A Trace

I'd count the hours
Until ninety-six
And exasperated with arithmetic
I'd count the days
Then the week
And the days
And then the weeks
Until at most six
And rejoice
At some faint trace
The reward for my patience
And thank something
For this slim glimmer

Homework

My son
Thinks of four lines
To translate
For French class
My Mother
She is very patient
She has olive eyes
She is very nice
She has gray hair

It's Spring, Again

It's all I can do
To contain my hysteria
At the first sign
Of pale purple wisteria

April Ode to Milne

John had
Great Big
Waterproof
Boots on;
John had a
Great Big
Waterproof
Hat;
John had a
Great Big
Waterproof
Mackintosh-
And John
Is Tired
Of That.

Daily Poetry

I have committed myself to a poem a day. Starting April 1. Watch this space.

To Right the Ship

15 March 2010


My son turned twelve today. I looked to the horizon and wondered if I am doing the right things for him. Am I giving him the skills to navigate a happy and productive life? On this small sloop of a life, it’s a constant balancing act. I need to guide him but not control him. I need to teach him but not lecture him. I need to let him develop his own knowledge and opinions. I need to respect his desires and needs and help him figure out what they are and whether they serve him well. I need to teach him to chart a course to achieve his goals hopefully without gaffs, to keep him on an even keel.

I want to help him learn what is important in life. I want to teach him reason while at the same time to accept that some things happen without reason. I want him to learn to be realistic. I am sometimes strangely relieved when he is disappointed, hoping that he can learn to overcome it and move on to something more positive. I want to teach him that there are more good things than bad, without going overboard. I want to help him understand why things happen and that, all in all, most of it is good. I want to be here if he needs me but not smother him.

I do not try to be perfect for him. I want him to accept me and others, including our imperfections. I want him to be strong enough in himself such that he doesn’t look to others for sustenance. I want to instill sensitivity toward others while ensuring that he also takes care of himself. I want him to be strong enough to simply turn away from those who are not kind to him.

I want to set him on a straight course and let him sail.

My mother self-destructed before our eyes. My parents furled the sails and were sucked into the maelstrom of their mutual destruction. They neglected to batten down the hatches. My brothers and I were the flotsam and jetsam on the tempestuous sea of their relationship. We went adrift when they divorced and almost drowned when our mother committed suicide when I was twelve.

My son turned twelve today. I was twelve when my mother blew her brains out. Have I exorcised her demons by redeeming myself as a mother. When we have successfully passed this marker will it be clear sailing. Can we ever start over? Can we ever right our parents’ wrongs? Can we ever exonerate ourselves for the perception of being responsible for our parent or parents’ heinous self inflicted crimes? Can I grant myself absolution for someone else's transgression, for which I have felt culpable, although I should know I am not?

He is twelve and I am twelve again. Have I healed myself by raising him. Have I grown as he has grown. Did I right the ship.

Pandora

Great heaps of jewels
Spilling over the side
Carnelian glows
Tourmaline sparkles
Deep luster of chains
Of tarnished silver
Jet glints
Anthracite refracts
Ruby glitters
Gold gleams
Topaz glistens
Jade
Jasper
Mountainsides of treasure
Struck by sunrise