Thread: Mom's Crop

I found Mom out back,
resplendent in a battered lawn chair
admiring her crop
of eight yellow inhalers,
(Good God, she's hoarding empties)
lovingly planted
in freshly turned soil
as dark as my dread.
Orange caps
resembled warped blooms.

Dirt-encrusted
inhaler number nine
was loosely held
in her muck-covered hand,
her mouth smeared
with loam lipstick.
Seemed exertion encouraged
enough lucidity
for her to realize
she needed a puff.

Sunlight glinted off
thick glasses
sadly magnifying clueless eyes
of brilliant blue
once sharp as a hawk's.

Within three hours,
a new regime came into power
lorded over by illustrious
Dr. Everything Gonnabealright.
Wearing a smile of cubic zirconia,
he deftly scribbled a scrip
with a dainty hand
as pasty as fresh plaster.
One tablet b.i.d.,
with a full glass of water
if you please.
Hearty claps upon our backs
ushered us out the door.

She never knew
what the pills were for -
no answers could be coaxed
from lips sealed with cement -
"Just vitamins.", we told her.

Her intense dismay
at a three syllable word
found on page
twenty-six
of our paperback Webster's
tethered the truth
well within a corral of empathy;
its swinging sign proclaiming
"Leaky lips need not apply
nor are welcome."

Four years later,
I approached the subsurface abode
which was hers to share with Dad,
an almost empty vial clutched
(practically crushed)
in a clammy claw.

I tossed a perfect pink rose,
its petals still warm with
the breath of my final farewell,
onto ebony soil
recalling her plastic garden.
My sister wrestled the bottle
out of my death grip
whispering
"She doesn't need them anymore."

Most of her traits were buried
long before her body.
She passed never remembering
she had ever forgotten
and without the stigma
of a capital a
emblazoned into what remained
of her brain.

Our silence had ensured her peace
and protected what little was left
of struggling cerebral cells.



I've never once regretted it.





The fourth anniversary of Mom's passing is September 14th. Unable to write a new piece, despite countless and desperate attempts, I decided to remember her with this one which was washed away in the cleanse.

I miss you so much, Ma.

I'm touched. You have your way of reaching me. I am definetely getting back to this when I can give my utmost attention. cRaZy day!

Just wanted to let you know that this has not gone past me! Me

personally deep poetry will always move the reader.
know that it is cherished!

Dear Law, Thanks so much, really love, that you took a moment out of what obviously was a hectic day to hold my hand shows what a true friend you are. It means the world to me. Am looking forward to any particulars when time permits, you know how much I value your input.

Dear old man's dreams, Thanks so much to you also for the generosity of your words and kindness of your sentiment. Both greatly appreciated, hon.

Best,
Lisa

Dear Lisa---I know that this poem was so heartbreaking for you to write---it was heart breaking to read...You have a lot of courage to strip bare the horrible illness that is dementia ...you pulled no punches when describing the awfulness of this insidious disease ...That you could not write a new poem for the anniversary of your mother's death speaks volumes ....May you find peace, all my love---Jul

Dearest Jul, Thank you with every fiber of my being. I wrote this a little over two years ago, but it was a gift to be able to do so, to get it out. It was so sad to watch her change, I really lost the real Ma long before she actually left. The forgetfulness and confusion were so out of character, but it wasn't new news because she had three strokes back in '94 and it took her months of fighting to regain her "self". And she really wasn't that bad, she passed before the disease could swipe her slate clean. She was petrified of Alzheimer's, and she swore she had it before being diagnosed, but we just pooh poohed her and chalked it up to getting older. As long as we didn't confirm it, she could pretend. I really should make mention that Laurie's Dorothy in Anathema reminded me so much of my Ma, especially since Ma's name was Dorothy also. Striking coincidence which I couldn't relate because it made me uncomfortable. Sorry, Law, but that piece will forever haunt me, I actually heard Ma pipe up Goodnight Irene on more than one occasion. Sorry, Jul, went off on a tangent, I'm incorrigible. You're right, my inability to write another piece is telltale, I can't believe it's been four years, granted, I was in the throes of fighting for my life, but I still haven't accepted she's gone. If the phone rings early in the morning I think "It's Ma" and then I remember, and for lack of a better word, it sucks. Truly appreciate your support and love my dear friend.

