My Mother Was Young

My Mother Was Young

My mother was young. I never noticed before
how she ice skated with me on New Year's Eve
glided effortlessly on the ice,  never falling,
or how happy she was when she sewed little doll clothes.

In summer we sat on the front porch steps,
and neighbors would stop by to chat, as we children
played red rover and statue maker in the yard.
Mother's eyes twinkled like the lightning bugs we chased.

My mother was young, I never noticed before
how we made our way to the library ever week and each
came home with an armful of books, and then
at home we sat quietly and read, enraptured with words.

Some summer evenings when the nights were hot and long
Mother declared it was time to go for a 'surprise ride.'
She delighted as she kept me in suspense, gleeful
as a child, as she drove us to some captivating place.

And then in a blink of an eye my mother lost her sight,
became old, could no longer see the beautiful world,
sat more than moved, now with untwinkling eyes.
My mother was young once, I wish I had noticed more.

*****

For my prompt at "What's Going On?"

No Matter What the Grief

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No Matter What the Grief

No matter what the grief there is kindness
an unexpected card arrives with a personal message
a woman holds a glass door open and I have
no choice but to walk through the door 
the telephone rings and the caller trusts me
with something important knowing I care about.

A boy with inquisitive eyes seeks me out
then follows me as I wander the forest
I present him with a handful of leaves
red, yellow, orange, and crunchy brown 
he smiles at my gift and then gives me
a handful of acorns to feed squirrels.

So it goes on, this kindness, if I look for it
all day it continues as the light appears
on the path where there had been darkness
the robin flies overhead for the last time
and the leaves crunch beneath my feet
no matter what the grief there is kindness.

For Sherry's prompt "Small Kindnesses" at What's Going On?

Lost Conversation

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Lost Conversation

We used to sit and talk and drink French press coffee

at the Coffee Traders on Downer late into the night.

We would sit for a hours, but it seemed no time at all,
in our own world of caffeine and conversation.

We talked about hopes and dreams and plans,
about feminism and books we were reading.

These were the days of consciousness raising,
women's music, women making their voices heard.

I wish I remembered more than the intensity of your
blue eyes and black hair with no one in the cafe but you.

And now several decades later all has changed
some dreams have been fulfilled, some have gone to dust.

The Coffee Trader has closed, and I lost track of her,
until I saw her obituary - suicide - walked in front of a train.

The Field

The Field

Behind my house
there is a field
filled with tall, sticky weeds
rocks big enough to sit on
grasshoppers, crickets
and an occasional mouse.

The field is a baseball diamond
where nightly battles are waged
beneath the setting sun and awakening moon
with only mosquitoes as spectators.

The field is a teeming jungle
occupied by snakes and tigers
which we bravely fight against
with slingshots, squirt guns, and sticks.

Wars are waged in our field
beneath the scorching midday sun
with only the foxhole and apple tree
for protection from the evasive enemy.

The field is a peaceful graveyard
for dead dogs, birds, and squirrels.
Stick crosses are solemnly erected
only to be crushed during the evening ball game.

In our field we net the largest butterflies
dig the longest night crawlers
eat the juiciest apples
and rest in the most secluded spot.

But every August the man with his tractor comes
to mercilessly cut the field
as we watch in tearful silence
while our special place is destroyed.

We still play in the field after that
but it isn’t the same somehow.
It just isn’t the same.

(A poem of my childhood -- written in 2010 -- I really like this one and am glad that I wrote ir!)

For What's Going On? -- Open Link

The First Truth

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The First Truth

The first thing I notice
is never the voice,
not the clothes,
or the introduction.

It is the eyes.

Their color is only the beginning—
blue, brown, green, gray—
less important than what is inside.

Do they carry warmth,
or the chill of a door left closed?
Are they awake to the world,
or dulled by distance?
Do they settle on my eyes,
or drift beyond me
as though I were already disappearing?

Then I look at the mouth.
A smile can bloom easily enough,
but does it reach upward?
Do the eyes match the mouth's message
or do they remain silent,
strangers to the lips that smile below?

When eyes and mouth part company,
I begin to wonder
which one is speaking.
That silence between them
is louder than words.
Something has remained unsaid.

A smile belongs to intention
But the eyes belong to truth.
Eyes have never learned to lie.

The first thing I notice is the eyes.

This was written for my prompt at What's Going On? -- Eyes