Red Writing Hood: Ad patres

This week's Red Writing Hood Challenge is an opportunity to attempt poetry. The topic is "Where I'm From" and it follows a template. It's like Mad-Libs, minus the poop jokes. As always, comments and feedback are most valued!

 


Ad patres


I am sidewalk chalk, the Crayola gasp of discovery. 

I am the dusty stucco parade of houses, the false lawns in a thirsty land.

I am the ocotillo, her prickly tentacles bewitching and true. 

I am scribbled margins and restless dreams; new houses and shadowy men.  I am dreaming Marion, knitting her black afghan in the shadows..

"Be the hands that are missing," they say. "Remember that you represent our household," they chide. 

The sublime grace of the Frozen Chosen.

The sun cracks the desert floor like a piecrust, but I am the prairie's relentless chill. I am tamales and green jello-- big sky and big shoulders.
 
I am my grandmother's education, cut short and tied like sausages. I am the square carpenter's pencils, these stern lead fence-posts. I am the evening snoozes in the armchairs, the silent, ponderous yearnings. 

I am their perfect, singular bubble. Drifting, iridescent, and full, they watch me, whispering their hopes into the wind.

I  float, as soft as a dream, until I meet them in the sky.

Like a Black-Eyed Susan

Because there are some amazing writers out there, such as Aging Mommy and The Mother Load contributing to The Red Dress Club's call for poetry, I thought I would give this a whirl.

The poem is meant to be narrative and about a family dynamic. I cheated and used the Pantoum poetic form, because I need structure in my life. Desperately.

Please be kind. I'm very insecure about my poetry.

Like a Black-Eyed Susan, 

Our bright-eyed second born.

Neglected in the garden, 

He defiantly seeks the light.  

Our bright-eyed second born, 

A young, tenacious sprout.

He defiantly seeks the light,

Digging deep, he fights.

A young, tenacious sprout

Amongst older, preening plants

Digging deep, he fights.

He's an eruption of gold life. 

Amongst older, preening plants,

(Now they're neglected in our garden), 

This eruption of gold life!

Is our Black-Eyed Susan.

In Honor of National Poetry Month...

I'm not the poet of the family. My brother, Tom, is

http://tomjmohrman.blogspot.com

See?

Tom takes moments and turns them into transcendent threads of gold. He writes about things that are too scary to express--depression, solitude, regret.

He also writes about his music. Mostly, though, he writes about his lady friend, Emily.

It's a pretty wonderful part of my day to log onto my account and see a new poem waiting for me to unwrap like a present.

In honor of National Poetry Month, Tom is attempting to write a new poem for every day of the month. So, in an attempt to support his action, I'm going to attempt to write a real poem, today.

This is so out of my comfort zone.

Whisper

I whisper prayers in the darkness,
"Please God, please let him sleep tonight."
Let us all get the rest we need,
so that during the next day I don't feel like Sisyphus,
pushing two boys up the same hill.
I whisper prayers when Paul goes on his long runs,
a mere speck, trudging past makeshift memorials,
flowers and teddy bears, commemorating the less fortunate.
I whisper prayers when the anger courses through my veins,
when all I want to do is slap that small, curious hand,
or literally shake sense into that developing mind.
I whisper prayers when I look in the mirror,
seeing the wrinkles in my smile,
the dark circles under my eyes,
the persistent jiggle around my middle.
I whisper prayers when I'm alone,
because my heart is somewhere else,
and I must protect it.
I whisper into the cosmos,
hoping that the words take flight,
and serve their divine purpose.