sweatshirt,
frayed and tattered,
warmth held in the gaping
holes, a worn memory of him,
my dad.
A Crapsey Cinquain for Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday prompt.
Tag Archives: Father
The Closet, NaPoWriMo
spring cleaning,
of a sort—perhaps–
objects that
beget the
remembrance, past events, some
forgotten, we smile
at the old
report cards, boxes
of them and
school projects–
you kept them through all the moves–
holding our childhoods
long after
we’d outgrown them, but
there it is–
a lunchbox–
a small book I made for you,
in a school art class,
there my first
published book, you stamped
it with your
name, assigned
it to classes, proud father
storing books and dreams,
phases of
our lives sharing space
with antiques.
Ming vases
once held living flowers, but
all things turn to dust–
we vacuum
the closet, and close
the door, laugh
so much junk!
Though I understand wanting
to hoard memories
Today, Day 18 of NaPoWriMo, we’re challenged to write an elegy “one in which the abstraction of sadness is communicated not through abstract words, but physical detail.” This is written in a series of shadorma stanzas. I couldn’t get this poem started until I remembered my sisters and I cleaning out the big storage closet in my dad’s last apartment. He died over twenty years ago in May.
I’m also linking this to Open Link Night at dVerse.
Unfinished 2
I told the poet,
I think
I think
of my dad more now,
of love not really disguised
but not quite recognized,
now the way broken
and the words unspoken.
Those days
trips to places,
open spaces,
drives to historical sites,
we always stopped
to eat,
no outing ever complete
without food,
and those restaurants,
the lingering traces,
scents and memories mined,
and entwined
with all the things
we never said–
too late regret
for what was,
remembered,
perhaps imperfectly.
Seeking to flee
our parents
and love—
the things as children
we never see
but now–
so much of them
(unfinished)
in me.
This goes with my Unfinished from a few days ago. Robert Okaji’s “Empty Cup,” got me started. I realize it also fits Jilly’s Day 16 (yesterday’s) quotation for her 28 Days of Unreason, poetry inspired by Jim Harrison’s poetry.
“You can’t write the clear biography
of the aches and pains inside your skull”
~ Harrison from Skull / Songs of Unreason
Garden Shadows
Monday Morning Musings:
“’I am half sick of shadows,’ said
The Lady of Shalott”
Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “The Lady of Shalott”
“We’re neither pure, nor wise, nor good
We’ll do the best we know,
We’ll build our house and chop our wood
And make our garden grow. . .
And our garden grow.”
From Leonard Bernstein, “Make Our Garden Grow,” Candide
All week the sun plays hide and seek
perhaps preparing for the eclipse
my soul also wanders
in and out of shadows
I think about life
blooming in the late summer plants about me
at a make-your-own-terrarium night,
we each make one,
the open kind—succulents–
though the closed kind would be more interesting to me–
and less so to the cats–
I think,
as we drink wine
and visit with our friends’ daughter who had also showed up
(Surprise!)
I wonder how long our plants will live,
we, who are good at bringing up children and cats,
are not so adept at raising plants,
though the weeds seem to thrive,
still we put them in the sun
(but where there is sun, there are shadows)
and try to make our garden grow
As the sun plays in the August sky,
we go to the movies
(shadows turn to light and life upon a screen)
the film is about life and death
and making choices
telling the truth
confronting traditions
rejecting what does not work for you
embracing differences
seeing people as people,
not as members of different groups,
it’s kind of a comedy
and a romance
the comedy of life
the tragedies
funny family dinners
love
and a coma,
existence in a shadow world,
while life goes on about you
Afterwards, we sit upstairs
in an open-air part of a restaurant
flowers planted, blooming in boxes outside the railing
and street performers serenade us from below
it’s noisy,
but, hey, summer in the city
a beautiful evening
we watch buses and tourists below us
and pedicycle drinking groups,
laughing and singing
we eat tater tots and pizza
because it’s that kind of night
summertime
and we’re not at war yet,
we walk around
just a bit
because there’s work to be done
and an early day tomorrow
the shadows deepen
The sun dances through clouds
casting shadows large and small
on the eighth, Barbara Cook and Glen Campbell both die
glorious soprano and beautiful tenor
perhaps they sing duets in some other world
(do gardens grow there?)
the next day is the anniversary of my father’s birth
he would have been ninety-eight this week
and I think of my mother,
who will soon turn ninety-five
the seasons turning, sun and shadows
The sun comes and goes
hiding
seeking
gone for a woman in Charlottesville
gone for her family
gone for people killed in mosques and churches
gone for women taken as spoils of war
call evil by its name
the darkness of the soul
never brightened by the sun
hidden beneath shadows
I watch the sun rise and set
watch the shadows lengthen
as summer turns to fall
I hold on
seeking light
giving it to the terrarium plants
because they are still holding on, too
despite all odds
we’ve made our gardens grow
I wrote about my father here.
We went to Plant Nite at Auburn Road Vineyards.
We saw The Big Sick, official trailer here. We ate at Revolution House.
You can hear Barbara Cook in “Make Our Garden Grow” the original Broadway cast recording of Candide.
Yesterday and today: Merril's historical musings 