Our mothers' memories

You can clearly see it's meant to be
a journey back in time;
the decor accumulated purposely
to take us back to those post-war years
when our moms were young, and wild,
and hadn't a care in the world
except who might ask them to the dance
and what to wear,
and would he have a bitchin' car.
And now, another generation's passed
and this place we used to take our kids
when they were small and Saturdays were a chance
to come to the diner for a root beer float,
is still the same, though they, too are now
long past that stage of dances, and bitchin' cars:
they're on to unemployment,
and health insurance,
and all those grownup trials
they've just begun to face,
while we sit here on a Saturday
nursing a root beer and basking in our mothers' memories.


* * *

The deeper question

She stopped by for a visit --
swam across the channel,
meandered down the beach,
and sauntered over
to nibble at the plum tree.
She brought a friend
who was a bit more shy,
but she was not,
and stood and stared,
her glance direct and confident,
neither threatening
nor threatened.
I am here, and so are you:
I will trust you
if you'll trust me.
There were, I thought,
no questions she could ask
that I hadn't already asked myself --
and yet, the wonder still remains:
what is the purpose of this visit?
Not hers, I mean, but mine...


* * *

Smiling at the bees

Walking through the park
I pass through
a field of wild roses.
The scent calls to me,
and I follow the narrow path
along the pond's edge
into the thicket,
and stand in their midst,
blue sky overhead
reflecting in each pale blossom,
and drink in the sweetness,
the gift that smells like...
well...
like love.
Each blossom so like her sisters --
some petals paler than others,
some centers greener than others --
but all lift their faces greedily to the light
converting it to perfume
and spilling it into the morning
while smiling at the bees.


* * *

Of grief and greed

Such precision
in this blessing --
fingers held just so,
perfectly balanced,
lightly touching --
and where,
precisely,
is the blessing in this,
the gush and flow
of brown,
the deadening
of marsh, and fish;
of beaches, birds and livelihoods?
I try so hard to see
that every curse contains a blessing,
but here, in this disaster,
I can see only death;
the good of many lost
to the greed of the few --
but wait, I hear a wakeup call:
isn't it our greed, too?


* * *

As a mother tends her chicks...

Just as this mama
watches her baby;
just as my friend
gets up every hour
to check on her chicks;
just as a parent sighs,
watching the school bus
pull away from the driveway
for the very first time --
just so, you watch us,
protect us and guide us
hold us and ache for us,
sending out blessings
in ever-growing circles,
blessing all creation
with your tender care.


* * *

Seeping through the cracks

She lifts her face
to your light,
knowing you'll see
and understand:
something that filled her life
is gone,
and sorrow brings
its painful dark inflation;
the explosion of emptiness
creating cracks in her facade
through which the tears
seep slowly down her cheeks.

Help her breathe;
to allow herself to feel
and then to heal,
becoming yet more whole
while remaining open
to the next rain of blessings:
see?
the clouds are already beginning to gather...


This one surprised me, and then turned out to be a perfect fit for this week's One Word at a Time Blog Carnival (the word for this week is Emptiness.) Thanks, Maureen, for pointing that out!

* * *

Wholly Holy

I turn away,
but I can't hide
the stains --
these spots
that let you see through me
to the dirt and darkness
underneath;
or is it just
I've allowed myself
to be victim for my own target practice --
again;
to stand before the firing squad of shoulds
and take the hit for someone else?
Why can't I see
the dots as decorative,
or, barring that,
begin to understand
that that which wounded me
has also made me
wholly
Holy.


* * *