Category Archives: Parents & Children

Casting Spells

In that moment I glanced away, some witch cast a spell on my children. I remember one golden flash of light. I blinked against the dazzle while they grew tall and secretive, lean with a hunger to be Away. Now there are whole days when they are strangers, sweet or surly, prowling this world we shared, looking for a way out.

What else can I do but study every spell I  find? With luck and diligence, and so much time now that I’ve worked myself out of this job, each day is patched together with spells I cast myself. They are listed in the book we all received, along with Dr. Spock in his serious dark cover. The other book at every baby shower is Spells For Moms, with teething, tantrums, and chicken pox full of notes in the margin, recipes adjusted to taste. But now I’ve reached the back of the book, with all its untested spells. One marked Acceptance, another called New Chapters Blossom Like Wild Violets. And the last spell, the one I practice every day, titled Good Fortune For Their Roads.

Kitchen Calendar

The green marker dries out
while I’m adding his varsity tennis matches
to spring vacation dates written in pink,
blue for music lessons,
purple for soccer league,red for band practice,
bright orange for prom,senior trip, graduation.
Here they are, the last few months
of color-coded life.
When this last child leaves for college,
the decades of multicolor
kitchen calendars will be over. His and hers,
games and concerts, practices, lessons,
rehearsals, field trips,Done.
I try to remember life with a one-color calendar,
and something shifts in me—-
like the way your mind turns
when you try to read about
Parallel Universes and realize these
scientists are serious, are truly asking
you to consider this possibility.
And I can’t say for sure what this feeling is–
Only that it is huge, like another universe
waiting behind the one I’ve walked in all these years.

The Study of Humor

Remember when you were little
and made up jokes?
Knock-knock.
Who’s there?
Potatoes.
Potatoes who?
Potatoes for dinner.

Is that funny?, you’d ask.
If I admitted, no, it wasn’t all that funny,
you’d ask, astonished and aggrieved, Why not?
Tuning yourself
like a dial,
learning to hear
what is worth laughing about,
stubbornly convinced
that you already knew what
was funny: Everything.
Absolutely everything.

Potential

You, a boy who can’t usually find his own shoes,
who has come home with the same exasperated message
about not working to your potential
written on so many report cards over the years
that I ought to have it printed on t-shirts, or business cards,
or your forehead.
You, who can play music,
and write songs and sing them–
A way you forged for yourself:
Desire, practice, practice, and beauty.
You, who can choose to charm
most anything you want from the world
which shakes its head and hands it over,
with a smile.
You, who carries all that weighty potential so lightly—
like sun inside a loose-lidded box.

Nearly Empty Nests

are crowded with artifacts.
The robin’s left with one strand of tinsel,
some dried grass, and a scrap of blue silk ribbon.
I get soccer cleats, Legoes
and the ruins of a medieval castle
built entirely of sugar cubes.

January Thaw

Some daughters drift away. Like fog, there then
lifting then gone. Others need a sharper break.
Something swift and cold and painful.
Every girl has her way of learning to leave.
Fits and starts. Till they can walk
away and back again,
grow confident that after every turn
towards home or away
they can turn around again. This takes so much practice.

We spent last weekend, mother and daughter,
doing nothing much. In sweaters and soft socks.
Ice cream for dinner. Cafe breakfasts with friends.
Popcorn and old TV shows. Mostly, music playing.

All night we heard crashes outside the windows.
Icicles, built over long winter weeks,
melted and fell from the roof.
January thaw. In the morning, for one day,
we could see the grass again,
so green and welcome I wanted to cheer, to bend down
and kiss all growing things in thanks,
for the reminder that this frozen world will pass, in time.

Collecting Guitar Picks

You shed them the way other people
drop gum wrappers and opinions–
that is, everywhere.
Today, I found one in the shower.
They gather in shoes and pockets
under chairs and piano benches
on bookshelves and windowsills
in the driveway or the cat’s bowl.
Last summer, I dug one up in the garden.

Almost heart shaped,
they look as if a heart forgot itself, relaxed
with a deep sigh
and stopped holding in its stomach.
I collect them all,
only to hand them back to you
the same way I hand you sandwiches
and stories from your childhood,
curfews and unwanted advice
and money and very occasionally,
jokes you laugh at–
all you take and lose and cast off
things I hold for you
like stepping stones
you can follow forward
going wherever you dream
inside that laughing, mysterious head of yours.

Snowstorm

The sky brightened to steady grey
showing the swells and ridges of snow that fell,
the world busily churning it from the air while we slept.

Now, just rest. Breathe and look out the window
at this passing moment. Snow stopped falling
an hour ago.

Now, you try. See how quiet

Now, before anyone else wakes and we
hurry to match the world’s efforts by
making breakfast and mistakes and covering
them all with flurries of snow and words.

Vacation With Teenagers

She is on the couch,
watching her laptop
as if it’s about to do a trick
or reveal the meaning of life.
He is closed in his bedroom
with his books and guitar.

This goes on for hours.
“Kids these days…,” is an actual phrase
forming in my head.

Wake up.

He is writing a new song.
She is searching for her way in the world.
They are forging their paths,
while reclining.
After all I tried to teach,
they learned this:
To value being comfortable
on the journey.

Working the Angles

In the rainy grocery store parking lot
a little boy splashes
mesmerized by his shiny black boots.
I want to point him out, ask if you remember
how you wanted to sleep in rain boots at that age.

But I know better. We’re busy arguing
about dropping Trigonometry.
I’ll never need it, you say.
What is it good for?

I am almost sure
it has something to do with celestial navigation,
Mariners measuring angles,
Astronomers mapping distances between stars.

You roll your eyes.
Remind me you don’t plan a career
watching stars or the sea.

These days I could use a map.
Something to help me navigate
the distance between stars, or something closer–
the little boy you were,
the man you nearly are.

A Hundred Falling Veils

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The Novel Bunch

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Red Wolf Prompts

I came to where you were living, up a stair. There was no one there.--John Ashberry, "The New Higher"

typewriter rodeo

custom poems on vintage typewriters

A Poet in Time

One Poet's Writing Practice: Poems by Mary Kendall

Writing the Day

A Ronka Poetry Practice Since 2014

Invisible Horse

Living in the moment