Page Three

Grandmother's Attic

As early as nine, my imagination
Had a life all planned from beginning to end,
And I fed my dreams with the expectation
Of a heritage upon which I'd depend;
But a family sparce and repeatedly moving
Gave me a background so sporadic
That where I came from, there was no proving,
For Grandmother didn't have an attic.

As I entered womanhood, unprepared
With a sense of history or past tradition,
And found no knowledge I might have shared
To explain the task of the adult condition,
I suppose I wondered who had gone before
To prepare for me what was automatic,
But I only felt separation more,
For Grandmother didn't have an attic.

As I raised all my children alone
And looked for a link I could recognize
From the past to the present, I could not condone
How dispossessed we were in my eyes.
So I concluded it was left to me
To create some pattern, strong and emphatic,
And set some tradition for my own to see,
For Grandmother didn't have an attic.

Now I admit I didn't get the job done;
My children have grown to drift and wander
With no set loyalties, as each one
Finds past and present all time to squander.
But if I had found what I hoped for then,
Would I pass it down and be democratic,
Or keep my silence and lose it again?
I'm a grandmother now, and I have no attic.

All Groan Up

You'd lie and never show it When you were just a kid. I didn't always know it, But you thought I did. And now you tell me openly The things you pulled in youth, Imagining that I can see The humor in your truth. I'm shocked and never show it Now that I'm getting old. I think you ought to know it Much better wasn't told. But now I tell you honestly And lay to rest the rumor Your tales may be the death of me. The truth is in your humor.

A Lesson in Excuses of Married Men

I shot an arrow at the sky, It hit a man and made him die, For such a careless loss I cry Who did this wretched thing? Not I. I shot an arrow in the air, It pierced a tree and dangled there, And as I turned to leave, I swear The tree was better off. I care. I shot an arrow at the floor, It disappeared forevermore. Oh never, though I may implore, Allow me what I had before. If you chose the first or second, You're the man I thought I reckoned, But you say the third is good. I would leave you if I could.

A Bad Child Comes of Age

Back in the forties when I was a child,
Playful behavior was labled as wild.
Father would glower and Mother would glare.
I, in my corner, would sit on a chair.
Children were there to be seen and not heard,
Clean and obedient, never absurd,
So Father in temper and Mother in stress
Kept me from causing a godawful mess.
Truth was required, respect at all times,
Wastefulness, sassing and sloth were all crimes.
Father by shouting and Mother by tears
Kept me in line for a good many years.
Bullied to silence and threatened with hell,
Acceptable child I was not! I knew well
Consistence in parenting, all else above.
How strangely the only thing missing was love.

Back in the sixties, when put to the test,
With children abundantly I had been blessed.
Racked with confusion and riddled with guilt,
The role was ingrained that I played to the hilt.
Whether by pity or whether by scorn,
Acceptable children I just hadn't borne.
I glowered, I shouted, my temper was mean,
But laughed at them, loving them lots in between.
Whether by accident or by design,
The voice most ignored had turned out to be mine.
I could be surly or I could be faint,
But I couldn't raise any child to a saint.
To kiss them and curse them, confusing as hell,
When gentle reproach might have served me as well,
Consistency died, but resulting therof,
They tell me the thing they remember is love.

We're out of the nineties; my grandchildren three
Are already proving they're smarter than me.
I could have meddled or I could have praised,
But I leave the job to the children I raised.
Whether permissive or strict in the test,
The parents are presently doing their best.
And isn't it funny, when push comes to shove,
The only control that's still working is love.

The Fingernail Moon

When my little boy was all of three And told his innermost thoughts to me, A sliver of light was all he could see And he called it a fingernail moon. Twice he went off to determine his way, Twice he returned for a shorter stay, And once in a while, "Oh look", he'd say, "Tonight there's a fingernail moon." If sad disillusionment cannot kill, Then bitterness breaks a young man's will, Or how could he grow as distant and still By the light of a fingernail moon? Had I been less to him, had he failed To notice the care that my love entailed As the bond between us was left impaled On the point of a fingernail moon? Now that my grandson is all of three And remembers things that he hears from me, I point to the sky when I'm sure he'll see Why I call it a fingernail moon. And now, I explain to him, that I have told A secret that neither is bought or sold, You must tell it back to me when I'm old And show me the fingernail moon.

---

Plain Brown Wrapper

They made me a present of life, All wrapped in lace and batiste, Tied up with pink ribbons. I learned to untie the ribbons, And underneath there was yellow Tied up with red jump ropes. Beyond the yellow was purple, All full of stars and tearstains, Covering clean diapers, tied with More pinks and blues, more life, Then green with vines and flowers Turning darker and dying, And patchwork became the wrapping, Of Boy Scout olive, Navy blue, Burgundy velvet for a holiday and Under the patches, more life. The wrappings kept getting thinner, Ribbons turned to plain tape That I could see right through. I kept unwrapping until today When I beheld my present. Life, in a plain brown wrapper.

The Two Faces of Eve

They stand before the looking glass, The profile and the artiface; One is showing signs of wear And one a dawning clue, Imprisoned in the flesh of change, To ravages both old and strange, And no surprise to see them there, Both sorrowful and true. The first is drawn and cruelly blunt, The second, facing to the front, Is tilted back and lifted high, Presenting at its best A canvas softened in the light Of colors made to set it right And shadowed corners to apply A cover for the rest. And now the artiface is done And vanity has almost won, As if to turn another page, But turning, how the eye Destroys illusions of our pride To say there was a better side. They both become the same with age. The profile doesn't lie.

Wellsprings for Daniel

I swirled down the sink of self and through the sand and gravel, Alone along the loamy shelf in horizontal travel And down the cracks of yellow clay to cross the water table Without a second thought to say I knew I wasn't able, And over rocks and granite to the very rim of hell, With luck at least to span it to the bottom of the well. And there I lay for many years, by snow and rain renewed, With melting ice and salty tears to compensate for food, Until the levels of the wells had risen as by flood, So vertical ascent compels rebirth in softened mud. I left behind what used to be my shallow, faulty shelf That shifted, so I wouldn't see exclusively myself. And from the waiting, now I know I poured myself away Quickly, in an even flow, the way you do today. But if we search the water's edge for peacefulness within, It never comes without a pledge to leave what we had been. To find it there when youth is done, in that we cannot trust. We'll rise again to live, my son, but only if we must.

Love and the Necessaries

When we were Doris Day'd to death, I wanted love with all my breath. No matter how I wished for it, It kept me waiting then. When we were Meryl Streep'd to tears, It left me after several years. No matter how I longed for it, It never came again. It's when you have the most belief That life will come and bring you grief. Oh, let me have the room for it And something else to save. It's when you plan the most to do That death may come and threaten you. Oh, let me have the time for it And violets on my grave.

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