Category Archives: Poem for my mother.

My Mother’s Heart. Every Mother’s Heart.

Posted on by
10

It is a muscle that flexes,

always.

 

I break open her chest

with the sign of the cross

 

and knead gently between

the tightened beats.

 

It is toned

but rarely down.

 

When it is pulled and

ridden like a Charlie horse,

 

I pray for the hands of a masseuse

and elbows of grease.

 

I search for the pressure points

and work on the knots,

 

my praying hands

the only conversation between us.

 

My fingers rub in warm oil

on the sticky hinge

 

and her valve swings

freely open.

 

My mother’s heart rarely

skips a beat,

 

but at times carries a murmur,

a fluttering through each chamber.

 

My mother’s heart enlarges

and at times adopts an arrhythmia.

 

I pray for a peace-maker

to be sewn in to set a new pace.

 

I pray for the steadiest of hands

and the guidance of the Great Physician.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My mother is now with the Great Physician. Although I gave her Charlie horses at times, God was gracious to give me moments of massage with her before she died. I am so grateful for my mother’s heart which represents the hearts of all mothers.

Under The Sycamore. A Place of Grateful Rememberance

Posted on by
2

It is tall

and stretches to the heavens.

It is solitary and strong.

 

The leaves unfurl late

and wither early

with fashion and grace.

 

They dangle around

the solstice

like light green earrings.

 

Its bark breaks

at the hips

and peels

to reveal a smooth

decoupage of earthy pastels.

Tan and light brown on ivory

are the shades of color

I long to climb.

Those branches are beyond reach

and slippery as silk.

I will look up through the freckled limbs though,

and see clouds passing

like time,

and sky, blue, unending

like a patch of eternity.

 

What remains of my mother will be placed deep

into the humus to compost

with shards of fallen bark.

Death on death will serve nutrients into the roots.

I am thankful for place,

this place.

I will visit

and till memories into the soil

and grow up

again and again.

Time for a Nap

Posted on by
1

We were tired.

We were asking for traveling mercies.

What was once “not yet” became “come”.

We waited with the Lord.

But we drifted.

 

We didn’t want to nod off.

She loved to watch us.

So many scenes of cracked light

upon our beds.

Her shadow covered

us as a blanket.

 

A role reversal,

our silhouettes longing

to rest upon her chest.

Our ears pressed

against her last heartbeat.

 

 

 

 

Parting is such sweet sorrow.

© Gerald Allen Barrett and parentheticallyspeakingin3d, 2012.

 

 

Monday Mourning, After the Sun Went Down.

Posted on by
7

It is another Monday.

Most of the out-of-towners

have gone back to their life.

 

My son and I watched

a blood orange sun

disappear beyond the edge

of the earth.

Near the end

it appeared bigger

and sunk faster.

 

It was like the death

of my mother.

At the end we stared.

We counted her

freckles and wrinkles

and the rise and fall of her chest.

 

At the time it seemed like eternity,

but now the memory is a short journal entry.

It is like taking out a granite tablet

and jotting down her life in a sentence.

 

The beauty was fleeting

and we wanted to touch it.

There was once a big moon

as big as a get-well balloon.

There was a big sun

as big as a farewell.

 

© Gerald Allen Barrett and parentheticallyspeakingin3d, 2012.

Liquid Pearls.

Posted on by
6

It’s not that I don’t want to.

The mix isn’t right.

Too much salt.

I’m dried up…

But I don’t want to be.

 

The after burn is gone.

No tracks to trace.

No liquid pearls.

At one point in each visit

our eyes would well.

 

We sat across the table

and shared life stuff.

We wouldn’t wipe them.

We would pluck each

others, like grapes,

and set them gently down.

 

No allowing them to run away.

We would cup our hands

under each others chin

and let them fall.

 

It was then I could see

her face in my hands.

My reflection revealed

in her pool of tears.

 

She drew mine to her mouth

and sipped with a smile.

I laughed and washed

my face with her liquid salt.

 

When I was a child she used to say, “Oh, dry up!”  Yet, since we became more than mother and son, our tears often entered our conversations.  She no longer said, “Oh, dry up!” but joined with me and I with her.  I know I wasn’t the only one who sat across from her at the table of tears AND laughter!

© Gerald Allen Barrett and parentheticallyspeakingin3d, 2012.

Sunday Rest

Posted on by
6

The sun yawned it’s roundness.

The cardinals sung unto the Lord,

and the stars faded into the brighter blues.

Another dark night of the soul receded.

 

She lies sipping on air

and rolls ice chips with her tongue.

A foot tapping and arm twitch

under linen veneer.

 

She, in her bed,

can’t even get up on the wrong side.

But she whispers sweet everythings

in our ears.

 

She sleeps in pieces

and heavenly peace will come.

Time stutters and mumbles

while we circle her.

 

The waiting room cools

as the mourning star moves over.

Evening vespers settle in

and we tuck her in again.

 

 

For My Mother.

 

© Gerald Allen Barrett and parentheticallyspeakingin3d, 2012.

Touch

Posted on by
4

I held the Kleenex and she blew.

The temptation was to command, “again.”

She always said “again”

when I was runny-nosed boy.

 

I put a dot of balm on my pinky

and glided it onto her mouth.

She used to orbit her lips

with a red stick while I stared.

 

I touched her toes,

one little piggy at a time.

She counted all mine

when I arrived fifty years ago.

 

I held her hand and counted freckles.

Some were age spots now.

My finger touched the giraffe spots.

There is one on my arm too.

 

I combed her hair with my fingers

and she calmed down,

down like her eyelid’s slow descent.

Tears descended as I closed mine.

 

 

For my mother.

 

© Gerald Allen Barrett and parentheticallyspeakingin3d, 2012.

 

 

Hall Light

Posted on by
9

 

She dozed off in a Stryker bed.

Her head tilted and cricked.

She mumbled and snored a bit.

It was an afternoon nap

and we just were.

 

Might I stay until bedtime

to tuck her in and say a prayer?

I’ll leave the light on and the door cracked.

I could be just down the hall

beneath that same light.

 

“Oh Father,

Come to her in her dreams like the daddy

she once adored.

 

Oh Jesus, take her hand,

like the big brother she once looked up to.

 

Oh Comforter,

Lay the baby Jesus in her dreams to hold

as she did each of us in a room such as this.

 

Oh come and be the light in the hall.

Come and be the opened door.”

 

“I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, Lord, only makest me dwell in safety.”  Psalm 4:8  King James Version

 

As you have wished to us many times over;  Sweet dreams, mom, sweet dreams.

 

 

© Gerald Allen Barrett and parentheticallyspeakingin3d, 2012.