Haibun Monday – the only thing we have to fear…

Today I am hosting the Haibun Monday prompt. It is on fear – fear of things, fear of being out of control, fear of losing loved ones, fear – primal and raw. Come join us today.

My Mother’s Daughter
Several years ago my mother began displaying erratic and irresponsible behavior. She was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Since then it has been a downhill road – she has forgotten how to walk, often forgets she has not eaten, has become incontinent. It is heartbreaking. Especially as my mother varies between paranoid, hostile towards me, and loving mother. My husband and I have no children. We did not get married until I was 49 and he was 39. It is just us and his mother who is starting to go somewhat erratic herself.

I am afraid when I look at my mother that one day, I will be sitting in a wheelchair, in her place. I will have no one to know or to care about me except maybe a nursing home. I kept her at home as long as I could but then one day, it became evident I could no longer care for my mother. Then I was afraid of the nursing home in which to place her. But praise God, she was sent from being in the hospital to a small nursing home with only 90 beds and ten minutes from our home. I can visit her often and have formed, during her stay there since January, friendships among the staff and caring relationships with some of the residents. But I am still afraid. My past fears of clowns, losing loved ones, spiders – pales in comparison to this new fear of Alzheimers. Alzheimer’s – one of the scariest words in the human vocabulary.

spring sky turns black – storm
begins and wind blows strong – hawk
flies against the wind

dVerse Poets: Open Link Night

Come join us at dVerse to read wonderful poems by wonderful poets today at 3:00 pm EST. http://dversepoets.com/2017/01/12/openlinknight-187/

watching the trees sway

standing on my back porch
I am confronted by the potting shed
at the back of the lawn.
Nobody’s Cat,
a crippled tuxedo boy
had crawled under it Thursday evening
unknown to me,to die.
his crippled arm had been swelling
and the weather had been getting more
cruel in its cold.
I took him a plate of food,
(I had been feeding him for a year)
and he gobbled it up.
Next morning and evening,
I took him breakfast and dinner,
through a quickly deepening snow.
Sunday, he did not respond to my urget
kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty –
none of the four times I had been.
nor on Monday nor on Tuesday.
the weather had dropped to -5F for several nights running.
now I stand on my back porch
being confronted with the potting shade.
my eyes travel past it to the woods beyond
down a slight slope.
I watch the trees swaying in the wind –
it is warm today, Pneumonia Weather
as the old timers call it.
I watch the trees swaying –
delicate whites, dark umber,
bland beige, light brown.
I watch them swaying
back and forth,
back and forth.
I know in the next big wind,
some of them will go down –
some to live sideways
and some to die.

MTB: Make Music of Those Words

It’s Thursday at the dVerse Poets Pub and this Thurday, it is Meeting the Bar, which means we all write to a specific word, theme, form – given out by the dVerse Prompter. Today it is Victoria; a true lady, amazing poet, lover of her husband and their dogs, good friend, and most excellent prompter of forms or themese. Today she is asking us to write musically – to use musical terms, or a theme, or a concept – to turn our poetry, lives, experiences into music. Come join us!

New Music
today starts with the music of a
low tuned cello – slow, hesitant, dolorous.
No more lively forays into the forest
to play my violin,
to let my music dance through the trees
giving the birds something different to
listen to or sing along to –
now my days are filled with lonely hours.
No one calls,
no one visits,
no one emails.
My husband is at work.
I bake cinnamon rolls.
Now it is only my mother and myself
going through the same routine.
Routine is good for her and
doesn’t disrupt her memories.
Every day is a slow waltz –
it does get lonely.
but there is sweetness in the days as well.
a swirl of dolce de leche
in the bitter coffee of the day.
I watch my mother – calando.
The sun fades.

dVerse Poetics

Today Lillian is our host prompter.  She has given us several pictures of statues and asked us to write either as the statue, the sculptor, or other perspective.  Come visit us at:        .  I think you all will enjoy so please come and visit!

