Poems and Things

Make art anyway.
Though buyers are away
and your drawings look gray,
Make it anyway.

Draw a little bird,
and paint with rosy hues.
Release away your blues,
draw a little bird.

Hang it on your wall
to lighten each passerby.
If only you, then that’s okay.
Hang it on the wall.

Write a little line
if just to make you smile.
It only lasts awhile,
but write a little line.


The Parting Heart

Poems and Things

Quiet, baby, go to sleep;
I’ve much to do and more to think.
My life has turned forever yours,
but please go to sleep, I do implore.

Yes, grow up faster and leave me be,
so one day I’ll wake to only me.
You’ll find me when tables have turned at last,
crying and pining for years past.

Here with a tear and a ruddy face,
I’ll be wishing back years for a second glance.
Gone with a smile, you’ll adventure new. 
Gone with a prayer, for you haven’t a clue.

You’ll be gone, I’ll pray on, that I’ll see you soon.
But today I’ll remember to see you bloom.
The parting heart in a mother runs deep,
that in baby and mother, we both weep.

Through Grasslands Blowing

Poems and Things

Like cattle my poems are lowing,
Tender words through grasslands blowing.
Where in the world will they possibly go?
I love that I will never know. 

What beautiful creatures, my poems of mine
whose syllables often rhyme.
Here they are, standing tall.
Here, or not at all. 

Stoic and noble, in the field standing sure,
simply passed by are my creatures pure.
Their beauty is sweet tranquility,
peaceful, unknown antiquity. 

But my words are fragile and glass-like,
I don’t want them up in the limelight.
They’re beautiful, changed if by some seen,
turning into what I don’t mean.

My courage wanes keeping them up on the wall
with the faintest dab of Elmer’s at all.
It’s my place, my land of poems;
It’s just me here though they roam.

Strangers pass through but don’t know me;
Space between us nurtures solidarity.
What a fragile, weak, yet beautiful thing
the hope of a someone to hear me sing.

Like cattle my poems are lowing,
Tender words through grasslands blowing.
Where in the world will they possibly go?
I love that I will never know.


Poems and Things

It’s good to eat hot ravioli
and homemade pasta sauce.
Use herbs from the window sill, my darling! Eat up before the warmth is lost.

Sprinkle atop the parmesan
and say a little prayer.
Thank our God in Heaven for
a blessed table and a chair.

Such eating chases storm clouds and replaces kind thoughts lost.
What we need is simple.
It’s ravioli and homemade sauce.

Forgetting You

Poems and Things

You’re slipping away, hun.
I’m forgetting you.
And time sure robs my memory of eyes a headstrong blue.

The flushed red pain across my cheeks barely show at all-
For when I’m away from family
I’ll stop to feel the gall.

But lingering a moment less
each time I sit away,
Have got me where I feel the least,
and I move on with my day.

But I fear I’ll forget you completely
And all the memories will turn gray.
You were someone in my life
and I’ll never give that away.

Will you ever read these words,
where my heart I wring out and squeeze?
I’m sorry if I forget you,
But please remember me.


Poems and Things

It’s a confining, expanding, single space. A place to go when there’s no more race. The babysitter, hairdresser, back for the baby. Forcibly smile with the sitter maybe.

I’m where society leaves me be, a place where I feel no vulnerability. All know a place they can sit and recline. Or work outside if they feel so inclined.

Just be, you see. I’ll sit down and read. There’s nowhere else I’d rather roam, than in the confines of my home.

To my Mothers

Poems and Things

It’s eight-o-clock and the cake will take ten more minutes, but I’m needed as little hands reach up.

My favorite part of bedtime is here, when we nurse and rock to sleep. The lights are dim as the chair creaks just a little. Her eyes close and her body feels sure in its place on my lap. Mama loves you. How secure she feels. I linger for two more minutes- five, till I smell the cake through the house. Can I pull myself away?

Gingerly laying her in her crib, I tuck her quilt around her sides. “I love you,” I whisper once- then twice, not keeping track of the times, and slip out the door, heart full.

And I’m filled with a deep nestling in my heart. It’s an echo of a thousand mothers before whispering, “I love you.” And I fall asleep to other things.