I saw you for the first time today as a lady.
You were sitting in the sand in the late day sun,
Your face framed by the broad-brimmed hat.
You smiled so beautifully under that,
That even your father could see the lady inside.
I saw you for the first time on your birth day.
And I thought I’d never seen a song til then.
But angels whispered and parents prayed
So fervently that angst was stayed.
And the Father blessed the lady inside.
I saw you for the first time as a woman.
It had somehow not occurred to me til then.
That you could have a life apart from me
Or anything other than this family.
But even fathers, someday, must see the lady inside.
I didn't say that,
Jackson Browne did
I'm not talking about music,
rhyme, or suicide
Isn't that just three
simple words
for what I cannot
wrap my mind around?
Ben, I won't tell you
now
that I came to the edge once
too
sometimes tomorrows
don't feel
like possibilities
I consider the view from the top
when breathing can sometimes be
the hardest part
Would air run wild to hold me
if I let go?
Does a passionate end
make an average life
worth reconsidering?
"Does it ever get easier mom?"
You might ask me in ten years
I'll tell you (the love and bane
of my existence)
"No, but its worth
multiplies"
There are Mamas everywhere,
Hanging their head,
Not many snacks in the kitchen.
There are Mamas with sore hands,
From keeping them happy and fed,
As well as all else that comes with the job.
There are Mamas everywhere,
Who think they're alone,
Feeling less while they're building.
Judgement moreso from within,
Suddenly, perceiving growth,
Comes in glimpses only.
There are Mamas everywhere,
Ones just like me,
Who are beyond grateful for the luxuries.
The conveniences that others enjoy daily,
Aren't something we see,
Though we see our children.
There are Mamas everywhere,
Paving the way for the future,
Struggling now and thriving later.
We are learning with our hands,
Confident to calling though unsure,
We deserve what we dream of for our tribes.
is worse than death,
or so I imagine.
Watching my only son
play in a middle school
golf match
on a Monday evening,
after work, and
driving 40 minutes
to the middle of nowhere
has got to be
worse than death,
giving birth,
filling out tax returns,
and watching
the squirrels.
At least the squirrels
get to scamper
up the trees
and “accidentally”
chuck acorns at my
pathetic head.
It’s a nice view
but only nature can make noise
during this
seriously quiet
competition.
Maybe I’ll spot
a pine warbler,
or a crow will caw
(laugh) at me.
I should have brought
two beers.
when I tried to be me.
Ben (my son)
told me
(the academic,
politically-correct
child of mine)
to shush.
isn't easy
because I talk about nothing
all the time.
It is late March and I love
everything I see
around me:
blooming trees
that I don't know
but appreciate
one color at a time,
bees that are busy and
industrious, sunsets that
are never identical and always
worth ogling over,
as well as
the bare buds
of creativity and song.
That was a mouthful
of a stanza
that I hope
you swallowed down
as smooth as a lozenge.
I tried not to embarrass
my cool kid.
I tried not
to get excited
about the birds
in the trees
who could care less
about golf, and scores,
and fancy pants, and awkward
golf carts.
I made it five minutes.
Then, I asked Ben:
"Did you hear
the goldfinch."
Immediate
embarrassment
ensued.
I learned my lesson
and went back
to my golf cart
to continue drawing
the goddess of war
because I admire
strong women
who face battle
when it counts.
They are the women
who don't shut up.
new “cool” expression:
bombing down the hills
on skateboards.
Apparently,
it’s a boy thing
and something
that to me
just sounds scary
and dangerous.
I’m on a slow
sleigh ride into
middle age and
hot, sweaty
menopause.
Damn
“Mark! Mark!
Talk to him!
Every night
I almost
have a heart attack! “
Sleep, my son,
hush, hush, little one.
Your father's heart hums for you,
your mother's heart longs for you.
It’s eventide;
darkness wraps the world in black velvet,
yet the moon shines gloriously,
and the stars weave a lullaby,
all for you, my son.
I cherish you, boy.
Your worth surpasses the rarest emeralds;
your laughter stitches my frail soul,
and your sleeping face undoes me.
