Now that it is officially autumn, weatherwise and calendar-wise, I have decided to include some poetry from a writing group that I am taking part of with a friend of mine from Gateway. (No, I don’t have enough on my plate with teaching 2 University of Phoenix classes back to back, teaching full time, riding the bike until I drop, running the Girl Scout troop, and, oh yeah, spending time with my family!) Here are a few poems, one about a crazy day I had, the other three about the gorgeous girls.
Wrapping
In the cold I wait for the light.
I see the clouds galloping across the sky—
yes, galloping, grayish white against a tint of blue—
and that same gale that hurries them
stings me to my bones
numbing me through to my toes.
I return my borrowed
fleecy black gloves and rush
across the field thinking
hey, at least I ran a quarter mile today.
He waits at the van,
takes me home in the heavenly heat,
but I am still shivering under my
newly borrowed double layer jacket
and supposedly warm wool socks
and two rounds of dipping Polly Pockets
into the “hot springs” pool.
When he calls for dinner,
my shrieking hazel-eyed girls
lead the way upstairs
and before I can even take my seat
he wraps his warmth around me
with a steaming cup of Earl Grey,
not for one second forgetting
the two sugars, the spoonful of half and half
and I smile enough to light two rooms
and melt the darkness away from
the weak place inside of me
that he has just given strength to.
Giver of Words
Mythili, you always know just what to say.
When Isabella has forgotten her water bottle
it’s, “You know she better check the lost and found
tomorrow or else she wouldn’t have it anymore.”
or when Riona asks for a taste of my tea, you reply,
“We only can have smells, unless we’re sick,
then we can have tea or even ginger ale,”
nodding and sticking your finger back in your mouth,
pushing blankey against your cheek.
or when we take a walk and you ask,
“What is that extra space for
next to the sidewalk where no cars go?”
and when I explain the parking lane,
your answer is complete: “When people have
birthday parties on Saturdays that’s where
the guests park their cars.”
and sometimes I can hardly believe
that you are only four when you
look up at me through your thick eyelashes,
your nothing but golden eyes,
and tell me that you have now decided
you will be both an astronaut and
an artist, no longer the butterfly
of your three-year-old dreams,
“Because, Mama, it is time that
someone really could paint the stars.”
My Oldest Getting Too Old
I keep wanting to say that you are seven
because even though I cringe at the thought
of you not being a baby, a toddler, a preschooler,
you seem seven to me now
with your lanky arms,
your longing eyes,
your pride in your Daisy Girl Scout patches and vest,
the giant words that come out of your mouth,
the flippant attitude you have mastered,
the three boyfriends that you just proudly announced
(I thought Reuben was the one),
and the way you live for your friendships.
Your hair is even longer than I imagined
from my mostly-bald baby,
you can count to a hundred in English and Spanish
and insist on shouting out every letter
of your baby sister’s alphabet placemat
before she has a chance.
When the six kids are together,
you are the alpha female in your game of hunting cats,
telling the boys and your sisters where to go,
which way to pounce,
and where the best hiding spots are.
You climb trees like there’s no tomorrow
and would ride your bike around the block
every day if I let you,
and have let loose your fear of ringing
Kiara’s doorbell for a requested playdate.
But are you six in those pants that come
up to your ankles,
in the art that you create with three-dimensional
expertise, your grandmother’s gift
skipping a generation?
I suppose I have to accept it,
accept that you now attend school all day,
that you know how to use a computer,
type your name on Daddy’s iPod,
and know all the words to Mama’s favorite songs,
and that, before I even blink,
you really will be seven.
Riona, My Angelic Baby
Your eyes are darker than your sisters’
though still hazel
you peek them out of your
falling-in-your-face golden strands of hair
and tap my knee relentlessly,
“Mama, Mama, Mama,” until
I can’t help but look, smile at
your imploring expression,
and agree with your request
to play Polly Pockets with you in the green room.
You stop midway—
it’s time to cuddle in my lap,
thumb in mouth,
on the pillows that you have already
set up for us.
I love you to pieces
even when you adamantly refuse
to even taste the broccoli on your plate,
waiting… waiting… waiting
to stick out year lip
and let out your cries
when I won’t dismiss you
I love you to pieces
because you are my last,
my baby,
my youngest daughter,
and everything that you do,
from diligently stacking blocks
to asking me for a nose kiss
to insisting that you sleep blanketless
is pure beauty in my eyes.
You are three now,
and as we cuddle,
I wonder how long this will last,
knowing that it will never be long enough,
that you will grow and take
those mercurial eyes
to school,
to work,
to the altar…
but for now, I still
have you tapping my knee,
begging me for attention,
and I know that I must do
whatever is in my power
to give you my all.
