Faulty Vision
May 8, 2008 at 1:58 pm | In childhood, nature, poems, viewpoints | Leave a CommentTags: childhood, free verse
Old Man of the Mountain, he’s always called,
and if you stand at just the spot
you’ll see his craggy nose and chin,
the deep-set eyes. Mount Rushmore
of New Hampshire, carved by God.
I must have been no more than five
the day we traveled there. “Oh, see!”
said mom, “Look up! See the old man?”
I saw some piled-up rocks on top.
“Oh, yes,” I said, “I see him very well.”
And it was years before
a postcard pictured what I’d missed.
But then, I’ve often looked and seen
things strangely; a slightly different angle
than’s intended. Still, I’ve been content.
Winters Remembered
May 6, 2008 at 1:45 pm | In Self, childhood, poems | Leave a CommentTags: childhood memories, free verse
Do you remember?
Being six or seven?
Ice . . . ah, Hurrah!
I’ll run and slide!
Mom says, watch out,
you’ll fall! But I don’t care.
I have to remember now, at sixty-seven
that I really may fall, and often have.
But even then, as I start to slide,
there’s that scintilla of joy.
From a Young Girl
April 29, 2008 at 8:47 am | In childhood, poems | Leave a CommentTags: rhymed verse, youth
Everything opens and closes; doors and days,
eyes and ears, minds, seasons, a pickle jar,
mouths and years and books and Broadway plays.
And my heart, if you know where the buttons are.
Living in Leviticus
April 29, 2008 at 8:25 am | In Self, childhood, poems, spirituality | Leave a CommentTags: Biblical reference, blank verse
I remember saying to my brother, Don,
“You be the Dad and I will be the Mom”
when we “played house” so many years ago.
Oh, what a perfect family we were,
with no discord, and kids who found that they,
in make-believe, know only what was good.
So when I found these words, I felt again
the rooms of that small house beneath a tree
where we had hung a sheet to make the wall.
Your voice says clearly I need have no fear;
your promise is my talisman of hope:
“You will be my people, I your God.”
The Old House
April 14, 2008 at 4:36 pm | In childhood, poems | Leave a CommentTags: blank verse, iambic pentameter, memory of childhood, rhymed ending couplets
I look at it, not seen these fifty years.
The mountain’s higher than I saw it then,
the house so small I cannot quite believe
that six of us lived there. Weeds own it now,
and trees from deep woods creep out, slender, tall
sentinels to guard the prison I recall.
I shudder at remembered pain, and try
to find the little windowed, attic room
where I had felt so safe. I wonder now
if there was ever such a room, or did
I build its very walls within my mind,
a place that no one else could ever find?
Fifty long years ! How can I reconcile
what was with what I see before me now?
The roof beam sags, the windows are long gone,
the front door, fallen, leaves a gaping hole
that looks on darkness. Darkness that I know
left no escape those many years ago.
Childhood’s Bedtime
April 14, 2008 at 4:08 pm | In childhood | Leave a CommentTags: childhood poem, Tanka
Wild beasts and monsters
paper my bedroom walls.
Only the moonlit
window’s safe, but my gaze
turns again in fear-cination.
Rockfall in Vermont
April 14, 2008 at 3:46 pm | In childhood | Leave a CommentTags: Tanka, Vermont
The ancient mountain
let loose this field of scattered
gray shapes, tossed without
apparent plan, but really
meant to be a child’s playground.
Childhood Poem
March 12, 2007 at 5:04 pm | In childhood, poems | Leave a CommentTags: blank verse, iambic pentameter, rhymed ending couplets
JOHNSWORT TEA
by Sr. Andrew-John
My father always said that Johnswort tea
was good for everything; that it would cure
a case of constipation, or the “runs,”
a painful itch, a cold or influenza.
“It equalizes everything,” he said,
“from head to toe, and keeps you out of bed.”
He sought and picked the golden weeds that grew
along the roads that led to Grampa’s farm,
and no doubt other roads; but I recall he’d
stop the car for Johnswort, while we kids,
restless, remembered summertimes before,
pastures to run, and haylofts to explore.
Later, at home, he hung the Johnswort up
from attic rafters, where it dried and lost
some of its brilliance – but a lovely smell
was loosened on the heavy, dusty air.
Next year, in jars, brown leaves were all we’d see;
“But just for grown-ups, kids, so let it be.”
“She’s got a touch of fever,” Mother said,
“she’d best stay home.” But Dad was skeptical.
“She’s only sick of school,” I overheard.
“He doesn’t care, “ I muttered to myself,
“He never does ! I’ll stay in bed today,
but tomorrow I am going to run away !”
I heard some clattering of pots and pans,
And thought how they would look for me, and Dad
would say, “I should have known that she was sick !”
Then he appeared, short-winded from the stairs,
carrying a cup – the “grown-up tea” – and said
“Now drink it, And tomorrow, out of bed !”
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