 

image courtesy L. Hallberg

image courtesy L. Hallberg


Mother and Daughter

My name is Isaak Metoyer son of Berthe Metoyer,
placee’ of Benjamin Janvier, vice president of
the Bank of Louisiana.
I am a free man of color and was apprenticed to the
stone cutter, Rene’ Dubonnet
when I was 10. It is now the year of our Lord, 1835,
and I have been doing the fancy work
for the last 10 years. I married
Clothilde Jumon. Our only daughter
died in the cholera plague two summers ago.
I have not been able to finish the statue of her
although I work when I can.
Rene’ has become older and clumsy
although he is still a master of design
and his last statue, a woman perched on the wall
in the Cemetaire St. Louis, is without peer.
I only want to finish this statue of my daughter
before her face fades from my memory.
Business is brisk due to yet another plague of Yellow John.
Our family tomb holds the body of my daughter
but there is no statue, no carving as to her birthdate
and date of death..
I pray to all the saints to finish the statue
before I die. My beloved daughter’s dear mother
is ill and I fear she will soon join our daughter
in that unadorned tomb.
I have stayed awake the last two weeks
working feverishly – the statue:
Irene sitting in her favorite pose
waiting for me to return home.
I begin to put the finishing touches onto the statue
of my daughter when Rene’ comes into the room
with tears in his eyes.  My beloved Clothilde has
succumbed to the cholera.  I polish the marble
of my daughter’s statue, emery the folds of her
little dress and pay especial attention to her
cheeks and hair.
I wonder if I will live long enough to complete
the statue of Clothilde, beloved wife and heartbroken mother,
dead at the age of 28 years.  God rest her sweet soul.
Now my two lovely butterflies shall rest together
– Irene and Clothilde – mother and daughter.
God save us all.

St. Louis Cemetery public domain

St. Louis Cemetery public domain

Quadrille Monday dVerse Poets Pub

Today at dVerse Poets Pub, Grace has given us the word “green” for the Quadrille word prompt “.  What a lovely word for the blending of late spring and early summer.  Poems must use the prompt word (title doesn’t count) in a poem of exactly 44 words – no more, no less.  I am writing this poem in memory of my friend Peggie Duggan who died a year ago May 15.  Her memory is ever green among those of us who were gifted by her light.

Tender Green
when love was green
and tenderly grew through the still
frozen ground of winter –
when green memories bloomed
in early spring frost –
I reach back to draw them near again
but they dissolve in my weeping hands
and return to sleep in frozen earth

grass shoots Public Domain Image

grass shoots Public Domain Image

 

Kyūketsuki – vampire

I am linking this to dVerse’s Open Link Night. This is a non-prompted poetry event where you can link a poem of your choice. My mother has Alzheimer’s. I am grieving.

Kyūketsuki – Vampire
the vampire is a day walker a night stalker –
I go to my mother’s room and there
he is – wrapped tightly around her
forehead against her white hair –
a look of nightmarish orgasm on his face.
Get away from my mother I shout
But he just smiles –
I don’t care who she is.
I don’t care who you are.
I don’t care about any of you except that you are my food.
I feed off your hopes, dreams, tears….memories.
I will feed until you are dead or worse than dead….
I pull my sword and as I pull it free from its shi
I see it is a plastic sword – A parody of child’s toy.
See? Nothing you can do.
I go to my mother and put my arms around her
Holding her close, trying to break his hold on her.
Her soft pansy brown eyes are blank and yet unbearably sad.
The vampire chuckles –
That was a nice juicy bit – the first time your father kissed her.
It is mine now.
But with lazy grace he decides to leave.
Next time you feel that bit of warmth on your neck remember:
It is not a spring breeze or the sun,
It is my breath as I follow you, close behind.
Now my mother’s eyes are clear and she is tired, wants a nap.
I ease her back onto her pillow and kiss her forehead, her cheeks,
Her frail hands. Be at peace mama. I’m here.
She smiles and closes her eyes.
So no one will hear, I go into the bathroom and bury my face
Into my large towel.
I sit on the toilet and howl and rock with pain
Until I can go out the door with a smile plastered on my face
And calm in my voice.
I look into the mirror and see my mother’s eyes looking back at me.
I feel the warmth on my neck and I shiver.

nosferatu public domain files

Quadrille #6

Today at dVerse Pub is Quadrille Monday. We are to write a poem of exactly 44 words, not including the title from the prompt word Grace gave us today: “twist”.  Come visit us today.  The poems are short but can be intense.  Come visit and read!  https://dversepoets.com/2016/04/18/quadrille-7/

Reality Served Shaken

At the Life Bar
Perched on a high stool
staring into the mirror
behind the bar,
I can’t see me at all.
All I can see is my mother
disappearing into the
Dementia Mists – I didn’t order but was
served bitters with a twist.

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