(Got an email from my husband this morning, advising me that he had a late meeting and would be arriving home an hour later than usual. Here is my reply, for your entertainment).
‘
Oh no!
Oh woe!
How will I manage?
What will do?
How can I be
Without you?
Weep!
Cry!
Howl!
Sigh…
‘
‘
‘
‘
‘
(Okay. See you when you get there).
>>smooch<<
‘
He cries when you sees you,
low whimpers of delight.
His frailness is endearing
if it doesn’t keep you up at night.
He rubs his head against you
he murmurs adoration
When you scratch behind his ears
his tail waves in celebration.
His love is pure and when he looks
so deeply in your eyes
You know these daily trysts
will last until he dies.
.
.
(and if he’s as old as my boy is, that may not be as long as one would hope).
So many mothers:
mine with her great gardening gams
independent and active, just like always,
and I with my empty nest
working, writing, studying and more.
Busyness channeled in different directions,
but independent.
I always said, “I’m raising independent children,”
like my mom
I did my job.
Far away my children lead their independent lives
and only rarely feel the need to call home to update us
on the latest news.
Other mothers,
keep their chicks under their skirts,
want to be involved in every aspect of their lives,
with weekly dinners, frequent phone calls,
dependent interconnectiveness whatever their ages.
‘Not better,
not worse,
Just different’
like the exchange student mantra.
Family is the place you begin.
Family is where they have to take you in.
Family is many things
and there are many mothers.
Your hands
grip your head,
hide your hurt,
hold that history
in your hands.
Oh, I know the row you hoe
is dreary and full of woe!
or so you are inclined to think
but we are not defined by your narrow ink
We see you fear to be seen as less
You shout. you rave, you wave distress
It’s not about what we do, dear,
We are not the problem here.
We watch serene, your freak out scene.
We see your strengths, your skills, your care.
We know you’re kind and very fair.
You’re really great. Don’t be irate!
You perceive attacks where there are none.
There’s no one talking at your back.
You do not seek to clarify,
Oh, my, how you leap to conclusions
Each based simply on illusions.
I know perception makes reality
but I encourage you to find serenity
Ultimately, you can not be
great when you can’t see what true,
and when people are contentedly accepting you.
Your displeasure wafts off you like
the shimmering waves of a manure pile in July.
You reject optimism and trust.
You will let no sunshine disturb your dung beetles.
the apple falls
next to the trunk
and if it is not moved
it will re-seed in the same soil
That old shell of a van
might make a fun project for you.
Just think, when it’s done
you can make out in the back with a hot chick,
or at least a chick with hot flashes.
.
A little nod to writer Diana Gabaldon and the scene in “Virgins” between Jamie and Ian (see the post a couple of days ago) which suddenly seem relevant!
.
They think
the words get in their heads and drive them mad
Those poetesses
let passionate words escape
and wind around the unsuspecting.
Mad poetesses:
bursting flowers
buzzing bees
desires dripping with rhyme and metaphor
What fornicating do they get up to?
It can’t just be words that fill them.
Can it?
.
.
Here’s the scene from “Virgins” referenced:
“I thought ye’d be up to your ears in whores and poetesses in Paris.”
“Poetesses?” Jamie was beginning to sound amused. “What makes ye think women write poetry? Or that a woman that writes poetry would be wanton?”
“Well, o’ course they are. Everybody kens that. The words get into their heads and drive them mad, and they go looking for the first man who—”
“Ye’ve bedded a poetess?” Jamie’s fist struck him lightly in the middle of the chest. “Does your mam ken that?”
“Dinna be telling my mam anything about poetesses,” Ian said firmly. “No, but Big Georges did, and he told everyone about her. A woman he met in Marseilles. He has a book of her poetry, and read some out.”
“Any good?”
“How would I ken? There was a good bit o’ swooning and swellin’ and bursting goin’ on, but it seemed to be to do wi’ flowers, mostly. There was a good wee bit about a bumblebee, though, doin’ the business wi’ a sunflower. Pokin’ it, I mean. With its snout.”
There was a momentary silence as Jamie absorbed the mental picture.
“Maybe it sounds better in French,” he said.
Diana Gabaldon “Virgins” in Dangerous Women George R R Martin, Gardner Dozois (eds)
She leaves the wine bottle in the bottom desk drawer
undoes two buttons on her white blouse,
French cuffed, of course. Lace peeks out.
Jeweled pendant lies between her breasts, the chain
offers a direction.
She stands, displacing gravity to expand the view.
Her black pumps click on the linoleum in the hall.
She pretends to talk on her cell phone,
pausing by his open door; her chest rises on a
tingling laugh she knows he won’t resist.
Her black pencil skirt covers the assets tightly,
in taunting style,
“See you later, then!” she tells her imaginary
phone companion,
as she strolls to the photo copier room,
trailing temptation behind her
without a backwards glance.
.
.
(A poem based on a new novel project).
Shawn L. Bird 