For you, my happy son,
so bored with home, one more gift
after all the tassels, cakes and cash.
The best gift I ever gave
took decades to build—
Here it is—open it—
The life that led to graduation night
spent with superhero movies
playing on the barn’s back door
behind your best friend’s house
chairs and cushions spread on the lawn
huge starred sky above and a projector
flickering pictures against the barn door screen.
I’ve carried your gift carefully, adding to it day by day
over years and offer it to you, now—
This childhood I built with you, and everybody
who knows you in this little town.
Here, carry it with you, no burden
but a memory to hold in the dark.
Category Archives: Parents & Children
Another Graduation Gift
Graduation In Translation
Searching for your one important face
in a crowd of caps and gowns
and beach balls—which are against
The Rules and…There— you turn,
see me and grin that always smile
which all these years of practice
taught me to translate with ease
into this jumble of:
I’m hot, this hat itches, isn’t this whole
thing ridiculous but funny?
And as always, the grin includes
Instructions for me–
Please Do Not:
Cry
Take any more pictures
Comment on my sneakers
Or the girl in the next aisle.
I smile right back, knowing you too
are a master translator:
I love you, we both say,
as I reach for the camera.
Graduation Gift
“Roofs are easier to fix than roads,”
says the historian in her dry, reedy voice
which explains covered bridges
and opens the possibility of
the perfect graduation gift.
Along with that Irish
Blessing
about roads rising to meet you,
knowing they will roll their eyes
at your choice,
after much consideration
The Perfect Gift
for setting out into the wide world
may be
an umbrella.
Late, Again
Welcome back to the tightness in the chest, the almost-frantic voice demanding, Hurry, from between clenched teeth. Hurry means wrong again, means miscalculations in the intricate morning mix, ingredients that must be layered in particular order, precisely measured, a cake that never rises, a dance the whole household knows and nobody greets with joy. Hurry means measured wrong again, one shower too long, or shampoo in somebody’s eye, lunch boxes left on yesterday’s bus or we’re out of bread. Again. No one can find a pen for the permission slips that appeared in the night and so they pile up, years of field trips, from zoos to Shakespeare festivals, signed in crayon or eyeliner or not at all. But there are shoes on every single foot and each delivered to its proper place to spend the day. By the time you reach the office, someone should be there to greet you with a medal, a fanfare, at the very least a gold star and a mug of coffee, crowds applauding all you’ve achieved before 8 a.m., followed by space inside a quiet room with a soft chair where time stops sprinting towards the finish line. This room is yours for as long as you need to breathe, to settle your racing heart, a room where absolutely nobody ever says You’re Late.
Again.
My Work In This World
My work in this world
wanders its cities in two bodies,
his, hers, once mine.
Bodies given, year by year,
all I knew of patience,
kindness, how a sense
of humor eases the rough patches.
But also captive witnesses to all
I knew of frustration, grief, anger.
Everything I had to offer
carried like a package inside their
own true selves.
And they go traveling
Half-formed and half-dressed
never bothering with a warm coat
determined not to shiver
and admit their mother was right.
They set off into this world that
will please and praise and batter them.
I chase them down the street,
waving mittens and advice, calling out,
Wait, there’s one more thing I forgot to tell you.
Flat Tire
Conjuring combinations with my capable son,
who took a deep breath and set to work
as we compared owner’s manual
and all the tools we had, we taught ourselves
how they fit together.
Coatless, he worked, with breaks for heat
and the loaf of olive bread in the grocery bag.
Now, hours later, warm and dry and home
my mind stops for breath in
its endless effort to sort things into bins
Luck or Fate, Blessing or Chance.
Whichever punctured our tire, held off the rain,
sent strangers and the summoned
friend of a friend with a better wrench,
What I hold to now is the way everything happens
and then wraps itself with meaning: My son in the world
calm and hungry, knowing what he lacks
and ready to smile and open his hands
to welcome what he needs. I even know exactly
what he would say reading this, rolling his eyes:
Mom, a wrench is just a wrench.
Spring Crop
I come to compliment you on
loading the dishwasher without being asked,
proud of my continued efforts in the field of
Positive Reinforcement,
only to wind up yelling at you
for putting your muddy boots on the couch.
But why take them off, you ask, mystified–
when I’m leaving any minute now?
These are the conversations
that will
soon
walk out the door with you
and I’ll wait,
a hopeful, nervous gardener
to see how what I planted mingles with
what grows wild in this soil.
Watered with praise and benign neglect
and exasperation, I wait to see if
the spring crop sprouts into kindness
or tolerance, skill at negotiation
or laziness
or just mud on all your furniture.
The Recently Learned Difference Between Haiku and Senryu
Senryu: According to Merriam-Webster, “a 3-line unrhymed Japanese poem structurally similar to haiku but treating human nature usually in an ironic or satiric vein.”
Haiku
Goodbye to brown hills,
trees who scrubbed the spring blue sky
bristled like hedgehogs.
**********************************
Senryu
There are things I’ll miss:
Burping contests at dinner
isn’t one of them.
Senryu For Moms Too Tired To Count
City street at dusk
Eyes closed, she holds her sleeping
daughter in her arms.
Through the rain, I pray,
mother to mother, to ease
the long, cranky night ahead.
Talkable
You won’t be good at living alone,
my son tells me, because
you are too talkable,
his word combining
talkative and sociable.
And I am.
Talkable
describes me, plunging
into any conversation,
dipping my toes, paddling around,
always these same waters.
Now scared but almost ready
for the hidden pool
behind the waterfall
where the surface is still
and I am able
but do not talk.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 