Till the Cows Come Home….NaPoWriMo #37

This is a poem that is in the unfolding drama happening in Martin’s office at the moment. Yes, it is two hours past bedtime and the boy is still struggling to finish homework. It is his own choice as it isn’t due tomorrow or required, but he started a unit and by golly he is going to finish. We’ve already alerted his teacher via an email that he’ll be in later as he’ll need to sleep a little bit more.

Homework Haze

Your eyes droop

Your shoulders stoop

As you slide into your hard thinking chair

You have a task to do, but you stare and stare

I’m wondering if anything is there

Do you have the energy to finish?

But even though you are visibly diminished

From somewhere you push on

And I’ve seen you do till dawn

Because whatever it is that is in your mind

Is the only thing you can seem to find

To focus on and you will not let it go

Rubbing your face again

To find a new trace

To get to the end

You will not bend

It is the only thing that matters

Even though your brain is in tatters

You are shattered to try to think

I see you sink

Bringing you to the brink

Of nearly giving in

I think it is not a sin

But to you, it is a must

Even if it turns you to dust

It is two hours past your bedtime

Tomorrow we will not be in our prime

I hope whatever pushes you so here

Will get you where you need to be Dear,

The determined often win the race

I pray that you will always keep pace

Observations are a very good place to start…NaPoWriMo #36

I had nothing in my head tonight to write about, so I looked around my office and just started typing. It is half way a blog post and half way a poem. Grrr...now past midnight tweaking pictures even though this is my April 28th poem.

 My Son’s Present Art

Little drawings from little hands litter my office

They are time capsules that help me escape the rocket fueled present

That launches from the now into the space unknown to planet future

A pastel flower garden where the flowers all look like small suns

Was given as a first present on a Mother’s Day

My boy had always loved to give me flowers

Many hours that year we had spent planting and digging

He beamed with such pride to give me something

He had painted and knew I would love

A fiery furnace of an exciting Sunday School lesson

Is scribbled and so earnest on my cabinet door

I remember the flood of detail my boy tried to tell me

The words he could get out were about the fire and the angel

If there was no picture, I wouldn’t have understood his story

I looked at it with him and we went through it together

Finger painted hand prints from a desperate summer’s day

We were rained inside scratching for something more to do

My son didn’t want to do anything, but he let me take his hand

and put it in the paint then to the paper

He smiled, but wouldn’t do it on his own

He would hold his hand hovering there

Daring me to take it and place it just so

A computer printed, but hand drawn birthday card

That is a portrait of me with a Hershey’s kiss floating nearby

He presented it with a kiss and hug

So proud he and his father had kept this surprise a secret

They had pulled it off and then the next year I wanted a card,

But was told by my son, “no”

This helps me to know to not expect,

But to wait for what he truly wants to give

A coffee can decorated with shaky interpretations

Of butterflies and bees now houses a yellow miniature rose

We planted a sunflower in it that year you gave it to me

And that flower quickly outgrew our humble can

We planted it in the garden

Where it bloomed most of the summer that year

And now we include a few tall sunflowers every year

A tissue paper heart window that clearly

Someone else helped those little hands make

I found it shoved in his backpack and smiled

No presentation to me, nothing special

Just a memento of the season

But a heart with my son’s name had to go on my wall

As he has my heart in so many ways

The paper sack frog that hangs on the mantle

Is so faded from enduring at least three years now

I go to take it down and I can’t

There is something that leaps to my throat

When I touch that darned pop eyed faded frog

That he never played with

and I’m sure someone else cut out

as his scissor skills are shaky still

it is something about it

holding out it’s little hands

wanting to embrace everyone

that warms me to see

wondering if someday he

could leap forward

and run at life

like this little frog

there are signs

and simple maps

that bear his hand too

all pointing at what he is

and can be

this is his art

this is his heart

this is a great start

Race Cards Shuffled....NaPoWriMo #35

My son studies and loves history at a rate that is deeper than many college students. He is fascinated by assignations and wars. So, of course, Martin Luther King comes around in his studies as well as Hitler. They were on the opposite sides of the coin of racism and I often tell him that.

