Once upon a time
when baby had trouble
going to sleep
we played
soothing songs
on our phones
until she drifted off
and baby grew
(that is what babies do)
so that now
when we put baby down
to sleep
she cries for a minute
and then
she sings
and sings
to her own little self
without any words
a sound purer
than songs of birds
(know that I am outside your door
beloved baby
tears in my eyes
listening
listening
to your own angelic
lullaby)
Someone’s getting sleepy…
Not sure what triggers it… but for a moment I am a child in my grandparent’s house, in the tiny kitchen with tongue-and-groove walls painted soft yellow, empty dinner dishes on the table, Granddaddy in his plaid shirt pouring coffee in his saucer to cool it, Grandma in her apron serving flaky biscuits from the oven, Granddaddy grasping the thick glass bottle with the dark blue label reading King Po-T-Rik, adorned with a lion’s head, the dark, dark molasses drizzling into pool on my plate, his handing me a buttered biscuit, me sopping molasses with it… it is heaven, it is home, home, home, it is a hundred, a thousand years ago, and right now, in my remembering…the old ways, they stay, forever, forever, forever.
King Po-T-Rik molasses was manufactured from the early 1900s to 2015.
No other molasses compares to it.
As an adult, I once went to a country buffet that had molasses and biscuits.
I poured the brown richness on my plate and sopped it with a biscuit,
just like Granddaddy and I used to do,
One of the old men, watching me, said:
‘That’s old-school…”
and I was proud.
I’d go back and sop with you in a minute, Granddaddy.
There’s much to be said
for the old ways.
Grandparenting joy:
imparting extra wonder
for the little ones
for when they grow up
they still need the fantastic
magic of childhood
For taking our granddaughter to a Polar Express Move Party,
even Grampa has agreed to wearing matching family shirts
a triolet for my grandmother
Come December, I’m remembering you
in the lights and silent night
—how years, like snow and feathers, flew—
Come December, I’m remembering you
at sight of ruby-red cardinals, too.
On the wings of the morning, all is bright…
come December, I’m remembering you
in the lights and silent night.
December is my grandmother’s month. She was born the day after Christmas, was married in the middle of the month at age 20, and died the day before Christmas Eve, at 90. She loved the season, children, cardinals, and the color red, symbolic of her name: Ruby. “Silent Night” was her favorite carol; whenever I hear it, she is near. Her home place and resting place are in the outskirts of a rural town named for the dawn… “on the wings of the morning” is borrowed from my favorite Psalm, 139, a hymn to the omnipotence, omniscience, and omnipresence of God.
The cardinal ornament in the photo was a gift from a friend yesterday. I hung it on the tree last night after choir practice with the kids at church. They’re singing “Silent Night” in the worship service on Sunday.
Grandma, you would love it all.
Sleep in heavenly peace.
Attending a conference
for educational leaders
I heard a new phrase:
panic teaching
My definition:
the result
of too many demands
closing in
from all sides
one might call it
pedagogical
claustrophobia
and I wonder
if it’s the effect
or the cause
of panic leading
(just coined that here)
—either way
an ouroborus
of deadly proportions
Remembering people
across the years
with a mixture
of awe, gratitude,
and humility
for often those who
gave me the most
had the least
to give
materially,
at least
I don’t recall
every gift now
only the bright joy
on the faces
of the givers
there is
no calculating
the vast riches
in their hearts
or the price
of their generosity
only that it lives on
long after them
I still hold
their greatest gold:
sacrificial love
Widow’s Mite – Ancient Roman Bronze Coins. IronRodArt – Royce Bair (‘Star Shooter’). CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.
Here is a memory
I shall keep for you
all of my days:
when we ask
Where is your turkey?
you pat the colorful creature
adorning your shirt
while attempting to say
gobble gobble
and when our family
gathers round the table
to pray
amid the reverent cadence
of your Grampa’s words
I hear you say
nen
nen
nen
—I shall keep it for you,
this memory:
Thanksgiving gold
your one-year-old
baby voice
blessing us all
Amen
with thanks to Tammi Belko, host of today’s Ethical ELA Open Write. Tammi invited participants to take a personality color test and to write an “I am” poem based on the color results and their traits.
I took the test. I began to write a series of “I am” stanzas when the poem went running off in its own direction…
True Color
I am
the three bands
on the ring finger
of my left hand:
one worn by
my grandmother
engraved with
her initials
and my grandfather’s
alongside
their wedding date:
December 12, 1936
(the day after
Edward abdicated
for Wallis)
one worn by
my mother-in-law
a 1953 engagement
between a widow
and a widower
with two children each
with the long reach
of duty in Korea
calling
one given
to me
on the day
I married
thirty-seven years
two sons
and two granddaughters
ago…
a poet
named after
fleeting morning ice
may say
nothing gold
can stay
but I endure
because
that is what love does
like many before me
I am gold
*******
Interesting…
with thanks to Katrina Morrison, host of Ethical ELA’s Tuesday Open Write. Katrina writes: “The worlds of art and poetry meet in the ekphrastic poem. Whether you are viewing an original work in a museum or viewing it virtually, describing it through poetry is the definition of ekphrastic poetry.” Poet Ada Limón shares this reflection in The Slowdown podcast 780: “One of the things I love about art is how we bring ourselves to whatever it is we are experiencing. Whether we want to or not, we see ourselves in the film, the poem, the painting, the song.”
I write of the artwork that came to mind first; I was not the first to see myself in it…
Ripe Tomatoes
Long ago
your father
gave me a card
with a painting
of a woman
in a long white chemise
holding a basket
of ripe tomatoes
in her thin arms
her body is curved
toward the child
at her feet
an overall-clad boy
with a mass
of sunlit curls
atop his head
bent in eating
a tomato
straight from the vine
your father said
the painting
so reminded him
of you
and me
your curls
were black
of course
instead of gold
and I was never
a gardener
yet I can smell
the tangy greenness
of tomato plants
as the summer sun
beats down
over the rolling hills
and old barns
and tall yellowing grasses
rippling in the wind
could be a scene
from around
the bend
even now
I feel the
warm tomato skins
under my hand
as I think
of the abundance
I have been given
—take, eat,
my summer child
of the bounty
of the vine
so deeply rooted
so long ago
and know
love never ceases
to preserve
transcend
and grow
“Ripe Tomatoes.” Robert Duncan.
That dreamcatcher
Grampa gave me
works a little too well
says our almost
seven-year-old
grandgirl
I’m not having bad dreams
anymore
I’m not having
any dreams at all
I wonder
which of these
is most powerful
a child’s faith
a grandfather’s love
the catcher
or dreams
undreamed
lit bits and pieces 