Poem Five: Southern Kid Food, ca 1960

Tastes from my childhood:
Potted meat on white bread,
Kraft macaroni and cheese,
Canned spinach,
Boxed spaghetti and sauce,
Vienna sausage,
Creamed dried beef on toast,
Peanut butter and mayonnaise,
Apples warm from the reading tree,
Hamburger and Veg-All in
A barbecue sauce over buns,
Tuna and noodles with
Cream of mushroom soup,
Biscuits with cheap steak bits in gravy,
Cornbread dressing and
Canned cranberry sauce,
Ambrosia of oranges and pineapple,
Mixed with coconut,
French toast cut into shapes,
Peanut butter fudge still grainy with sugar,
Mashed potatoes with real lumps
And tiny green peas mixed in,
Cheese grits,
Pineapple Upside Down Cake,
Banana pudding.
We weren't poor.
We just didn't have money.
Looking down the list, I see
Both parents cooked for us.
I see
Just how rich we were.

Poem Four: Tornado

Sky: grey, sparked
Electric fireworks,
Slanting rain, sound of wind
So maddening, fierce,
Trailers spring up and dance,
Dance a tarantella,
Whirling over others
Tumbling end over end.

Poem Three - Math

I was only fourteen.
I did not know.
I thought it was me.
I could not follow your examples.
The book seemed to skip steps.
I did not know
That without math I could not
Build buildings.
Design skateboards.
See fractals.
Become a doctor.
Design a bridge.
Learn chemistry.
I did not know.
That you were a history teacher,
Drafted to teach us.
I know now, you were not sane.
Grabbing girls’ pencils and
Throwing them out the window.
I know now.
Won’t someone teach me math?

Poem Two - Roses

He came in from the grocery store,
Plastic bulging from both hands.
I almost didn’t see the cellophane
But I heard it and turned around.
Wiping my hands on a kitchen towel,
I turned to see what the noise was.
He was standing there looking shy,
With a bouquet of exquisite roses.
One look at his face, and
I didn’t say,
“Those are too expensive!”
I didn’t say,
“But you know I like carnations better!”
I reached for a vase.
The roses
Were perfect in it.
After forty years, he knew
They would be.

Poem One - Daydreamer

I remember the hard wooden desk.
My small self had to stay planted,
While sheet after sheet of purple ink
Passed through my fumbling fingers.
Fat pencils with no erasers,
Gripped tightly, left smudges
On the paper that held my mistakes.
At least the desk had writing carved in,
And I could wonder about the names.
Susan and Danny 4ever,
I love Robert,
MB+RG.
I saw them when I read their names,
It was far more interesting than the papers.
Susan was small and dark,
Danny had red hair.
He thought she smelled nice.
They passed notes from this very desk, and -
What? No, ma'am, I'm not finished yet.

NaPoWriMo - I'm In!

I've committed myself to writing a poem a day for 30 days on a site called National Poetry Writing Month. Some may say I should be committed...

But I think it will be fun. I will have to write a poem, which I have really started doing a lot recently, and at the end of the month I will have enough poems for a small chapbook, if I include some of my earlier ones.

I've already participated in the Sunday Random Line Poetry Project, in which poets send in a line or two of poetry to a woman in a private Facebook message, who then compiles them into a poem in the order they come in. No editing. We have done this for 52 weeks, each Sunday for a year, and now we have a book of 52 poems, each written by an average of ten poets, which we will sell to benefit the "starving artists" among us.

It has been amazing to see how well the poems hang together, none of us knowing what topic will emerge, none of us even knowing each other except through the group.

And now, another challenge! What fun!

Watch this space.

Ache

The Gypsy Mama blog site has a five minute Friday where other bloggers can write on a topic and submit it. Here's mine, on the topic, "Ache":

My sons are adults. They are making their own choices now - some good, some bad. Watching the consequences unfold is achingly difficult. I used to be able to protect them. Now I can only stand by and cheer from the sidelines or provide comfort when they stumble back.

When one reveals a possible calling, my heart aches with love and hope that this one, always a caring child, can continue to help others as he always has, and that he won't be buffeted by life in the process.

When one stumbles in his resolve and is despairing, I ache that I can't fix it for him, like I used to with a Bandaid and a kiss. I must watch as he gets up yet again and tries.

I love my children. But they aren't babies anymore. I must let them stand up as men, though my heart aches sometimes. They will be all right, and one day they will watch their children grow and ache for them, too.