Things Grandma Had

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I think I’m going to reduce to posting once a weekday instead of twice. My creative juices are starting to run a bit dry and need to re-moisten. You know how creative juices are. It’s hard to run with an idea if you’re not well-lubed with creative juices.

Well, this was gross. Let’s never talk about creative juices again.

 

 

Grandma had a gumball tree.

We would play in her yard

Climb the tree

She used to marvel aloud

at how high we could get

and we’d flush with pride.

 

Grandma had a kitchen table.

She used it well

Heaping it with purchased food

sweets the neighbors had given her

dishes her family had cooked.

 

Grandma had four sons.

Three with families

All tall men

Every able-bodied son or grandson

would bump their head

against the low-hanging chandelier.

It was a family joke.

 

Grandma had cable TV.

We would watch it

and eat ice cream from her freezer

unsupervised

late into the night.

 

We spent time at Grandma’s

watching TV

and eating

and talking

and eating

and sometimes she would take us out

to eat.

By the time we left her house

we had costume jewelry

or a dollar store trinket in hand.

She wasn’t satisfied

unless you left

belly hard-packed with food

and both hands full of gifts.

When we got home

we couldn’t eat again

for twenty-four hours.

 

Grandma had a lot of things.

Grandma was a hoarder.

She survived the Great Depression.

But she gave

everything.

She once tried to give me

functional furniture

right out of her kitchen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Fall

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When Fall passes by

It brushes some trees on top

Some the bottom

Some the side.

Wherever a leaf has been touched

It quickly spreads.

The torch of Fall

Kindles all.

They go graceful, as nature wills

They go with fire, one last glory

Immolating the world.

There is beauty in destruction

And the trees glow with it.

Filtering sunfire

Into their own shade

Coloring the sidewalks

Rose

Lemon

Baby green

Port.

With a farewell kiss

So light

Too soft for all senses

But sight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Being There

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My friend wants to see me.

I’m sad, she says. Someone has died.

I’m here for you, I say.

Of course I’m not there.

I’m 150 miles away.

You can come by, I say.

She drives all the way here.

I consider making her brownies

But I’m too tired even for box mix

Having had a headache all day.

She comes in

Brings me chocolate.

I give her hugs

I give her a clean bed

I give her little else.

I feel useless.

We don’t have much time to talk

She has to get up early.

I wish I could do more

Even when she feels like this

She has made all the effort

She has brought me gifts

She

has blessed

me

On her sad day.

 

Maybe it’s nice to spoil someone else

Maybe it helps.

At least that’s what I’m telling myself.

Sometimes I forget

How generous she is.

How I am often the selfish one

When she is around.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Twelve Minutes

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Here’s an old, old poem from my journals. I was probably twenty-one.

 

 

Ten minutes, twelve

A slim segment of

Boundless possibilities

Life-changing structure

Structureless life

Miracles and sanity and reason and hope

Whirl in twelve minutes

Six minutes

So much in six minutes

If you keep halving it

You’ll keep having it

The end will never come

If you focus

Try hard enough

Escape the impermeability

The wretched maze

Of time

 

Time doesn’t tick anymore

It squeezes in silence

And bloats our fears

And miles yawn before us

And thirty-odd years

And when the end happens

We’ll look back and see

Just nothing, black nothing

And eternity

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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