Details |
Patricia Helt Poem
When I was young, I wrote poems about
blue-eyed, blonde haired children
that I expected would one day be mine,
perfect children envisioned by my mind.
Isn't it ironic that I used to say
I hoped I wouldn't have
red-haired children?
You are my beautiful daughter,
green-eyed, red-haired
perfect.
And you, my sons, blue eyes and green eyes,
exactly the sons a mother would wish for.
All those poems have blown away, erased
by the breeze of time.
But you remain.
You are the children of my heart.
Copyright © Patricia Helt | Year Posted 2005
|
Details |
Patricia Helt Poem
with only three words,
future plans and dreams ended.
now is all there is.
Copyright © Patricia Helt | Year Posted 2007
|
Details |
Patricia Helt Poem
How did I get caught up in the middle of this mess?
I thought that you all knew that love comes first-
Before money, before power, before having the last word-
My heart is filled with pain enough to burst.
I know your anger's justified, you think the other's wrong
And both of you make valid points, but I won't choose.
You need to find a path between your anger and forgiveness;
A brother's love is worth too much to lose.
The years between you turn your lense on life a different way
The eldest child's perspective isn't what the youngest sees.
One action seems justified to one, to the other immature
Each of you look through the other's lenses, please.
Your anger with each other is tearing me apart
A hollow aching fills me as soon as I awake
I've always been so proud of you for the loving care you've shown
Now you're both unwilling to admit your own mistake.
It's a rude awakening to realize that the family that we had
Was a figment of my mind as much as real
Or the anger that's between you wouldn't shake it all apart,
But that loss is one we all already feel.
Copyright © Patricia Helt | Year Posted 2006
|
Details |
Patricia Helt Poem
my hand rests
fingers curved
against the white page.
the skin is dry,
divided into cells.
small folds surround my knuckles.
my veins are a grey-green path
criss-crossing my hand.
my hand.
so like the hand that caressed my brow,
or smoothed the sheet,
that wiped my childhood tears
and comforted by touch,
like the hand that soothed my child
with gentle strokes.
When we last talked together
your hand relaxed against the table top,
sallow skin too loose for the bones within.
we talked about our hands-
mine becoming yours,
yours became your mother's,
gaunt, dry, gnarl-jointed.
The rings you couldn't wear for years
were fitted on your hand,
a cold, still hand.
lying motionless. at peace.
my hand rests,
fingers curved,
against the white page.
I see your hand there,
against the satin sheet.
Copyright © Patricia Helt | Year Posted 2005
|
Details |
Patricia Helt Poem
I did all the things that I usually do:
made my usual cell call to you,
took the dog for a walk, dropped the car to be fixed,
spent the morning with students whose classes were mixed.
I met friends for lunch, I weeded, I cooked,
I cleaned off your bureau, returned the taped book,
I finished the laundry, watered the flowers,
I found lots of chores to fill up the hours.
I wasted some time on that solitaire game
And tried to remember the new student's name,
I planned out my lessons from now to the end
Knowing I'm certain to change them again.
There're drawers full of odds and ends waiting for me
Closets to clean out, papers to read,
All the details of living that fill up my day.
Just passing the time 'til you come home to stay.
Copyright © Patricia Helt | Year Posted 2005
|