Passing on the mother —
A mother’s wisdom, her
treasured recipes, not just
for food, but for life.

Passing on the mother —
her quirks, eccentricities,
superstitions, all the things
that made her who she was.

Passing on the mother —
her faults, her subtle way
of criticizing the things
she couldn’t understand.

Passing on the mother.
Passing by the mother.
Not quite making connection
until the mother passed on.

 

This poem was created for Miz Quickly’s Day Eighteen prompt, suggesting that we create a poem from the phrase, “passing on the mother,” or something similar. Once this was completed, I realized that I had inadvertently written a poem that could stand as a response to the Day Fifteen challenge to write a kyrielle, a series of quatrains each containing the same repeated line. I am not inclined to duplicate my efforts, except that I now see that these quatrains are supposed to rhyme.  Aaargh.

“I was a Goody Two-Shoes all through school.”
The one with all the answers in class, but
polite enough not to raise my hand every time.
The one who spent Sundays at church, even
in the evening, the one who knew about the
beer at the party, but never took a sip. The
one whose skirts never fell above the knee.

Hard to fathom that transition, though, to a
freshman year of Marlboro’s, black coffee, scotch
(neat) and the splitting of innumerable
pitchers at Mayola’s, with boys who fancied
themselves men, their names now forgotten,
the tendency toward profanity, even when,
especially when, things were going well.

“I was a Goody Two-Shoes all through school.”
So they reminded me fifty years later, that
high school reunion crowd, over wine
at the country club none of us could have
been part of, no matter how well-behaved.
And I suppose they were right,
for all they knew of my life back then.
 
This poem is a response to Miz Quickly’s Day Ten challenge in which we were to use a sentence from a book we’re reading as the first line of a poem. My quote comes from Natalie Goldberg’s book, Writing Down the Bones.

 

 

Eleven pieces of clay
molded by a master sculptor,
a master with a sense of
humor (and a love for cats)

Now they wait, faces raised
innocent, expectant, in
wonder at what is to come —
that breath of life or perhaps
a remolding, a breathless
rush into an unknown world.
 
 
This poem was written for Miz Quickly’s Day Seventeen challenge to write a poem inspired by the picture above. Thanks for a nifty prompt, Miz Q.

The writing thing, the poetry journey,
an insistent yearning, a shadowy itch,
demanding your response.
“Just get your feet wet,” they said.
“Come on in, the water’s fine.” Their clichéd
implication that anyone can do it.

But getting just your feet wet,
when the undercurrent of
danger is omnipresent?
Danger of drowning, danger of losing
yourself in that madly rushing stream.
You tell yourself to find a way
to jump into the deep end, immerse yourself,
get used to the frigid water until
it’s warmed with your own warmth.

Stand toes poised at the edge of
the pool, ignore your cold, cold feet.
“Just get your feet wet,” they say, but
you know that won’t be enough.

 

Still catching up with Miz Quickly’s November feast of prompts. This poem is for Day Twelve, “Talk about Getting Your Feet Wet.”

 
leaves flutter and dance
a special delivery
in brisk northwest wind
 
 
This was written after my morning walk and in response to Miz Quickly’s Day Thirteen prompt, the single word “Deliver.”

It entices, it promises.
It grips, then slowly strangles.
Its seductive bells and pings,
tiny hints of the reward to
come, the bait to lure us in.
The net, the web we can’t escape,
eater of minutes, hours, days.
A vice, but also a vise.
 
 
This is in response to Miz Quickly’s Day Nine Challenge, in which she asked us to write a poem about our favorite vice. The internet, hands down, the wicked world wide web.

Talk about tangential!
Right there, adjacent to
the definition, a reference.
[Washington Times, October 16, 2015.]
“They were recently seen in
Columbia County northwest of Portland
and also near Tangent and Sweet Home.”
 
One could live in Portland, a port,
refuge in any storm, and living in
Sweet Home sounds almost like
Heaven itself, but living in
Tangent? Or even paying a visit,
making brief contact before
proceeding on the way?
There’s no appeal in that.
 
That woman, though, the one
passing through, in Tangent pursuing
her own path? Her name’s Malarkey, no lie,
at least about the name. The baby?
That’s a story for another day.
Talk about tangential, even though
we know it’s the truth.
 
 
 
This is in response to Miz Quickly’s Day Eight challenge. Please go there to take a look at her instructions because I think I got pretty tangential in this poem here. 🙂

 
 
Skipping stones, skipping breakfast,
Stoned at break of day.
Stone-faced and alone, watching
the sun rise and set.

Eating from ironstone dishes,
Fine stoneware, resistant to chips.
Heart of stone, unbroken, unmoved, unchipped.
Leaving stones unturned and why?

A decision cast in stone, to cast a
stone, but not in a glass
house of my own making, a
stepping stone to somewhere
else/elsewhere, my where
a stone’s throw away.

 
 
This was written in response to Miz Quickly’s Day Seven challenge in which we were to select several words and just keep writing to see where we were led. “Stone” is the word that struck me and stuck.

Although the calendar says November,
red roses and azaleas bloom.
 
I sit on wrought iron furniture
drink Jungle Java, black and hot and
listen to Brazilian samba
under tangerine umbrellas,
glowing, blowing in the breeze while
skies cerulean overhead and
wisps of whitest cirrus promise
grayer weather yet to come
 
Although the calendar says November
the beach says, “No,” as roses bloom.
 
 
Miz Quickly asked for a list poem on Day Six. This is a list of what I saw while drinking coffee outdoors in my favorite Rehoboth Beach coffee shop on November 6, 2015. The photo is of roses still in bloom there in mid-fall.

Who is that woman
in autumnal reflection,
her secrets exposed?
 
 
 
“Can you haiku you?” asked Miz Quickly on Day Five. Maybe. Or maybe this is just a start, a place holder for later reflection.