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Brenda Levy Poem
The other day, I saw my mother sitting in a chair.
She was staring at the TV, but she knew that I was there.
The television was not on; it had been off all day.
I don't know what she thinks when she looks at the set this way.
A quart of milk was on the carpet; all of it was spilled.
I did not see a glass and maybe no glass had been filled.
The edges of the milk were firm. They'd taken time to set.
It didn't seem to interest Mom to clean it up just yet.
She had not glanced my way, so I spoke first. She made it clear
that she'd prefer it if I stayed away, although she called me dear.
She's hostile when she's like this, but she loves me very much.
Still, this was not the time to talk. I said I'd be in touch.
The other day, I saw my mother sitting in a chair.
She looked down at the floor, but seemed to like my presence there.
She rambled on – she always does - then asked me if I wouldn't mind
it if I signed a check for her. It always puts me in a bind
whenever these things happen, but at least we could converse,
and I didn't have to rummage through the contents of her purse.
The other day, I saw my mother sitting in a chair.
She chattered - all that endless monotone, completely unaware
that I was drifting out the door because I needed space.
I’ll return when you have something real I can embrace.
The other day, I saw my mother sitting in a chair.
We watched the TV, and there were good programs on the air.
She likes sports and politics and follows the election.
She doesn't think the country is off in the right direction.
I enjoyed our talk. She has a very good, sharp wit.
I said I'd visit soon, and on my calendar, I marked it.
The other day, I saw my mother sitting in a chair -
not on that date, but I had phoned before I'd driven there.
The phone had not been answered and I knew what had been brewing.
I went anyway so I could see how she was doing.
Now we resume our Maypole dance one way around the pole.
A dance the other way would unwind patterns in her soul.
Copyright © Brenda Levy | Year Posted 2013
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Brenda Levy Poem
(This poem was inspired by the
cereal isle of a grocery store.)
I have my choice of 80 brands.
Good fortune lends us many hands
In generating all this waste -
A splendid show of varied taste
Delighting children and confusing
Harried shoppers, groping, choosing
Purple monkeys. Look! They swing
Across your box so they can bring
You chocolate circles for your bowl
To light your world and fill your soul!
A cardboard jungle proud - its sons
And daughters trucked in by the tons.
The Mighty Force in life unfurled
Struts on in the commercial world.
Copyright © Brenda Levy | Year Posted 2013
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Brenda Levy Poem
His clothing is mottled,
His beard speckled grey
and he takes up his post
by the road every day.
But he knows he’s depressed; he is always depressed,
And his sadness ferments like old wine, and the best
He can do is to drink. Feelings caught in the flow
Are washed further downstream where he won't have to go.
I’m staring ahead, and
The light will turn green,
And I drum on the wheel
hoping I won’t be seen.
I believe that I felt
Much the same long go.
My thinking habitual -
Ebb and a flow,
and the flow picks up force
As time courses along,
Then reaches the ocean
Where currents are strong.
Pepperoni and cheese
Are now comfortably seated
By me. Mr. Domino’s
Will be reheated
When I arrive home.
And at home I will peer
At the art on the frig.
It’s been there for a year.
The man is still there.
I roll down the window.
He rushes the car
Like a wave rolling
In with the tide from afar,
And recedes with the pizza.
There’s nothing I’ve lost.
When you get to the ocean,
No boundaries are crossed.
My light’s up ahead.
It helps order my day.
He’s back at his post.
I’m on my way.
Copyright © Brenda Levy | Year Posted 2013
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Details |
Brenda Levy Poem
The ocean casts a spell on me, an endless blue-green space
that floods me with a calming certitude – this place
where tensions sink like flotsam into insignificance. The waves
don’t care for treasure or my hornets’ nest. They all sink to their graves.
Now you there with your laptop - you like your life well planned.
You mostly try to do your best to shine your light on land.
You think you’ve found an ocean in your gigabype abyss.
Look up - our lives does not allow a view as vast as this.
I wonder at the beauty of an ordinary heap
of tangled seaweed, like discarded rope emerging from the deep.
Small creatures you don't want to eat dig tunnels on the shore.
I don't know where they go or if they hear the ocean roar.
You lie here on the beach and don't see anything amiss.
Our normal lives do not allow a view as small as this.
You like to swim and jog and build your castles on the land.
You do not build them in the air, because they will not stand.
I've built them on the beach, but their support is insecure.
A dream enacted on firm soil more likely will endure.
The ocean quickly greets them and they can't remain in place,
dissolving in the swirls of bubbles and amazing grace.
I take my journeys here with you; I’m glad that you are here.
Your feet are planted on the land; you make my life more clear.
Perhaps I can convey to you the wonders I have found -
Amazement with all creatures here, perfection without bounds.
I do not know the ocean but it disregards the meek.
I'll bottle up the blue and use it up throughout the week.
Dying waves lap on the shoreline, and they always will.
The people leave the beach when darkness falls, and all is still.
Copyright © Brenda Levy | Year Posted 2014
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