FRIDAY SCHOOL

John inspired this Friday's assignment with his poem HOUSEGUEST. I asked everyone to choose a family member and write a poem. Please feel free to submit at any time.


My mother
by Gabrielle

My mother is
the strongest one.
"Your grandfather
wanted a boy."
she told me.
So he made
her work like one.
She married young
to escape,
and then her husband died
at 27.
She married again
to give my brother and sister
a father,
and then her husband got MS
at 48.
For 26 years she has cared for him.
She bathes and lifts him
"Its a good thing I'm strong,"
she told me
and goes back to work
on heavy things.




**************


Uma
by Susan

I have never written a poem for my mother.

I have been cradled
in those strong arms
and bathed her lap in my tears
countless times.

I have carried my insecurities forth
in small whispers
holding them with tiny child fingers
wide eyed
and fearful.
I have held them out to her
like shattered bits
of a favorite toy
and watched her
mend them
into a workable revision
of themselves.

I have never written a poem for my mother.

I have laughed until breathless.

I have played through hours with her
while driving down highways
wearing masks to amuse strangers,
while driving down causeways
seeing pictures in clouds,
while driving down small avenues
passing Easter eggs
to unsuspecting Sunday faces.

I have ached in her presence
and her absence.
I have screamed to have her near me
and to make her leave.
I have rebelled against devotion
and withered with abandonment.

There are moments, days
when I hear her voice in mine.
There have been
and will be
factions of me breathing her breaths
fearing her fears
smiling her joy.

It seems so fragile, this.

I have never written a poem for my mother.

I am so afraid
to make a scrapbook
of our lives.

I am afraid to cheapen
what we have paid for dearly
with rage and blood and time.
I do not want
my stories to become old stories
to be told without emotion
on a porch
with lemonade.
I love the vivid, shocking contrast
of our feast and famine.

I am afraid to dull
what we have shined to brightness
with love and joy and time.
I do not want my memories
to be yellowed pages
clad with letters.
I do not want emotions
bottled up in words.
I do not want reduction
to a well-bound leather volume.

I am so afraid
to make a scrapbook
of our lives.



***************

THE V.F.W. HALL
by John



The men at the V.F.W. hall
stir the cabbage, sweat and season
the meat. With their stub cigars
dying under their noses and t-shirts
worn proudly with spaghetti sauce,
they joke-laugh-choke and spit into the sink.

The women at the V.F.W. hall
staple paper covers upon
soiled tables, smoke low-tars
and fold napkins into skirts.
They volunteer for a good cause
and the bartender tips them with a drink.

The child at the V.F.W. hall
stares into the jukebox song
numb to laughter and talk of wars
and wars and wars. Nothing hurts
which is not understood. A pause
between the circle of the sound in sync.


********************

WHEELS
by Andrea


I was four and wore your old outfit
carousel ponies up and down the top
"Soon you will be in Kindergarten
take the training wheels off"

You were seven and gave your old bike
Pedals worn going up and down the block
"Soon you will be flying on your own
but I have to let go first"

You forgot to show me how to stop


******************

UNCLE

by Monica

the
hours added up
over thirty-four years
equal one day we've spent
together. i know you
despite not knowing you
common heritage is both
treasure and curse
sheilded from your influence
but
one
can't
fight biology

***********************

My Brother

by Marianne

Courage of a Wounded Warrior,

Strength of a Knight In Battered Armor,

Wisdom of a Great and Gentle King,

Compassion of a Saint,

All these things I see in you,

Make me proud to call you,

My Brother, My Friend

Marianne Fuchs

July 17, 2006