They put a black rose on my door

I don't talk about this much but today just seemed right to share my motherache. We lost both our 5th and 6th child, the last of our children, both girls, to separate in utero trauma. I have pictures of them but they are too vulnerable to share. The skin had not fully formed yet, and it makes me feel I need to protect them all the more. 

But they had little wrinkles on their knuckles. Seeing that was like a grapefruit spoon to the heart, or whatever part it is that hurts so bad when you see a tiny helpless being, your being, who you would give the world for and whom you can do nothing to save. A person who should grow up to annoy and worry you, but won't. 

Both little ladies were ironically the same gestational age when they passed away. But their causes of death were different. And we never found out what exactly happened with either. Here's more on that and a poem I wrote for Mary Therese. 

I got an infection, I think Strep B, no one ever said, with my Mary Therese. My water broke. She was alive and kicking right up to the end as my fluid leaked out and there wasn't a thing I could do to stop it. The doctor didn't catch it in time and it was mostly gone when he did. 

I felt when the fever broke and Mary Therese kissed me goodbye. I almost voluntarily checked myself out of life that day. I had a loving husband and darling children. But the pain burned so bad I thought it would devour me. Then Our Lady sent St. Teresa of Avila to talk sense into me. 

I know, it sounds insane. But I saw them both, plain as day. Maybe it was the delirium of the fever. Or the pain. It wasn't the drugs because I couldn't keep anything down. They would have let me have it because she was going to die anyway, they said. That could have been more tactfully said but I was past caring. 

And she did pass, but only after patiently keeping her mama company all that long, horrible night. The whole family was there, all night to say goodbye to baby sister. Big Sister Molly stayed awake the entire time and only fell asleep when Mary Therese left us to go to heaven. 

Maybe I just want to believe that heaven cares, that this is not the end, that I will hold my children again. You're darn right I do. Not much point in anything otherwise. 

They put a black rose on my door, in the maternity ward. To say, no baby here, nothing to see, just move along. 

Here's a poem I originally wrote for Associated Content for my little Mar. I wasn't ever going to name a baby after me, but somehow that name just seemed to fit her. Daddy wanted her to take part of Mama to heaven. Mary Therese's birthday and death day were January 5, 2001.

Waterlily Rose Maid

her eyes, green-gray, still waters, do not cry

not mirror nor window of soul-dark spaces

guardians hold prisoner, secrets shy

in soft tranquil deep and twilight traces

her skin, like dogwood blossoms translucent 

rose petal fair and water-lily pale 

heaven-bound as nimbus, storm-cloud spent 

fresh as a lamb, nested quiet in vale

no tears descend this tender, pallid cheek 

no sorrow escapes this unworldly maid 

no companion shares nor solace does seek 

perfect in slumber, unmoving and staid

Silent in her grave, somber and death-cold 

Never to feel pain, nor warmth of mother's arms enfold.

I wrote this a few years ago, in a darker place. Now I know that you will feel our arms, baby. I think in some way you already do. 

Love always, mama. 

Quirky verse of write and wrong

(This is Mord. Mord judges. He also forgets to wind in his tongue. We like Mord, judgmental dweeb that he is.)

wrong or right 

good or bad

down or up

happy or sad

upside right

wrong side out

topsy turvy 

smile or pout

why'm I asking

what's it about?

seeking answers

or confirming doubt?

maybe answers 

aren't wrong nor right

perhaps the questions 

aren't black or white?

lets flip queries

so answers come round

or we may find no 

answers to be found

what say we mix 

contrasts a bit

reframing them not

as polar opposite 

the snarky zebra

in a poem by Shel

parsed the dilemma

I thought quite well

on color of stripe

was he white on black

or black against white

he retorted back

are you good with bad 

or mostly the latter?

