Tag Archive | Momma

Deep in the Hamper

They meant well
with their casseroles
and photo books
but the walls
closed in
as the hole
in our lives
grew bigger
and bigger
and life went on
day after day
till Saturday’s laundry
revealed the brandy
now on ice
like Momma’s
smile
so plastered
on.

Canned Goods

It’s a mistake
to hit your brother
on a shopping day
for Momma
holds the opener
and the spoon
and there
are only
so many
cherries
in the fruit
cocktail
and all your
“sorry”s
can’t produce
another.

4/1/2015 – Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – Futile

Poetic Asides – Day 1 Resistance Poem

Futile

That neurotic
squirrel
chatters another
warning,
and whether it tastes
like chicken,
or not,
the bird house
will be chewed.

The opening
will be jagged,
a splintered hazard
for any bird momma
who dare nest
her babies there.

It’s clear.

The window
is the only thing
between us.
 

10/07/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

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.

10/01/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Time Tested

I imagine
squeezing seconds
like liquid
pimple poppings
from frantic
preteen pubescent
relatives reliving
illusional instances
of overly
pressing problems
that they
can’t control,
and again
they throw
me more.

ENOUGH, ENOUGH!

Hesitant to Ask You

It is only when I am unsure
that I wonder what you think
and that use to be
all the time.

But now a calmness
has come
like Momma’s hand
pressing my bedspread
to the very corners
that my teddy bear
knew better than
to rumple.

The smooth orderliness
of my days
has begun to glide
me to the place
where my mother lives
where bowls are washed
before her cookies cool.

I finally moved my teddy bear
storing him way up on a top shelf
where my wonderings now live
most of the time.