Mother, as Author

You could watch the white linen being shaken out across a summer lawn. That sneeze-inducing-scent of freshly mowed grass that would make you fumble for your inhaler. But you remembered her chocolate hair. When it was long, to the shoulder. Natural and wavy. Unkempt, yet pretty. And when you'd get close enough to her, you could smell freshly soaped skin and soft powder. It tickled your nose. And you could sneeze. But she tugged you close. So you wiped your nose against her navy blue knit.

There were days when you cringed at her footsteps. Marching up and down the creaky wood stairs. You'd here the doors slam in her wake. And you swore to hell the damn carpet outside your door and the sound it swallowed. And then suddenly - The Knock. Those eerie moments followed by the hollering of the Lord's and your own names like thunder. And those lovable enemies that were the snickering siblings at each of your sides. And then, six fingers pointed at you.

And you hated walking into one of her crying sessions. One of those horribly fragile moments when you realize the person that guards and guides your every step isn't the invincible person you thought she was. You started crying by the sight of it, and you did not know why.

I like it when she puts her hard hands on my back, and rubs down my spine. For the brief moments that she allows me to stick my back into her face and plead that she scratch an itch, a horrible itch. Mother, Mom, places her hand on my lower back, her fingers rough with a days labor - sewing, typing, cooking, working, rubbing, scratching, washing, scrubbing, shaking, hugging - the fingers tickle at first but they touch. And that moment of contact completely rubs out the daily struggle and the ache, and the pain, rewinding the emotions, to a point where I am a boy again.

I know my parents miss their parents a whole lot. I miss my grandparents too. That touch. Generation to generation.

Under a chocolate sky of blowing hair caught in a summer's breeze.

The following is a poem I recently wrote. I'm a harsh critic of my own poetry, and of poetry in general. I have written something like seven hundred poems. Fuck, that's a lot. But I can honestly say my view of poetry is that it is a job, not so far off from being a miner, and if that is my best analogy, then this following poem is the only diamond I've ever unearthed in my nineteen years of shoveling coal. Dedicated to my mom of course, but more so, to the art of being a good mother - the closest position, in my opinion, one can achieve towards seeming almighty.



Mother, as God

Pours the milk into the coffee,
his pinkie turned slightly, up and away,
she turns her look into a gaze,
wondering when to stop, say when,
she places the carton back in the fridge,

Dad saw these things about Mom,
saw the beauty in the caring placed
on the simple tasks, making the bed,
her wedding band dull and caked
with last nights dinner preparation.

Knew about the errands and tasks,
was happy to know she cared,
and we moaned, cried and whined,
he sat quiet, asking for ketchup,
she walked again, across the kitchen,

she can think of mother England,
watch her pass by in the Eighties,
sweetly Diana, balanced a kingdom,
for you a household, from a bouquet,

daydreaming in lonely Connecticut
pouring your tea,
after I was fed.

We all tried to see these things
the daily motions of being our mother,
the band-aids, scolding, crying, yelling,
and all the gray, and long lost days
and feeding the mouths, you made.

And the beauty never is apparent
in a wake of countless soap operas,
the television, glowing gross expectations,
daydreaming, as the news flashes by,
and if I saw mother crying, I knew why.

Maybe you wanted someone to say,
something sweet, about what you do,
about the days spent milling and hoping,
that father, and us, would grow to be,
the family, you were meant to create.