choices
Still trying to figure out a poem. So I might as well take the excuse of that "post a bit of poetry!" meme that was going around.
The first is the one I wrote, about her Alzheimer's - the second one is by Robert Frost, and is the one I will probably read, and hope I don't start bawling during. But I'm not sure yet.
Pear Tree
I remember the summer when we emptied my grandmother’s house,
small trinkets with her initials,
and breathmints tucked in the corner of cupboards with the good china.
Her house had secrets,
secret stashes of dust on piano keys
and faux marble busts of Thomas Jefferson.
That summer was the hottest summer I’ve known,
ice cubes melting in red plastic cups
and the very last game of tag
under the pear tree in the backyard.
Green, small, shriveled pears that narrowly evaded
my bent stick bow and arrows.
My grandmother’s house had secrets,
secret stashes of rusty nails and Jackie O mugs,
folded napkins saved up for a rainy day.
I pulled down pears and carved faces in their sides,
a few more witnesses to the disintegration.
My grandmother’s house had secrets,
secret places where nothing made sense,
secret places inside her mind.
None of the secret places came with a decoder ring,
no matter how many times her children looked for one
behind the wooden, miss-set clocks.
My grandmother had secrets, different places,
always running off the edge of the page.
She had different things
in strange places
and some of them were faux marble
and some looked at her with sideways pear eyes,
but she always used to know her favorite color was blue.
- mka
A Late Walk
When I go up through the mowing field,
The headless aftermath,
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
Half closes the garden path.
And when I come to the garden ground,
The whir of sober birds
Up from the tangle of withered weeds
Is sadder than any words
A tree beside the wall stands bare,
But a leaf that lingered brown,
Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,
Comes softly rattling down.
I end not far from my going forth
By picking the faded blue
Of the last remaining aster flower
To carry again to you.
- Robert Frost
The first is the one I wrote, about her Alzheimer's - the second one is by Robert Frost, and is the one I will probably read, and hope I don't start bawling during. But I'm not sure yet.
Pear Tree
I remember the summer when we emptied my grandmother’s house,
small trinkets with her initials,
and breathmints tucked in the corner of cupboards with the good china.
Her house had secrets,
secret stashes of dust on piano keys
and faux marble busts of Thomas Jefferson.
That summer was the hottest summer I’ve known,
ice cubes melting in red plastic cups
and the very last game of tag
under the pear tree in the backyard.
Green, small, shriveled pears that narrowly evaded
my bent stick bow and arrows.
My grandmother’s house had secrets,
secret stashes of rusty nails and Jackie O mugs,
folded napkins saved up for a rainy day.
I pulled down pears and carved faces in their sides,
a few more witnesses to the disintegration.
My grandmother’s house had secrets,
secret places where nothing made sense,
secret places inside her mind.
None of the secret places came with a decoder ring,
no matter how many times her children looked for one
behind the wooden, miss-set clocks.
My grandmother had secrets, different places,
always running off the edge of the page.
She had different things
in strange places
and some of them were faux marble
and some looked at her with sideways pear eyes,
but she always used to know her favorite color was blue.
- mka
A Late Walk
When I go up through the mowing field,
The headless aftermath,
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
Half closes the garden path.
And when I come to the garden ground,
The whir of sober birds
Up from the tangle of withered weeds
Is sadder than any words
A tree beside the wall stands bare,
But a leaf that lingered brown,
Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,
Comes softly rattling down.
I end not far from my going forth
By picking the faded blue
Of the last remaining aster flower
To carry again to you.
- Robert Frost