Today, when he was getting off the bus, he was yelling the word “racism” to someone on the bus, but when I questioned him about it, he wouldn’t say who or why. Later, he told Martin a little bit that the kids on the bus were discussing what they thought the word meant. His first question to me off the bus was, “Mama, what is racism?” I explained it several different ways to him. Still the question stuck with me as he repeated his question to me over and over (as he often does).

Making Best of Enemies

Racism didn’t begin with Martin Luther King

It is a very ancient thing

When someone looked at the shape of one’s leg

Or the color of hair or if that person ate eggs

The looker deemed it all unworthy

To not to be and called it “dirty”

What makes us look askance

at someone because they can’t dance?

We choose and say one is right and one is wrong

And we fight or struggle amongst the throng

People are people is what we say

But how is that shown today?

We are making judgements right and left

Sitting on the opportunities of others bereft

The opposite of this is grace

To judge not from race

Or creed, or purpose, or positions

Going out of our box creates imposition

To find that uncomfortable zone of friendship

Somewhere in an uncommon kinship

NaPoWriMo #34

Summer Swim Time at Seven

Warm on the back of my neck

Inviting and deceptive

As my skin curls up, dries out, and reddens

The sweat dribbling down to the middle of my back

Half way out of the water

Laying my head against the cool blue tiles

To listen to the slap, slap, slap

Of the pocket gunk trap

In the corner of the pool

Imagining it to be a window

Opening and closing

Onto another world

I slip under the water

To cool off that neck

And sip in the muffled

Marimba-like punctuation

That is of that same comfort sound

Now on another planet

Blasting away down in the depths

Lying on the bottom

Until I must resurface again

To do it all over again

Music in the air...NaPoWriMo #33

Trying to be profound and rhyme doesn’t always match up well in my poetry.

Voicing It

I think he was four here and it was Easter.

Sing a song of silence

Upon the sea of bread and treats

It gives you empty mileage

And slurps up all to defeat

Sing a song of soapsuds

To scrub yourself all raw

There is no other color

That brings you from the spa

Sing a song of sinews

Bunching it all up together

To cut them now would string you

A broken web light as a feather

Sing a song that’s silly

Except for your own part

The road with pebbles and rock candy

Shall always break your heart

Sing a song to sing

To free the soul and mind

Feel the wind with glee

Leave troubles all behind

Starry Night....NaPoWriMo #32

When any child speaks I believe parents tuck that away in memory. When a child with autism only repeats phrases they hear and never answers you when they are little it is an incredible moment when they speak for the first time. I mean say something that isn’t a script or repeating something you just said. At least that is our experience.

Our son we took camping and he had this moment. The stars were incredibly bright and it was hard not to look up at them for hours. I stared at him starring up at the stars because I was transfixed by this moment as much as he was.

Today, he and I were talking about camping and Oregon and he said,”Mama, the stars in Washington are quiet, but the ones in Oregon make noise.” Remembering back to this vivid moment when he was three, I told him about it and I asked him, “So, when you said “quiet stars” were you telling them to be quiet or were you saying at that time they were quiet? Are they no longer quiet to you?” He couldn’t answer me at this time. Knowing him, he will answer in a month or two. I’ll let you know when we all have an answer to that question. But for now, this is how I remember camping with him a little over six years ago.

Oregon’s Bright Nights

We pitched a tent and were so unsure

Not of us, but what you might do

You were three and full of energy

You didn’t answer to your name

You hardly played any games

You kicked at unknown stimuli

All of which made us sigh

But you are a part of us

We, in some ways, didn’t mind the fuss

We were teaching you to play

And trying new things to get you to say

Any words that you didn’t have

We worked hard not to make you mad

You often would just laugh and laugh

At sounds or butterflies or baths

But it was your anticipation

In looking into the night sky

With eyes so very wide

You wouldn’t go into the tent

You were adamant

We couldn’t understand it

Until you uttered a phrase

And we were amazed

That the earth’s beauty

Could draw you out

To the point we wanted to shout

Your little voice and smile

Reverently whispering

The sweetest of things

Nothing is still on par

With that moment you whispered, “Quiet stars”

In the day you wondered, “Star go?”

