posting poetic prose
15 May 2023 30 Comments
in quadrille Tags: mirror, mother
mother,
dear mirror
who shows me
who i am…loved,
worthy to be loved,
learning how to trust
others in wide world;
first centered on you,
it’s expanded through
your wise instruction,
inspiration, induction.
now i in turn nurture
love as reflection
** of you **
A quadrille linked to dVerse poetics with Merril today.
11 Jan 2023 15 Comments
in haiku series, senryu Tags: dreams, moon, mother
frightful childhood dreams
creatures of fur, fang, and claw
mount stairs to bedroom
_______
cannot sleep tonight
half-moon’s eye peeks in window
chases dreams away
_______
someday…rest in peace
mother speaks to me in dreams
her voice reassures
_______
In response to Ingrid’s visionary poetic prompt at dVerse poets…for dreamers only!
03 Oct 2018 20 Comments
in rhyming verse Tags: alfalfa, breeze, coffee, laundry, mother, skin, wood shavings
this poet followed nose to see
all the smells that comfort me:
new mown hay… alfalfa, please
fresh laundry dried on gentle breeze
strong coffee brew drips into pot
wood shavings piled under knot
just bathed baby’s silken skin (the
top of head where hair grows thin)
lilacs, idyllic of childhood play and
an orchid corsage on Mothers Day
pancake breakfast with bacon frying
crunchy leaves when geese go flying
salty spray froth-whipped by boat or
wrapped warm in mother’s worn coat.
Link to dVerse where poets explore comforting smells…
24 Apr 2018 30 Comments
in rhyming verse, story Tags: brother, dad, inheritance, mannerisms, mother, voice
Mother died, age twenty-five
(of flu-asthma complication)
I, barely 16 months & weaned,
bereft. of primal-love relation.
Passed fears of childhood years
(growing up with best-step brother)
when mom’s older sister said to me,
“you remind me of your mother.”
“Oh, tell me how, right now” I cried
breath-bated wait for answer
she smiled at me and said, ”I see
it’s plain-obvious in your manner,
Voice like hers & when you speak
your hands move just as hers had”
precious-treasure words I heard…
while mirror says I look like dad!
Kim is hosting inherited “body image” poetics prompt at dVerse Poets
13 Apr 2018 Leave a comment
in nonet Tags: cell, drunk, father, life, mother, silent
young boy abandoned by drunk father
grows up too fast tough in da’hood
cannot refuse “the brothers”
mother feels desperate
now he’s serving life
– s o l i t a r y –
confinement
silent
cell
“Nonet” of 9 lines, each with descending syllable count, formed unique shape…
05 Dec 2017 17 Comments
in quadrille Tags: abortion, death, infant, life, mother
how long believe
blind rhetoric?
why hire doctors
to do harm?
instrumental rape
violates mother with child
what kind of ghastly
choice is offered?
by salt poisoning, chemicals,
or crunch of infant skull
when will men honor
mothers’ calling?
where have hope’s
children gone?
Linking with dVerse Poets quadrille prompt…sorry this topic is neither pleasant nor Christmasy. Yet our brokenness and sin is why Christ came…as an infant to a poor, young woman in seemingly scandalous circumstances. Would we have aborted Jesus?
15 May 2017 36 Comments
in haibun Tags: Dutch, girlfriend, mother, pancakes, recipe, Swedish
Remember home’s kitchen where cheery (if gaudy) yellow & green wallpaper, Mom’s gentle love, and Dad’s loud laughter surrounded our family eating at table booth by patio window. Every Saturday morning, my Dutch-American mother served us Swedish pancakes (like crepes) stacked with butter and syrup, or rolled up with brown sugar inside or, occasionally, topped with fresh strawberries and whipped cream. My best childhood friend, Joyce, would come overnight on Friday to savor the next day’s breakfast. We’d smell fried sweetness upon awakening and hurry downstairs to kitchen in our pajamas. Between delectable bites, we would giggle over private jokes and tease my younger brother. Now I make these favorite pancakes for my hungry boys on Saturday mornings, and they quickly eat to see who gets the last one! Mom’s recipe (“tweaked” over the years): 3 3/4 cups milk, 4 eggs, 2 1/2 cups white flour, 4 tsp. sugar, 1/2 tsp. vanilla (cousin Ben’s addition), 1 tsp. salt and 4 TBS. cooking oil. Heat round electric skillet to 350, spray hot pan, pour thin batter, turn once and serve warm, with love.
lick maple syrup
morning after sleepover
snow falling outside
Bjorn hosting haibun prompt where dVerse poets share special recipes…
27 Jan 2015 14 Comments
in Uncategorized Tags: chemo, hair, hats, mother
her warm, dark eyes
watched perceptively,
beneath arched brow.
framed by her thick
brunette mane, cut short
as was her retirement.
she wore brimmed hats
for shade so her hair color
wouldn’t fade red in sun.
her coiffure was her crown,
until news of lung cancer
and chemo styled dread.
she fell ill with infection
that took her too quickly,
before chemo could begin.
at least, she was spared
losing her beautiful hair;
i wish i had one lock of it.
09 Apr 2014 8 Comments
in Uncategorized Tags: mother, nesting dolls, Prague
on their final
European excursion,
my practical mother
bought me a simple
souvenir from some
quaint tourist shop in
Prague, a capital city,
where she and her
friends shopped
while the husbands
snapped photos –
everyone trying to
capture a memory.
every time i hold
these nesting dolls
i see her warm smile,
accept her gift again
(small enough to fit
my mind’s suitcase)
wondering how she
knew that her first
great-grandchild
(a boy she’d never
meet on this earth)
would ask me with
big shining eyes,
“please play?”
with the painted
miniatures of
smooth wooden
generations each
carrying the next,
blooming with bright
promise of precious
new arrival.
perhaps you consider
it all rather kitschy
but i cannot help but
exclaim over the wee
baby one with kisses.
(These “matryoshka” nesting dolls are a Russian tradition, often made in China and sold as souvenirs in the Czech Republic!)
Written in response to Mary’s prompt, “looking for treasure”, at d’VersePoets.
13 May 2013 25 Comments
in Uncategorized Tags: hands, mother
I remember sitting as a girl
in the raftered balcony of the church
during morning worship service,
craddling my mother’s hand in my lap;
examining creases in her warm palm,
tracing distinct veins across the back,
touching the smooth pale pink polish
on her clean, neatly shaped nails,
fingering the circle of her wedding ring;
turning its diamond to catch the light
filtering through stained glass windows,
trying to glimpse each rainbowed hue.
Mom thought her hands were “too large”
but those dear hands were just big enough
to shape hearts and home, to hold our family
together, with their faithful, gentle work of love.
a poem in my pocket 
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