Unbroken

This week's readwritepoem prompt was to think about things we never said to our mothers. I chose to focus instead on my mother's mother.

I want you
to know—
She protected my
memories of you,
let me keep them
She allowed me
to navigate the
solemn truth
that some
of your genes
might live
in me and trend
toward addiction
and the truth
that the almost 6
years of love
you gave me before
you died are as
real as anything
else in your life
or in mine
You would be
proud of her
and I thank
you for
the jagged
but unbroken
line
that runs
between me
and her
and you.

For My Father

More than
anything else,
scientists say,
smell
is good
for time travel.
I knew this
to be true
when last week
sweet and sudden,
the scent
of pipe tobacco,
now a rare smell,
to be sure,
danced its way
through
my olfactory
sensors
and triggered
the earliest memories
of my youngest,
tenderest
years.
The almost forgotten
beginnings of me
were nurtured by
the smell of
Erinmore
rising
from my father’s pipe.
I would watch
the smoke
wind and curl
a path

between us.
It was the
holy incense
of my earliest
days.
An outward
sign
of the grace
he gave me,
a gift
of attention
marked with time.
A treasure
to last
me all of my days:
I
was a daughter
loved
by her father
and that
has made
all
the difference.

Happy Father's Day, Rick

In a lumbering stride
or lanky legs
or the set of a
determined jaw
In the blue eyes framed
by graceful dark lashes
The effortless recitation
of lines from movies
The off-key renditions of
Social Distortion
and Springsteen songs
The variations on fart humor
at the dinner table
The loudness of living
that bounces off our ceiling
and walls
The bursts of tenderness
and compassion that
startle and amaze me
In their endless capacity
to drive me to the edge
of sanity (and let’s face it,
it’s not that long of a drive)
and drag me back, breathless
from laughing,

I see you,
my co-creator—
their co-conspirator—
the one who
made me
mother to 3 sons
and queen of the realm.

As the only estrogen-fueled
voice in our home,
I can only thank you,
with girly tears,
for all you have done.

Grieving

This week's readwritepoem prompt gave us a wordle to work with. I couldn't find a way to use all of the words, but I did manage to use these: bibliography, vellum, tether, bark, mist, convoluted, drape.

Grieving

I would have you annotate
my bibliography
in your own hand
on parchment of finest vellum

I would have you tether
yourself to the bark
of our love, brave the
roiling waters and

the mist of convoluted
remembrances until
the waves of grief
flatten and lap the sand

Then drape yourself
in what remains and
bind my sources,
carefully documented,

And bury them on dry land.

Thank you, Annie!

Annie over at blissfulbohemian has given me this "One Lovely Blog Award," which means so much to me, because not only does she have a lovely blog, but she is a lovely person.

I'd like to pass the award along to...

Athena

Melissa

and

ds

There are so many wonderful bloggers in my life now--I appreciate all of you!

Bragging Rights

On June 5th, my oldest son Seamus graduated from high school. Rick and I could not be prouder. Since the day he was born, we have been in awe of the gift of having him as a child. He graduated with honors and awards (sorry-just had to say that), and will be attending Eastern Washington University in the fall. The months leading up to Seamus's graduation have been rather emotional to me. I've posted 3 poems inspired by him in the past few months. You may have already read them, but I just wanted to link to them here as one more graduation gift to him. Thanks for indulging this proud mom.

pompandparenthood

mysonregistersforselectiveservice

caughtlooking

Royal Pain

This week's readwritepoem prompt asked us to imagine an encounter with an historical figure. I've had Henry VIII on the brain lately...



I would go back in time
and teach you about Xs and Ys
and why your daughters
were your design, not
failures of your wives

And how they more
than lived, they thrived,
ruled after the passing of
your son, with daughters
there may be damage done
but they pick up their
skirts and carry on

One called bloody,
one called virgin,
neither of them
produced a son
both failures by
the standards you set
with daughters, you’d say,
that’s what you get

And yet each was stronger
than her brother
one lived to avenge
her pious mother
the other looked back
and saw the signs
a woman who rules
forgets the moon and tides

Unlike you she refused
to come undone
and place all her hopes,
in an imagined son.

All glory to the unwanted
daughter! Whose power
eclipses that of her father.