(From Poetic Bloomings prompt:  http://poeticbloomings.com/)

Child’s Play

I have blown my share
of tiny bubbles
sending them drifting off
to space,
yet not one of them
with my breath
could live a second more.

So when God
was done mixing up
the heavens and the earth,
I hope his mother
tenderly kissed his head,
and let him lick the spoon.

Even the Sunshine Hid

Winter comes
with bitter warnings.
“Don’t eat that
yellow snow.”
Mother’s predictions of death
froze me in my tracks.

Sidewalking

——————————————

Taken with a gasp,
our severing is swift,
even though my mother,
and I in my enlightenment,
saw the darkness coming.

——————————————

At first I jump.
‘Don’t step on the crack,’
but anger builds till my feet rejoice
in a double-footed cementing
breaking of my mother’s back.

——————————————

Then faith must carry us,
each to our own square
till we slowly stand alone
and set our worlds upright
allowing our breath to escape again.

——————————————

Then, head up, I walk
ignoring the cracks
down my own twisted path,
leaving my mother
perplexed at my pace.

——————————————

Stained Blue

I held my father’s hand
walking through
barren land
searching for
elusive blueberries
when my father let go
of the expectation
that he should at least
have said good-bye.

But memories fade,
his and mine.

Perhaps my hand
was only reaching in
my half empty bucket
digging for a tiny taste
of sweetness.

Suddenly Buddhism Makes Sense

Yes,
it was a special day.

We were all there,
some by force
of the buffet,
some by force
of mothers.

And suddenly,
my dog
feeling the force
of Mother Nature,
left a piece
at the feet
of my Aunt Kate.

My dog,
now obviously
the reincarnation
of my Uncle Ted,

may he rest in peace,

caused Aunt Kate
loudly to dismay,
“My God!”

(Humor only, not meant to offend.  LUV to my Buddhist friends!)

Co-Pilot

There seems to be no end
of words I spill.
I spit.
I cry.

I write them down
of necessity, my need
to witness,
to speak.

If only someone comes
of gentle heart,
to read,
to breathe.

There will be no end
then of my soul.
Lift it.
Let us soar.

The Last Board

His father built him a swing set
imagining dirty hands
on the sturdy chains,
worn tennis to the sky.
Laughter.

But a season has passed
with new buds
giving a reason to
his tears.

How does a boy
climb closer to his mother
when she is in heaven
and he has his foot
on the last board?

PROMPT 4: Write a history poem.

Run

Sidewalks
colored, Easter chalk,
drawing green twisting tendrils.

Sunny morning,
kneeling day
in white lacy gloves.

Mother’s warning,
“Take them off”
still ringing in my ears.

I remember
yellow blooms
big as her opened hand.

With sheers in hand,
draw out winter pain
by cutting to the quick.

My hibiscus can’t run like me,
stuck
kneeling deep in dirt.

Roots Made Cracks in Our Sidewalk

Photo by Patricia A. Hawkenson

I took my wagon
to the end of our block
knowing I could not go
any further.

Standing there
I waited
for my mother
to bring me
home.

It felt forever
till she came
gathering me
into her arms,
pulling my wagon
home.

It is closer
to our forevers now,
but I am not ready
to let you go.

If you could only tell me
what street to cross
to the corner
of Cancer and You,
I will bring
my wagon.

Ride with me.
Hang on tight.

It’s going to be
a bumpy ride
home.

Stability of a Three Cornered Stool

Her mother told her
it will better in the morning.

Go to sleep, little one.

Comforted, she sleeps.

Morning was not sunnier,
her pain spilling awake
with runny eggs.

He had his fill
of both women,
wife and mother-in law,
cornering him
again.

Go to hell, both of you!

Washing his hands of the matter
he left her to sop up
with a triangle of dry toast.

Vindicated, he walks.

This is a Test of the Emergency Broadcast System

WARNING:
DO NOT EAT CHOCOLATE PUDDING
at any social function
where cleanliness
is required!

While you squirm
unsuccessfully in her death grip,
your momma holds your chin
firmly by one hand
while licking the fingers
of her other hand.

You are rendered defenseless
against the Momma Slob
she slathers on your cheek,
her loving attempt
to spare you the embarrassment
of a chocolate smeared face.

You are mortified,
sweetly sticky,
wiping uselessly
with the back of your hand
in a futile effort
to salvage some dignity.

Roll your eyes
in disgust and disgrace,
but the humiliation
of Momma Slob
is a final exam
that can only be passed
when you are wise enough
to say, “No, thank you,”
when chocolate pudding is served.

Wonder Bread

I am wearing two Wonder Bread bags
over my socks again
because today the sun decided
to flips its calendar
from winter to spring
and I am there, stick in hand.

Stomping on crunchy blackened ledges,
I help the sun’s job along
creating a wider path for my boat
as it rides the gutter flow
again and again chased
up and down my street,
water blockades formed and destroyed.

Squishing without wetness
inside my leaky rubber boots,
I pour out today’s collection
and pity the kids whose mothers
don’t serve them Wonder Bread.