My mom is gone now. But I wrote this poem anyway. It got a little dark.
—————-
Notes for the Skilled Nursing Facility
Her name is Diana Sue Harris, but please.
Don’t call her that.
She goes by Sue.
If there’s an issue, call her middle daughter
who will drop everything
and hold the hurt inside for years.
She loves Dr. Pepper, all day long. It never seems to elevate her sugar levels,
so give it a go.
If you tell her to drink water instead,
she might call you a bitch.
Dark chocolate makes her happy, with a nice cold glass of milk.
Whole. Not skim.
She doesn’t watch her figure anymore.
She can’t drink beer in here, I know.
So substitute with donuts, which can lift her spirits as
much as a couple of Michelob Lights
on a good day.
Can she have cheese? Block not sliced?
Burgers?
Barbecue?
Can her senses still be filled with the mesquite smoke of tender Texas brisket, or grease from the Angus chuck dripping down her hands, or the tang of sharp cheddar on her tongue?
Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.
If she’s sad, you can put on some George Strait or Elvis
and she’ll move her hips and hands and remember her lovers,
the dancehalls, the days of being light and desired
and full of magic.
Can she go outside here? Can someone lightly touch her elbow
and help her to a spot in the sun?
Is there a way for her to still feel a breeze lifting her silver hair,
Bake-clay warmth on her face?
Will someone make sure she can see the determination of lacy dandelions,
the hope in blades of Christmas green grass?
Her “baby” is Dolly, by the way. She’s a shaggy dog. She’ll ask for her.
Here’s what to do: Tell her she’s safe. And loved. And that taking that dog away from her was one of the hardest things her middle daughter’s ever done.
The TV. Yes, sitcoms help. Try Golden Girls.
Laugh tracks distract from not knowing who you are.
Try it for yourself.
Her husband of 52 years was Herman. He loved her. She loved him most of the time. She’ll ask for him, and wonder where he is. I need my husband, she’ll say. Don’t tell her he died three years ago. Tell her he’ll be there soon.
I guess she can’t go clothes shopping anymore. Just in case, Bealls has a good clearance rack this time of year.
Dislikes? Well, hot peppers. The sting of shower water on bare skin. Bras (who cares anyway?) Loud voices. Being touched without her permission.
If you can, ask her about her chili. Chicken-fried steak.
Her music store. Her life.
Not now, but before.
She takes her meds with pudding or yogurt.
Everything seems to go down better with sugar
these days.
Do not make her lie down flat in the twin bed in the corner
with the thin, rubber-covered mattress.
Lowering her head makes her afraid.
Like falling backwards, over, in a rocking chair.
Like something you least expected
And can’t control.
She can’t use a fork or spoon anymore.
Let her eat with her fingers. Let her snack. Let her cry. Let her dance.
Let her do whatever the hell she wants.
Take your $200 a day and leave as few bruises as possible.
Cover scratches with gauze and tape and try not to tear her tissue-thin skin.
If she doesn’t want to move, don’t make her. If she says no, listen to her.
Try to remember there’s a human in there. Who loved her family. Her animals. Food. Music.
Who was smarter than you may be right now.
Try to remember the need for dignity remains.
Even if she can’t speak that word anymore.
Tell her she’s beautiful.
Before you break her spirit,
and she decides living isn’t worth the cost.
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So … I’m knee-deep in poetry right now, still. And I feel almost guilty. I have so many people waiting on my next novel, but I’ve set it aside (again). I’m drawn to poetry and I’m gonna ride this pony til she stops.
Here’s one of my latest that I worked on in a recent Lighthouse Writers workshop. I can’t seem to get the line spacing right on this blog, but it’s close.
Let me know what you think. Thanks for reading!
A Different Seed
I was born in fields of bluebonnets,
ink-well-sapphire dense petals spiked in sun-blind white
short-lived in the Texas spring —
each dew-soaked stem
flattened just yesterday
by the sharp nose of the coyote
the hoof-step of the Hereford
hiding the hiss and slither of the rattler —
always bouncing back
seemingly singular,
good for early-morning picking
before the heat sets in.
Yet by high noon
it’s never easy
to detach a wilted loner
from the rest held together by a nest of roots
entrenched in the holy dirt
of Saint Sam Houston
el malvado Santa Anna
battle-blood of the Alamo
sweet bread of the German siedler
rusted barbed-wire of fences
oily cotton boll of the farmer
weather-worn skull of a fire-ant-stricken calf
my grandfather would’ve tried to save.
And even though Lady Bird’s highways are lined with them —
musky-sweet flowers,
family ties,
good intentions —
not every seed will grow
where planted.
Is it easily spread on the wind?
Can it tolerate full sun?
And what happens
when
the parched and crisp soil
becomes suddenly drenched,
clay-like —
unable to breathe?
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I I’ve been dabbling in poetry lately. While several of my poems have been published through the years, and one even placed in a literary contest here in Colorado, I don’t consider myself a poet, really. I’ve not studied the genre like I have fiction and creative nonfiction. But something about it has been calling me. I think I like that I can play around with language and punctuation and flow and metaphor in ways that you just can’t with other types of writing. And I can swoop in and out of thoughts and imagery on the page.
Here’s one of my latest poems, dedicated to Mom and Dad’s daily challenges as they work through their early 70s.
Invincible Ignorance
Her hair dark, shining, beyond her shoulders
thick as three horses’ manes
legs perpetually tanned
sure-footed
in the garden
on the sawdust dance floor
carrying her sharp-tongued wit
wherever it wished to go,
taking her children along
for the bright lights of
the Ferris wheel ride.
His hands rough,
capable
of moving livestock
and minds,
holding dogs
and the dreams of little girls;
his shoulders, those shoulders
carrying us
and keeping all things steady,
the shelter of reason
the home of
it’s all going to be okay.
But now
her hair,
turning a corner
to spun silver —
where there is no planting
on uneven ground,
and the fair
with its lights spinning
at the pink of dusk
is likely
leaving town.
And his hands,
those shoulders,
they’ve turned on him
with knots like centuries-old
live oak branches,
creaking in a South Texas
night wind,
and swollen joints
no amount of tools
from his truck
can fix.
Uncertainty creeps in
like a rattlesnake
slipping
through tall dry weeds
for a strike.
pain overtakes
the laughter
meds don’t mix
with beer
mornings
are a crap shoot
and
reaching for anything
is just too much.
Me? I can’t, won’t
wrap my head
around the present
or how it fits with the past
or how it shapes the future.
Yet I do know
invincible natures
live longer
than those
who are not
bone and muscle
are a fallible
source of direction,
salvation
and, mostly,
ignorance remains
a nice place to visit.
After all
their truth
is not my truth
and the state of
all matter
is relative
anyway.
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