Best Motherhouse Poems
My mother was the very best cook
In the beginning though she was not
And the very first pie she cooked got
In the house hidden out of sight in a pot
By the night thrown through floor pine knot
Inspired by Brian Strands but not an entry. I just wanted to see if I could write one.
(Mother said the first egg custard she made was all runny and she didn't want my father to
know that she messed up so she hid it for a while then poured it through the pine knot in the
floor. They were very poor living on a farm in a house without double flooring like today
and no rugs.)
I remembered how she would each Thursday or Sunday bake sweet pudding ...
And except for Christmases (which shall never more with her be shared)
Then the aroma of sorell, her cakes, and her gungo-peas-rice slow cooking
Filled the house ... those puddings were the sweetest story of love.
They were her second job, and sometimes her shaggy windows had curtains
New, because she never was too lazy to figure her survival fresh, and to prove
That poverty does not deny us virtue, nor needs cry under strain of burdens
That love brings to our door. Yes poverty was her choice, but as queen
She lived ... now that's a gift, a gift from God, a tribute (recognized) from us.
Let me explain mother's royalty in two anecdotes, each an indelible scene.
How when I was five she walked the long Lacovia miles through sun and dust
From Montego Bay to Knoxwood to retrieve her child, hug me to her breast
And took me from my father's and grandmother's house, and from their trust,
While she was penniless; and taught me ambition in nothingness; taking no rest
To feed me expensive baby food until I was thirteen, spoiled me, so that I
Should not have missed what my father could afford with ease. It cost all. Then
There is the fact of me reading and writing for her till I
For college left her, in which time she got baptized. I returned and saw a pen
In her hand, she writing, and reading her Bible by herself; amazed
I asked "how?" She said, son when you climb the pole of knowledge
Remember those on the ground, do not judge people by rank or college
Greatness is wrapped in simple clothes sometimes. Give all their due praise,
And know I gave you the privilege to read for me, so you would always read
But the skills in my childhood house was instilled, a teacher's love did recedes."
She, clever as Anancy, and what simple strategies! Let her sleep now, great
Women wear simple clothes, Esther Veronica Jackson, I celebrate
Your life, your warrior spirit, your uncommon faith, sleep mother dear
I shall not forget you till the trumpet blows, and God dries my tear.
There is a place far away that only I can find
A secret cove of sand and stone,
where the ocean meets the sky
Just me and my little house of sage
A picket fence that holds no lie's, with wild flowers that
dream to fly and sandpipers fluttering by
Just me and my little house of sage
Even after the stars have burned out and all the universe is gone,
I'll will still be here...
Just me and my little house of sage.
All those years
Of sucking leaves
In a house of owls
Will not break the mask
Stone-lipped you
Dictate the stairs
Silence as the
Broken mill of dust.
Wordless, dry
And all foured
Reach the landing;
So you have come home then ?