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
MIKE, PAM AND BAILEY
Solid enough for a Mad Bear to lean on
mother enough for the world to suckle
Downs baby magic lifts the whole world up
MOMMA IN MYKONOS
Marolina says, enjoy the room
my eighty two year old mother
lives on the first floor under your stairs
call on her if you need anything
Momma doesn’t understand our English
but most important that we understand
she could understand, but chooses not to
She also knows that her daughter
must rent the rooms above her head
but she will not look up
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
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
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 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
THRESHING TIME
I remember at Christmas getting a great threshing machine
a block of wood with wooden spools nailed to the side
but I loved it as I loved the threshing
All through the long summer days I would walk
the fields with my dog
At night my mother rubbed strong liniment on four year old
legs: growing pains she said, although one always hurt
more and didn’t seem to grow any faster
And the grain grew too, and passed me, and was higher
than I was. And then the harvest and the wonder of it falling
to the binder and the magic of the machine as it tied the
sheaves and ke-chunked them into the carrier
Then the stooking – little teepees covering the prairie again
and the golden warmth of everything
And the threshing machine; they wouldn’t let me too close;
it might eat me like it ate those sheaves and like the men
in the crew could eat, and they could eat
even when it rained
While I sat for hours nose to wet window
watching the great gray dinosaur
deep in the timeless mists
And hot clear windless days when everything sang and
the big belt slapped and the machine came to life again
and wagons were on both sides
and the big horses were standing strong and ready
and switching flies with dignity
The sun caught the arch or the long plume of straw and
the chaff lifting and the old hands fed the machine in a
sort of easy sweat-oiled rhyme and the new hands stood
on the sheaves they tried to lift each time
And the old hands laughed, and the new hands laughed
and they were men together
FARM DOG
My dad doesn’t allow pets in the house
they weren’t allowed in on the farm
where he grew up either
Once when he was eight
the dog came up the stairs
down the hall to the room on the right
where his young mother lay dying
Laid his head for a moment on her lap
and went out again
MEMORIES OF THREE OR FOUR
I remember being nestled
in that old ranch kitchen
deep in the warmth of washday Monday
The Maytag’s liquid sounds mixing
with the gentle driving chugs
of the little gas engine
Sloshing and chugging sloshing and chugging
as I curled up beside it
in the great pile of laundry
rich with the smells of the people I loved
Half asleep half awake I floated there
all my senses safely cradled and warmed
and part of a rhythm and a sound
like a heartbeat in a womb