inside
the bubble
no one
will ever hurt her
hold
hold
hold
her there
in that smile
life
will
burst
soon
Tag Archives: children
Weekly Photo Challenge: Joy and a Poem: Joy
down, down the snowy hill
frozen giggles and mittens grabbing joy
grab it, winter girls, ride it
on sled tracks and carefree clouds
to all of your nows, laugh and again
feel the white delight of unbroken mornings
become the sky, it’s yours
enjoy the ride
Weekly Photo Challenge: Carefree
carefree mornings
sandy days, low tide children,
shadows behind
Weekly Photo Challenge: Companionable
leaning in
green grass bonds
innate companions
When Mother Gets Angry
When Mother gets angry, the children are not safe,
clinging to walls that collapse around them, crushing
childhood beneath her wrath. She roars at us, and throws
our things about, for they mean nothing to Mother
when she is mad. She’ll unleash torrents, and we will try
to hide, but Mother knows all the hiding places.
She will knock them down or flood them with her rage, until
we are gasping for air, begging Mother to forgive us.
And when she calms again, Mother is nearly silent.
She never apologizes, only watches us through cloudy eyes
as we try to pick up broken pieces of Mother’s fury.
We hold the children and shake, and try to explain, but
we can’t. Haunted by the cruelty Mother has unleashed
on some, we whisper and hope, and glance up warily.
Do not make Mother angry.
The Girl in the Purple Dress (for June)
Her name was June, but she left in May,
before the sunflowers could bloom and ask
for more days. In the stone church, whispers
spoke of the claim: cancer, a brain tumor.
Stolen summer laid her cold, draped in flowers
taken in their bloom. They would die soon.
I kept my head bowed, listened for June,
waited for the preaching, sobbing, and hymns to end.
In the front of the church, in a purple dress
with a black bow in her hair, June’s daughter sat;
I knew her well. She looked straight ahead and made
no sound, and that is why I kept my head down.
And when the cars were gone, and I was alone
I wept, and I wept to the church and through June.
The last months of her life, when the brain tumor
grasped and haunted her head, June had changed.
And her daughter, so many days, so many different
colored bows, would tell stories of the crazy things
her mom would do and stay. And it wasn’t June.
It wasn’t your Mom. I cry because we have lost
part of summer, but I weep for her girl in the purple dress,
and the June she remembered as she sat on those steps.
Frozen in the Moment
I keep them frozen in the moment of joy,
soaring through southern summer heat
with squeals and laughter that only linger
in tender youth. Their toes point like dancers,
hands reach skyward – up, up, up –
it’s all out there for them to seize,
a sky of possibilities, where each will find
her own blue, create her clouds.
Time may move, but I keep them here, safe,
in this place, where their summer days at the lake
pass gently, with joy and promise. As long as I
hold them here, in a golden frame,
they shall never be swallowed up
by the dark, cold waters beneath them.
Talking to the Clouds 