Happy with sad times

and does it matter

I'm a bit of both

in my wide open mind

and all of the above

plus some undefined

rage with spendour

sun alongside rain

round with sharp edges

going against the grain

angst and sangfroid

going slowly fast 

arrive to depart

first things come last

then the puzzle of

lexicology 

rewording rightly

to order priority

not right or wrong 

but help or harm 

within or withheld

left cold or kept warm

of conjunctions 

carefully choose 

and, but, or matter

which one you use

safe and secure

cherished and dear

mother and child

no room for "or" here

to bring it all round

let's end with fun

in silly contrasts 

here's the first one

pond scum green, do not drink

child's tights in sky blue pink

plaid jumper with odd socks

day-glo night of diamond ink

so much for my write and wrong

here ends sermon and the song

I'd more to say but I forgot

next time won't you sing along

The ceremonial supper summoning dance

All is calm in the house

save keyboard klackety-kiss

no creature was stirring 

ah sweet peaceful bliss

then thump-whump tippy tap

pitter kitty -pat-pats

meorowy serenade 

of two hungry little cats

Their litany opens with 

ritual dinner dance

summoning food gods with

tandem ceremonial prance 

paw two three four swish

up two three four bump

minor fall,  major lift

the arabesque counter jump

gratuitous reminder nips

and clawing of the knees

less of the Grand Guignol

dear brutes if you please

snapping "it's only half past"

you cant' be hungry yet

if I feed you early 

that is all that you get

oh, very well, have at it

in life three things abide 

death, taxes and needy cats

from them you cannot hide

slipper shuffle scuffle 

opening tins with curses 

slop slup-glupped into dishes

shuffle back again to verses  

nom-nom noise of tucking in

to their stinky fish feasts

post-prandial bathing of

two silky furred beasts 

last roundy-round with knead

as they tenderize their beds

twin VW engines snoring 

as they rest weary heads 

Eulogy to today

sun flares in great Amen

as to netherworld she goes

cosmic beach ball on lake

leaving all a flaming rose 

sunset sky afterglow 

puce and vermillion red

solar consolation gifts 

signaling time for bed

Crown Royal purple night

blankets lake back dune

spring peepers greeting 

felt caterpillar cocoon

on mouse pillow willow

from snake eyelash depends

defying laws of gravity

as in mid-air it suspends

in forest fire swamp

gilt embroidered log

diamond crusted snails trail

glimmers in gemstone fog 

molasses deep groans

from velvet butter bells

bidding us good rest 

as the Last Post knells

day neatly folds herself

in envelope of night

never to be seen again

new one dawns with light

So I shall dedicate

this poem to today 

a wholly gestalt self 

thank you for your brief stay

Nightmare Carnival Macabre

don't need no tickets

for these carnival rides 

nor the circus big top

with the heaving insides

three rings of thrills

my own funfair midway

endless freakshow parade 

greets my end of day 

organ grinder monkey

on his hurdy-gurdy 

croons nightmare lullaby 

to the clown's calliope  

show starts the moment

I close my eyes and brain

sleep finds me caged

on circus animal train

swirling tilt-a-whirl 

Hurky, jerking, twerking

wits spun out of order 

by the octopus lurking 

wish it took money

for Ferris wheel seat

So I can get off

and find my own feet

the rides that begin

must come to an end

my mind loop-de-loop

just rounds another bend 

foot stuck on the track

and here comes the train

following the leader

round the carousel again

tartan skirt stuck fast

in spinning bar stool

gladiator winding me

up to play the fool

maybe it's the zipper 

a bolt's snapped at last 

never knowing where I am

or just what has me fast 

trapped by my bad arm

dragged along the ground

oh God here we go

on the Mary-go-round

see the little dolly dance 

and vomit on the floor

has she had enough, folks 

or shall we cry for more?

shout out Himalaya!

if you wanna go fast 

faces melt like cheese toast

in the mob whizzing past

stop the Gatling guns

of the shooting gallery

I want to get out now

no more firing on me

Now playing at cranes 

losing and never won

fed them all my coin

till I have not a one

who said this was fun 

why am in this place?

mirrors only leading to

more images of my face

tiny dancer twirls

for the girl who owns

revolves upon toes

crumbling her bones

ballerina coffined 

in the jewelry box 

entombed by the child

with keys to the locks

clown in the torn skirt

and the Mr. Punch mask

contorting balloon dogs

is his happy task

with this Pied Piper

marionette frog march

down tunnel of love

to hell's marble arch

beckoning with candy floss

so sweetly he does urge

behind Spartacus smile

we don't see his scrouge 

nightmares so violent

they threaten sanity

if I told they'd lock me

up and throw away the key

This started as a nature poem, sigh. 

 

On stopping by a diner with kids

Long road trip overtired crabby kids in need of sustenance, stopping by a diner on a snowy night in the middle of nowhere. A proper greasy spoon,  open 24 hours where the waitress is insulted if you call her a server and wears a proper waitress uniform with the orthopedic shoes. 

