my mother, poet

For all it's flat boring sameness, Rochy was a creative oasis for Marj. Ingo Kleinert began teaching evening art classes at the high school and Marj was in like a flash. She painted in oils and acrylics; still life and landscape with brushstrokes thrown on the canvas in a rush of inspired energy and with a sense that she must capture the moment quickly, before it was gone.

She was writing poetry too. She'd studied the greats in teacher's college, but now her own poems burst forth. Many years later, after she was moved into a nursing home, we found them in every kitchen drawer, bedroom cupboard and wardrobe— even in the laundry basket. I carried away three Hong Kong bag-fulls to stow in my garage. Some one else would have thrown away these precious reminders that poetry is everywhere, but I kept every scrap of envelope and shopping list they were scrawled upon — for me each hurried scribble was not just a symbol of her creative spirit, but confirmation that if it existed within her, then it could blossom within me as well. 

One Xmas when my kids were still little, I put a selection of them together in a small photocopied booklet tied with pink legal ribbon and sent copies out to family and friends. Marj had never gotten round to sending her poems out for publication, and later I saw this as one of my duties, only somehow I didn't get around to it either. This booklet was the closest I got.

Rain

day upon day upon night
the lashing rains

the spouts pour over
the lawn is a sea

the ferny asparagus
golden yellow and lacey

waving this way and that
like tangled seaweed

sucked by the currents



Creek

bare willows
mirrored in swollen waters
racing down
to join the river

eddies, whirlpools, effluents
off-white foam
carving out cliffs
weathering rocks
and huge slabs
of erosion-saving granite

at these times
it is always so pleasant
to go to sleep
with the living creek
bursting
through the window


Have You Done Your Jams?

I have just waxed down
15 pots of plum
12 of rasberry
done the washing
done the ironing
done the dusting
and til 12 pm I'll be busy with the fridge
and of course the watering too

Thursdays I do all the plug holes
Fridays I ask Our Lord for forgiveness
Saturday I belt the old man up with the pick