This is the poem I wrote about my fear of my son going into the military.
My Fear
It should feel soft as silk,
My fingers rake over the field of midnight blue and white
And yet
Feeling warm life’s blood under their tips
Or is it just the dampness my tears
And the raindrops make.
Cloth triangle
A Symbol
BANG, BANG, BANG
Shots fired by seven guns in unison
My ears ring, my head spins.
Seeing through veiled eyes
Roses, Lilies
And
Carnations in a display red, white and blue.
Aroma cloying sickening me
The site of them rips out my soul
Me, who always loved flowers,
Will now only see them
At this time,
In this way.
Blackness surrounds me
Engulfs me
Crepe, wool, polyester, linen, cashmere
A representation of the occasion.
Salty tears
Stream down
Dripping off my chin
Dark rectangle symmetrical
Walls of crumbly soil
Smaller rectangle draped, suspended over it
New, shiny, mahogany I believe
It’s first and only début
This is my latest poem about my family.
Jagged pieces'
Guilt tripping,
Tragedy Vampires
Each Having
Clear
Specific expectations of me
I come away.
Not a whole complete person
Instead I am shredded
into Jagged pieces.
As if they had taken what I was,
and ripped me apart.
I then spend months,
Trying to reassemble vestiges
of what I was before.
This I wrote about my childhood
Lilacs and Marshmallow’s
Running as swiftly as only a three year old can,
Down the flight of cement steps.
Past mutli-colored zinnias.
Stumbling over my burgundy “clodhopper’s”,
Lace’s flapping.
Breathing heavy with my asthmatic lungs.
Racing past my aqua blue and white swing-set,
Tears blur the colors to my eye.
Then I am at my destination,
The smell of lilacs envelops the white house.
Mrs. Miller sits in her white front porch swing.
I don’t stop for cordial welcomes,
Instead, I speed through the screen door,
It squeaks my arrival.
She follows me and I wrap my chubby arms around her waist
And
Bury my face in her apron.
She lifts my chin with her finger and wipes my tears.
She had heard my Mother’s threat
“Sheila I’m gonna whip you”
She shoo’s me under the large round oak table,
Her wrinkled hands offer me Kraft Marshmallows out of a crystal candy dish,
Blue eyes twinkling she puts her finger to her lips to tell me to hush my sobbing.
I hear her go out on the porch and the swishing of the porch swing
Suddenly I hear my Mother’s voice, loud, harsh, angry
Then Mrs. Millers calm sweet, angelic
Saying, “now Hazel you don’t wanna beat that baby”
While I watch the sun play a game of peek-a-boo with the lace.