Warmly,
Me

Lisa, I cheated and read down to your reply to Jul. How haunting, indeed. Seriously, I wonder if I'm what you call a "Reciever" to energy. This may sound corny to some but I do somehow pick up on others thoughts, feelings. Way too much here to be a coincidence! We are connected souls, my dear friend.

I really should make mention that Laurie's Dorothy in Anathema reminded me so much of my Ma, especially since Ma's name was Dorothy also. Striking coincidence which I couldn't relate because it made me uncomfortable. Sorry, Law, but that piece will forever haunt me, I actually heard Ma pipe up Goodnight Irene on more than one occasion.

Now to your poem which astounded me more than the the haunt.

It's so difficult to write about trauma while keeping craft firstmost in mind. I call good writing "The Marriage between the Intellect and the Emotions" or "The Left and Right Brain Dance." And you have slow danced down the page to heartbreaking music. Now, I must force myself not to gush and give you reasonable feedback concerning structure, imagery, humour and the poem's poignancy.

I found Mom out back,
resplendent in a battered lawn chair
admiring her crop
of eight yellow inhalers,
(Good God, she's hoarding empties)
lovingly planted
in freshly turned soil
as dark as my dread.
Orange caps
resembled warped blooms.

Simple enough introduction, those first two lines. But that's if you read through too quickly. What would be the lawn chair if not descibed as "battered." It would be what I would call a "beige" object. Something ordinary. (If you're reading Glass, I know you're smiling!) "battered" tells me a couple of things. Could she never part with it? Could a new one not be afforded? The power of just one adjective can strongly stir several scenarios.

admiring her crop
of eight yellow inhalers,

What a metaphor! And so striking. The mountains of what you wrote woke me up upon second read (and I really needed that because the coffee wasn't doing it for me.)

(Good God, she's hoarding empties)

Classic Lisa! Your trademark humour peppered throughout heartbreaking poems, providing us with momentary relief. The contrast also serves your poems well in that your occasional subtle, sophisticated humour points up the sad or tragic. And your personality comes through in a way I've seen no one accomplish in their writings. I am endeared to you, the writer. The woman.

Dirt encrusted
inhaler number nine
was loosely held
in her muck-covered hand,
her mouth smeared
with loam lipstick.


I fess up. I had to call on Merium. And she told me you were absolutely brilliant. What a connection made!

def/loam

1) Fertile, workable soil
3) Process of coating something

This comes very close to a double entandre. (Then I felt like I was on speed)

Dr. Everything Gonnabealright.

How could I forget to mention your great capacity for delivering the clever at just the right time. Everpresent in your work. This one is great!

Wearing a smile of cubic zirconia,
he deftly scribbled a scrip
with a dainty hand
as pasty as fresh plaster.

At first "cubic zirconia" didn't work for me at all. Maybe because I've heard it referrenced in too many poems. As well, I couldn't make the connection between the gem and a smile only because it seemed too sophomoric coming from you.

Then OMG! I'm a slow learner! cubic zirconia, a false diamond. Your mother wearing a false or unknowing smile. Maybe one of intimidation in front of the doctor. Then, thank you very much, I felt dim witted!

Just one nit. Now, doctors have power (too much) and therefore I cannot see him having "dainty" hands.

and without the stigma
of a capital a

A brilliant play on an "initial". Lower case indicating your distain for her
Alzheimer condition. Perfectly caustic! (Will you acompany me to a high hat party?)

I've never once regretted it.

This ending belongs suspended. You don't have to say anything else. I know.
This concludes my review.