And every night we’d hold you so

As you gazed and gazed

Up at those bright spheres

Repeating “quiet stars” with no fears

Happy Birthday Master Shakespeare! NaPoWriMo #31

It is William Shakespeare’s birthday and death day today. It is also the day Martin and I started dating 22 years ago. A marvelous day indeed!

I always try to write a sonnet on this day. I find the form a bit constraining and I don’t always construct it as well as I’d like. I like Martin’s sonnet he wrote today and that is below also as I find it very clever. Mine is the sap his is the snap.

Love Sonnet for 22

Oh may I be again your love for now

And always to your soul be true

Away from here I utter not a word

That comes to bend another’s view

I seek a loving being be

And sing when all the day is through

You see, the buses stopped this night

 You stay to see what you will find

A kiss that turned my eyes to you

This moment and for all time

You play your mandolin so well

You are truly one of a kind

I am always under your spell

I am forever yours and you are mine

Words for Will

Anon, it is sweet Shakespeare's day of birth,
And--which is more, and most convenient--
Upon this day was he return'd to earth;
The same day that he came, he also went.

Prithee, let iambs fall from every tongue,
In number, five; thus shalt thou form a line;
It is the sweetest rhythm ever sung;
With words thus build we Shakespeare's perfect shrine.

A measur'd word can scarcely go to waste;
We'd banish rancor, foolishness and spite
If all our words were chosen, form'd and plac'd
With all the care that poets take to write.

Rhyme if you can, or leave your verses blank,

But speak the speech--it's Will you have to thank.

Thinking of where I grew up...NaPoWriMo #30

My husband and I were talking about the Ozarks today. A friend that lives near there in my home state of Missouri posted a picture of the Mississippi River. It kept me thinking about my favorite times at home and how I didn’t appreciate them until I moved away from home. I often miss the charm of the Ozarks, the people, the rivers, and seemingly simple pleasures of many church gatherings. River parties in the summer were nearly every week and such happy moments in my memory. I miss that wild and wonderful spot in this world I used to call home. Now my heart is planted here, but it does linger in memories at times too.

River Runs Homeward

Wonder working power of the pull

In the center of your being

Tugging on a tender thread

Attaching you to home

Of lazy water swim parties that are

Murky mud bottom smooth rocks

Cold shocks welcomed

In blister hot summer steaminess

Jumping from high rocks

Into blue green heaven

Frog kicking up for air

Breaking the surface

To focus on other faces

Already bobbing beside you

The smell of the wood fire on shore

Built by the ones

Most concerned we eat soon

Calling from the campsite

To us water rats

Who while away the time

Splashing each other silly

Snorting in river water by the bucketful

Staying down where the air is sweet

Exploring crevices and tiny caves

Jumping at everything that might be a snake

Until one is spotted

It is a cotton mouth

They are fast swimmers

One bite could be deadly

It doesn’t see us

No one moves

Bang! Off goes the gun

Killing it dead

And we return to our revelry

Someone whistles telling us “time to eat”

We bow our heads and our pastor says blessing

We lunge for sticks

Poking on hot dogs

Finding your spot to roast it

Seeing it blacken blistered perfection

Tearing into it

Nothing ever tasted so good

Sitting round the fire

As twilight draws us close

To sing one after another

Songs everyone knows

Not a word said

But notes floating

Like the sparks

Popped from logs

Consumed in laughter

Until the stars look down

Telling us it is time

To wish and dream

Homeward once more

We pile eight to a truck bed

And convoy up the steep path

Not a word said

Leaning on each other

For warmth in the chill night’s edge

Gathering speed on the highway

We are dropped one by one

To where we call home

Never realizing

That is where we just came from

Hearing the cry...NaPoWriMo #29

I wrote this one tonight and thought, “Is this really how I feel about being a Mom of a special needs child?” I don’t like the battle metaphor as I’ve come down on that side of what I don’t like to hear in the autism world as it sends a mixed message to our children about who they are if we have to “battle” against autism.

My son all night was looking up facts about the American Civil War and telling me things. I think that seeped into my subconscious and this came out more about how I feel about all the details I have to keep track of and try to make sense of. This is more the war I battle as I’m not as on top of things as I wish I was. Hence, the poem.