She's been serving people since before they put the new highway in, when the place was just called Truck Stop. She  doesn't hover asking how everything is tasting every 6 seconds but keeps your coffee fresh, filled and hot and remembers each order without writing it down. She calls you "Honey" and brings extra napkins and not just one but a dish of lemon wedges for the snooty oldest teen daughter's lemon water. 

Where truckers belly up to the lunch counter, perched on red vinyl covered stools you loved to spin on as a kid.  Chatting with the waitress behind the counter with the bubbler dispensers of of temptingly colored Hawaiian Punch and Orange Hi-C.  And the dessert case with individual pieces of Saran-wrapped cakes and pies. Men apologizing for accidentally making crude references. But no one really minds and when the mouthy behavior police 9 y/o asks why he said that, you say because people just do sometimes. Mind your business, don't stare it's rude and eat your supper. 

Tired men who drive across the country and are just glad they got there in time for a slice of the rhubarb pie, special of the house. Smiling at the kids, offering them quarters for the gumball machine which you would rather they did not take and gum they need like a hole in the head. But you feel obliged to say yes, because no one wants to hurt the feelings of someone with such bonhomie. And golly he reminds you of your kooky uncle Dave, may he rest in peace. 

Most of the kids eating eff all of the canned green beans you insisted they have with their meal. And snooty teen eating NOTHING BUT broccoli to spite you because she's mad you didn't stop where she wanted to. Or some such thing. It's so hard to keep track of what they are mad at you for at that age. 

And the rest filling up on French fries and pancakes drenched and syrup then eating the jelly out of the little plastic cartons that the waitress set out for the breakfast crowd. And kids playing with salt and accidentally spilling it . And copying their father putting creamers in his eyes and saying "take me to your leader!" Worse than the children! Kids begging for ice cream with half their pancakes uneaten. The little one eating French fries off the floor. And snooty one glaring at everyone. 

Mom and dad unwinding over their coffee and hot turkey sandwiches, relaxed by food and warmed by the cozy, grilled onion ambiance. Just kind of letting the kids' chaos happen a little. No one seems to mind. Leaving the waitress an astonishingly big tip to thank her for putting up with you all. And then she comes and tells you you have the best behaved kids she's ever seen and brings them free ice cream anyway. And the kids smirking at you over their chocolate mustaches. 

Hang on to these times. Savor the memories like syrup drenched pancakes. They're gone before you even realized they were there. 

In memory of a diner called Truck Stop along U.S. 2 in Michigan's  U.P. And a waitress named Barb who charged us whole pie price rather than individual pieces which would have cost twice as much. And bringing out a massive commercial size whipped topping thingy, to boot.  And Molly, serves you right your broccoli was overcooked and you went hungry. You should have had the chicken like we said. 

Poetry metacognition

I've been asked a lot where 

I get ideas for my poems and 

I don't know how to answer without

sounding fatuous or enigmatic 

or precious and tiresome 

To say I don't know is truth and lie

Can you know and not know

Or maybe you don't recognize

till you do and then you knew

you knew them all along? 

So I just start writing and see where it goes

Usually I end up more scribe than author

for there is an impetus I can't name 

that drives my thoughts and my pen

like spirit writing advertised at seances

What I've learned is that poems 

don't come from the atmosphere 

they don't grow on a tree like

ripe peaches waiting to be picked

if anything, poems pick you 

Mine come from muscle memory

and kneejerk responses and too long

silenced grief and frustration and 

feelings forced into tiny envelopes 

that can't hold them and split 

like a rug you stumble over because

too much litter has been swept under it

They source from my mind tree's trunk 

and course through my like sap in heartwood

They're don't come from or through, they are me.  

Some verse bursts like a lanced boil

others leak out in weeping you can't hide

some bubble up like a well tapped

others sit and stew, marinating this 

the time comes for them to speak out 

One thing I know for sure is you 

have to write when it's time. Don't push down

go big and deep and loud. Say stuff that 

might sound silly. Don't just say it, 

spray it like a huge graffiti mural

Don't let the hakken-kraks hush you 

don't second-guess or back down

it's poetry and there are no wrong ones

save those you don't give voice

that would be the real tragedy