About a mother's demise and the effect on her children. My mother passed when I was five. I was too young to be in touch with grief. I took turns missing her and then going into denial. But older children to adults have so many memories planted. Rooted in the heart. Your mother is clear minded now and she must be saying "That's my girl who wrote this poem for me."

If you haven't already read this book I would recommend it. 4 1/2 stars and 128 very helpful reviews. Someone gifted me this book years ago (I'd send it off to you if I hadn't lost it in one of my many gypsy moves). I found it fairly unrelatable for the reason I stated above.

http://www.amazon.com/Motherless-Dau...owViewpoints=1

A very validating excerpt from a review. I hope this and more will bring you company.

Motherless Daughters has an extraordinary way of affirming the reader and bringing comfort to the child that continues to grieve within, no matter how many years you have lived without her. The daughter learns that contrary to societal's response to the death of her mom, that it is so natural for her to continue grieving for her. This realization meant so much to me as I still deal with the impact of my mom's death. I am 23 and 12 years have passed since, yet I still often find the emptiness of losing her overwhelming.

With love, from one daughter to another.

Lisa--I hope I am not out of line if I make a comment to Silvermoon here--May I?Dear Slivermoon--I enjoyed your review of Lisa's poem almost as much as reading her poem...an intelligent review can help other readers to see deeper into the poem---or see it entirely different. Thank you for sharing. Respectfully...Jul

Thank you very much, Jul. As I mentioned in my review to Lisa, she caused me to really think. She is often very subtle and I enjoy the challenge of figuring out what she has to convey. Writing is truly about puzzle pieces. And she challenges us to finish the picture.

For certain, she received the longest review I've ever given. I guess I put my mind and my heart into it for many reasons.

If, as you said, I can help readers see deeper into her poem then I feel I have contributed at least something very important today and this fills me with a great sense of purpose.

But if not for Lisa's gift for writing I would never have written this review.

Jul, you have given me a great honor with your words. Ones which I shall cherish. Thank you, again.

Namaste, Laurie

One of my favorites of your works, Lisa, this one makes me laugh through the tears. The most wonderful gift that you gave your mom, that of dignity, is such a loving and amazing accomplishment. I am so touched by this one.

I felt that your description of the doctor and his fake smile was spot on of the type. His dainty, pasty hands gave me the image of a weak, small man, in more ways than simply the physical. A man who couldn't be bothered to really dig in and work for his patients welfare.

Kudo's sweetie.

Chester's Daughter,

I love so much of this poem, particularly the very inventive phrase "loam lipstick". "loam" (its constitutional earthiness) is an apt counterpart to "lipstick" (its cosmetic implications) in the context of "smeared". I'm also fond of "orange caps / resembled warped blooms". It is a sharp contrast between what's man-made and what's natural/pure (etc...). Not only that. It also achieves the effect of smashing together these two categories, destroying whatever keeps them separate/distinct. That's how we end up with "warped". I'm positively envious of "wearing a smile of cubic zirconia". It's remarkable how you've modified something decidedly human, a "smile", with something that's wonderfully imaginative and at odds with the pristine, sympathetic connotations we usually attach to a smile. That's what poetry is about, IMO, or that's what good poetry does: challenge our preconceptions, encourage us to recalibrate our thinking. I don't know what to suggest for your poem, for the betterment of its composition. See, I can't critique beyond pointing out the missing hyphen in "dirt encrusted" (dirt-encrusted). I typically just try to communicate what certain phrases evoke in me. I will mention that starting from "my sister wrestled the bottle" and until the end of the poem, the creativity in the descriptions of the makeshift garden is reduced to absolute fact of the perceptual eye that sees "most of her traits [were] buried / long before her body". Thanks for sharing this very impressive piece. I thoroughly enjoyed thinking about it.

Hugs to you on your loss and the memory of the pain of losing your mum twice. The poem captures vividly the decline and confusion as well as your pain, hiding the truth and watching your mum slip further away.