Mama's Special Battle

The thrum of the space heater by my side

Constant, cozy orange glow

Working the warmth into my mind

A sleepy contingent of cavalry

Galloping over hill and dale

To the trumpeter’s tune

Of a long forgotten war

Looming on the horizon

Of dawn’s dreary rise

To a tune forlorn

In the distance

A call to arms

Of an unknown enemy

That I resent taking

What I have left

Turning it out

To meet cold day

And restless nights

The battle drum beats

A quick march

Pushing me on

To type, research, and remember

All that has gone before

And all that might go on

The battle in the foreground

I hear it going on

I stay behind

Away from enemy lines

Reading my screen

Of new techniques and therapies

I study the map

Before heading out the door

to another appointment

Listening to another general

Scream orders to the troops

I retreat

Shutting off my heat

To snuggle into my bed

Raising my sword in victory

In my dreams

I really do have a headache...NaPoWriMo #28

I really do get a lot of barometric pressure headaches. Being outside today for part of the day helped, but it returned this evening. I hear it is going to rain tomorrow. That will help too, but for now it is literally all that is on my mind.

Barely There

A light nagging in my noggin

All day long and into the evening hours

Just enough to let me know it is there

Right between my temples

At the top of my nose

Extending like a halo round

My head is cloudy

Clumsy movements

Fumbling flights

Lingering on a second

A minute or an hour

The constant pressure

Of an unknown hand

Presses down

Keeping time

With my lack of it

Not knowing why

I cross from my office

Into the kitchen and back

With nothing in my hands

I sit down

Start over

Stare out

Hoping it will rain soon

To release that valve

That holds the steam

From escaping

So my whistle

Can blow

To make tea

On this lovely afternoon

Smelling the flowers

See the bright colors

Not screaming

But loving

A queen’s pleasure

in this measure

Released from this prison

to breathe in spring’s joy

Three very different parts of my day today...NaPoWriMo #25, #26. & #27

Leftover Over Over

Fuzzy, fruity, fermented feet

Of something I wouldn’t want to eat

It lives in the back of the shelf

I probably put it there myself

I wasn’t looking for it

But it found me

Green and white hair waving

Like it could live once more

But quite dead

It used to be red

And rather delicious

I made it to be nutritious

But now it is not

Throwing it out

So as not to shock

Those rooting, tooting at midnight

For a snack or two

By then it would be blue

Or it could turn to goo

Out it must go

Even though

It could almost say “hello”

Oklahoma City News 1995

I was standing in my sunny white kitchen

The clock tick tocked almost two

I had just turned the radio on

When flashed the news

A bomb had gone off

A truck or maybe two

Had struck a downtown building

All I heard is that it blew

I sat down in disbelief

Hearing, but not

The details and colors

Of a state in shock

Oklahoma was far away

So many people

So many graves

I couldn’t think of anyone I knew

That could be there too

Still I sickened to think

Of our country on the brink

Of violent outbursts so jarring

This was more than alarming

So they were blown to bits

That was the crux of it

The cost of this loss

Was the tipping place

It hurried the hate a pace

From doing nothing but shouting

To murder where there is crowding

Taking the innocent

To drown

Down below

Reach by this breach

Of decency and sense

It takes just a pinch

And give not an inch

Signing humanity’s death

Hate grabs a pound of flesh

Family Fare

Children are commanded to obey

If only parents had more sway

At times we do

And it is true

We have the upper hand

Lines drawn in the sand

Is something that pushes a child the other way

And still it is something we parents say

To try to change something that hurts

To take away “little miss” or “junior’s” perks

It gets muddled and complex

We all wish we had the text

To follow and study

So it wouldn’t be so muddy

Children want parents to be proud

And parents love to shout aloud

Praises of their little ones

For every single thing they’ve done

And still we turn it around on each other

It is the same with father and mother

Looking for excuses to love

Those who are part of our fold

Parents take hands with child

By smoothing out strife to mild

To hold hands in mutual honor

And do this before you’re a goner

Life is shorter than we think

Bring it all to your sink

And wash away the dust of resentment

Bask in the clean surface of contentment

Listening and strong guiding

With both parties abiding