You and I—
we are of the same essence,
the same murmured wish to the heavens.
You are the yearning of my old soul,
the answer to dreams whispered in silence.
And I love you—
beyond what any words can say.
Shattered besides her
He sat beside her crib,
trying hard not to break down,
trembling like foliage in a whirlwind.
His hands cradled his head,
heavy with tears cascading like a spring.
Desperately, he willed her to stay awake,
fearing that if her eyes closed,
she might be taken away from him.
She was his world,
his beacon of hope,
his anchor amidst a raging tempest.
He could not forgive God.
"Why play dice with my daughter’s life?"
he murmured into the vast void.
"Take me instead,"
his prayer consumed by silence,
as the heavens remained quiet,
as they always are.
When her breath stalled,
and the hospital machines screamed
darkness rose like a tide and devoured him.
The delicate thread tethering his hope snapped,
and the world crumbled around him,
he died the same day
his spirit shattering alongside hers.
Thank you for this one,
Mr. Barber.
John F. Kennedy
loved it too.
I learned what adagio
means, today.
The movie
‘Platoon’
immortalized
the song
for me.
For what it’s worth,
I’m teaching my son
real history.
Willem Dafoe
dropped to his knees
for the fortissimo.
Helicopters,
rain, and bullets
are apathetic
to men and music.
Ben, “look life
dead in the face
and know what you want.”
I don’t know,
what is more
agonizing:
to see great actors
portraying a war
I will never see,
or the unbearable
slowness
and bleeding
of ‘Adagio
for Strings.’
to dance to the Beatles
in our kitchen
this ugly spider
of a chandelier
hangs too low
for me to properly
leap in the air
to ‘Twist and Shout’
which demands
lots of wild, erratic
arm-flailing
and hopping about
my son says I look
ridiculous
when I dance
but he is eleven
and everything I do
is ridiculous to him
and beyond
embarrassing
but when I’m cleaning
the mountain of dishes
that accumulated
in half a day
I need a little incentive
and who leaves a hammer
on a kitchen counter
and walks away?
My husband
George Harrison:
you do it for me!
While my son was rock-climbing,
I was running
on wet pavement
back home,
considering the clouds
and the mishappen happenings
of this January day, and myself.
The birds were awake and twittering
because there were plentiful
worms for the taking
and it was worth singing over.
I read that the blue whales
don’t sing much anymore.
The krill swam farther away,
to cooler water.
There isn’t strength for singing
when you are starving.
Tick-tock, tick-clock goes the clock
when every second counts,
not just for Captain Hook
and his sentence of doom:
an alligator’s gaping jaws.
I asked you to dance with me
To ‘Both Sides Now’
by Joni Mitchell.
You didn’t have a choice.
That is what I do to you
when I am feeling romantic
and in love with my husband.
The Christmas tree is still up
in mid-January.
It is more luminous to look at
and reflect on after Christmas is over.
Now, there is time and space
for eccentricities,
especially mine.
Ben is embarrassed when we dance
in our slow circles
of middle-aged parents.
He went to play the trumpet
in his room.
He closed his door
which made both of us laugh.
The moment meant more
with the cacophony of music
and feeling
when we were laughing.
And our dog looked at us
with a bored expression
from her couch.
Daphne, our dog,
was enjoying her old-lady leisure.
I told you:
“honey, don’t forget this.”
For their roar is never heard
Be their roar , be their pride , be their light , be their guide in every stride
Be their strength , be their wavelength
Be their for them to vent ,
A safe space to their hearts intent
Be their frequency , be their rhyme
Be their mime and chime in time
Be their harmony embracing and racing through their garden of opportunity
Be their umbrella , be their shadow,
to their open sky they seek the opportunity window,
Be their guardrails , yet their freedom too
The world feels safe when held by you
Be there to care for they matter
Be there , be there, just be there when their dreams shatter
When broken pieces is all that they see be their vision of art their ecstasy
Be there for their ups and downs as they see saw in mere life’s playground
Be there when you can for time is dear life disappears before it appears
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