Disability

Disability isn’t always easily observed.

Not the tricycle on the sidewalk missing one wheel,

Or the china doll on the dresser with no eyes.

Disability sometimes means, just barely cracked.

Like the vase on the piano Mother always turned

A certain way, so you wouldn’t see that it was broken

Unless you picked it up and examined closely.

And you couldn’t fill that vase with water;

It wouldn’t hold a bouquet of garden roses,

But was always pretty sitting there

With some dried leaves and cattails,

Or a few nicely arranged silk flowers.

And therefore was, too useful to discard.

Whistle in the Night

Still awake and listening
At 2:15 in the quiet of the morning
I heard the train whistle blow
At every empty intersection,
Chugging slowly away
Through the silent moonlit town.
Remembering many years
of this recurring nighttime noise.
I could tell the eager engineer
Was enjoying himself –
The echo of the whistle
Lasted just a tad bit little longer
Than was absolutely necessary
For his lonesome, morning ride.
I smiled sleepily, but amused,
And flipped my pillow to the cool side.

Equanimity

Equanimity is tricky.
It can fool most everyone.
You wear it like a costume.
Evenness of temperament,
Sunglasses and a pleasant smile,
Makeup and a nod,
A slapdash shot at manners . . .
If only you don’t forget.
From the outside looking in,
It resembles courage
To those who only glance
As they pass by.
“Isn’t she brave?”
But all the while, inside,
Secretly, you’re boiling,
Yet, you are freezing still.
And you make certain
That no one hears
Your midnight scream.
It looms larger than loneliness,
And deeper than the fear of dying.
Your constant companion:
Hidden, swallowed grief.

Pearls of Wisdom

This poetry thing is not working today.
I’m trying much too hard,
And agonizing over adjectives.
My metaphors are dusty,
My alliteration rusty.
I can’t seem to invoke the Bard.
Every word is like a grain of sand.
Pearls of Wisdom should be grand.
Oysters are “seeded” they say,
And will force a perfect pearl.
The Muse must be sleeping today.
At the very least, she’s missed.
After such a rude intrusion,
The poor oysters must be pissed.

Imagine - In my Best Dorothy Parker Voice

Imagine, if you can, or will
Facebook . . .in an earlier time.
Would Papa Hemingway
Have announced his daily mood?
“I am........ morose.”
And would his circle of friends
Have included Gertrude Stein?
Could Scott Fitzgerald have written
his quintessential questioning novels, while
Checking his cell for messages from Zelda?
Would Emily have been more or less prolific
With a laptop and Internet access?
Would Poe have posted daily,
Or just lurked online
And drank his absinthe?
Well then, maybe . . .
I’ll have another glass
Of the Merlot.
And think about it for a while.

Sonnet to Sean

You were my sun, my son, my light, and love;
As golden as the summer’s brightest day.
And striking as a shooting star above,
Forever changed the night you blazed away.
Grief turned the light to darkness when you died.
I swallowed grief and made it part of me;
I fed it fear and locked it deep inside.
Grief grew until I almost ceased to be.

Time turned the days to weeks, and months to years.
And yet with time, the deepest grief will wane;
The darkness fades to dawn that quiets fears
And light seeps gently in to ease my pain.
Now with the shining stars that grace the night,
You’ll be my star, my son, my love, and light.

The Bottom - Addiction

No mother purposely intends to court grief,
To raise her precious little child
To be a junkie, druggie, liar and thief.
Honest truth, the two I raised went wild.
The sweet cub-scouts, the little league players,
The bike riding little fishermen,
The Sunday School and summer camp boys
Who later found themselves in the grip of addiction,
Somehow, somewhere, something went wrong.
My grand plans were headed for perdition.
Neither was neglected, abused or rejected,
I always did my very, by the Dr. Spock book, best
To ultimately provide, the basics and
Moreover, finer things – maybe in excess.
Quality time, educational trips, and all the other
Accoutrements the experts claimed
Would insure their life’s success;
Acceptance to college, and maybe fame.
But addiction is the greedy monster
That is hiding silently under the bed,
And lurking behind the closet door
Savage and hungry and waiting to be fed.
My precious sons – the monster ate,
And, for a short while, all that I was holding,
Was a mother’s misery, wine, and hate.

The Bench

On a concrete bench beside a lake
A mother sits in grief’s heartbreak.
Words carved in granite at her feet.
She pays no mind to summer’s heat.
She pauses here in autumn’s chill
Alone she sits in winter’s still.
Alone she sits in quiet peace,
Glad for the honking of the geese
Intruding on her reverie,
Bringing back sweet memory
Of young hands tossing crumbs to ground,
As ducks and geese would crowd around.
The boy is gone; the man has passed.
The bench beside the lake will last.