
My father took the roots into the ground
And the tree of my mother
began to fall
An oxygen hose tethered her some
a forest of family and friends
slowed the fall
She tore off some leaves
as she fell
NEXT
Cindy Sheehan has spent
enough time in a tent
It is time to let her rest
other mothers can be found
Last month a hundred or more
made it through the qualifying round
THE UNVEILING
On the first anniversary of my mother’s death
I find myself in the middle of New Mexico
the day late, and a prayer short
I stop my Catholic nun friend, now
married and converted Jewish
and tell her of my plight
Also the hope that she
or her husband might have
some words to fit the occasion
The answer is yes, the word is Kaddish
and they are meeting with the Rabbi
to arrange the Friday Shabat supper
Myself, Dorsey, Paul, Maryrita and Dan
now five, the number of her children
sit in circle in the hotel lobby
Paul is a new Rabbi and a very sweet man
he forgets some of the words, Dan helps
I say “her Hebrew isn’t that good,
I don’t think she’ll mind”
I am touched that the prayer is of praise
and not of mourning, and the idea
that whatever good I might do,
my brothers and sisters too,
are her gifts to the world
This may be a poem about salt
there is something about salt
and her gift from our eyes
as we share
THE FIRST MOTHERS DAY AFTER THE LAST MOTHERS DAY
Slowly it dawns on Sunday morning
that you didn’t call nearly often enough
and didn’t send nearly enough cards
or thank her nearly enough
And even if
you put the cattle racks
on the big grain truck
and filled it with flowers
till it ran over all four sides
Even if you drove it to the cemetery
and dumped the whole damn load
on her single rose grave
it wouldn’t be anywhere near enough
BURYING MOTHER
All that time in the womb
mother and baby exchanging cells
mother to baby and baby to mother
from one to the other and back again
One becoming two becoming one
becoming two and the two always one
It is not the same with the father
invited pleasure or invading pain
there for a moment and gone again
When you bury your mother
the worms eat you too
SECOND HONEYMOON
It is my mother’s birthday
she has barely made it to
88
Not one infinity sign but two
I see her from behind
standing again with my father at the altar
A KINDER GENTLER GOD
As we look around the world today we see
with God as our father in trouble all are we
Fathers as you know, often have a tendency
towards discipline, judgement and wrath
while grandparents almost always
take a wiser, gentler path
There may be much to learn
as we choose, or create our deity
from the Blackfoot, Sioux and Cree
who still gather at Grandfather’s knee
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
Then South across the lake to catch
the water’s mood foretelling wind or calm
Sometimes
sees in morning
mirages of cutbanks 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