Here’s a poem Mom wrote about grandson Andy while he was in college. It made me think of her love for all her grandchildren. Seven in total, there was surely a balancing act to keep track of all the birthdays, accomplishments, favorite ice creams, secrets. Sharing a birthday – April 6 – with Andy, though. Now that’s a balancing act! Balancing Act Now the first fruit fallswhere last July our grandson Andysat under the apple treetelling of college classes old…
We’ve had some wild weather lately here in Indiana. Howling winds, pounding rain, flashing lightning, nearly endless thunder. And so I looked among Mom’s poetry to see if … yes, of course: Storm The day she dieda rage of weather in the nighthard rain thunder lightningthings she loved and fearedexplodedas her life hadthe daily disagreementsroared to violence of wordsthen wars of silencethe arms on both sidesthat had hugged and held each otherstopped in mid-airstopped before they struck each other ~…
It feels like the world’s gone mad, doesn’t it? In a state of anxiety, I still turn to my mother. She’s been gone for more than five years, but she left us her grace, her prayers, her poems … state of grace Spring comeswith her curriculum of clouds we walk in wind this morningto the high gate in our home garden nowthe ten red tulips rise to rally loveappropriate both sun and cloudsthe stalking starthose cisterns of the sky ~…
With Canada in the news so much lately, I took a look in Mom’s writing archives and found an interesting piece she wrote about Canada geese: Work in Progress I saw them again yesterday, feeding in the field where corn had grown all summer: Canada geese, a dozen or so, those wild and mystical squires of the sky who call us to joy and freedom when they fly above our eyes. Finding them there the first time I was struck…
It did my heart good to see that the Great Books program is still going strong. When we lived in Pittsfield, Mass., in the 1960s, Mom got involved with Great Books, attending evening group discussions about the volumes that had helped shape the Western World. According to the Great Books Foundation website: The Foundation’s stated objective is to provide the means of a genuine liberal education for all adults. By the end of the year (1949), an estimated 50,000 people…
According to weather lore: If March comes in like a lion, it will go out like a lamb. Here in Indiana, the lion was roaring all day. Here’s a poem Mom wrote in 1976, with her promise to a lion: the lion’s house lionin the spring of the yearI am going to build a house for you when it is readythe rabbits will pour champagnethe squirrels will pass around the cakesyou may borrow my emerald ribbons for the dayand carry…
Mom had a good friend named Ruth. She was a teacher and a writer. Once they met, they were friends for life. I’m pretty sure that’s who this poem is about, as apparently Ruth was 11 years older than Mom and passed away in 1996. Tribute I remember us both Ruthputting on perfumegirding for grace in the restless classroom This morning I anoint myself for gritin emptying our kitchen cabinetsI think of you posting my poemslike royal proclamations on your…
“I married my mother, you realize that, don’t you?” That question always makes Farmer Gary chuckle. Just like Mom, he absolutely loves to get mail. Every morning – like clockwork – he checks the mailbox here at home and then the one over at the farm. … except on federal holidays, of which there are “too many” this time of year, apparently. Lately, Gary’s noticed the delivery rate speed has dropped, right in line with the cost of postage increasing….
“We’ll give you a call tomorrow as soon as the doctor is done fixing Mom’s plumbing.” Oh, Dad. He hid his nervousness about the surgery with goofy humor. Mom came through the operation and recovery with flying colors and never regretted taking the step. She wrote this during her wintertime recovery in early 1982: The Long Christmas Early February: I am home from the hospital – it is heaven! Days, I camp in the den with many quilts and pillows…
I’d like to share this poem Mom wrote in 1972. Usually, I try to find a family story to help introduce one of her poems, but not this time. Here’s what I know: Mom was 42 when she wrote this; we lived in Fairfield, Connecticut. Mom read like a fiend and never missed a chance to learn. Her reference to Erich Fromm is a mystery to me, but surely this poem was influenced by one of the psychoanalyst and philosopher’s…