Text of Poems - Children and Childhood

49 Elm Street

High on the hill amongst the trees
Rich brown stained clapboards
Rolling front lawn
Dark screened porch surrounded by
Succulent white berried bushes and blue rhododendrons.

Elm and chestnut leaves swirled and crunched as we made our way up the long driveway
Chinked river stone foundation, and ominous little door to the basement
The creak of the wooden screen door
The back foyer filled with gadgets, glass bottles, paper bags, tools
Hundreds of rubber bands stretched over the glass doorknob.

The kitchen redolent of Marlboros and Ivory soap
Wainscoting softened by repeated paintings
Whistling tea kettle, small glass custard cups
Grampy eating Jello with milk and sugar
Nana making jam turnovers with the big maple rolling pin.

Delicate bone china teacups in tiny wall shelves
Coloring books and playing cards crammed into the doors of the ancient buffet
Sand filled plaid ashtrays smoldering during Red Sox games
Dusty rays of sunlight in Grampy’s book lined study
Bubblebaths in the enormous claw footed tub.

The endless mysteries of Grampy’s garage
Vacuum tubes and dusty appliances that long since despaired of repair
Smooth wooden handled tools handing on pegs
Peanut butter jars filled with magic potions
Infant tomato plants in newspaper swaddling.

Clem nosing about the yard for treasure
Boisterous children rolling down the front lawn
Discovering the mysteries of the tiny patch of woods behind the house
Spider violets and raspberries, smoky piles of leaves
Sparklers and lemonade on the Fourth of July.

The wide expanse of lake dotted with skaters
Nana’s brothers and sisters, sitting in state in the living room
Cacophony of cousins at the piano beneath the small stained glass window
A Maxfield Parrish print by the door and push button light switches
Grampy singing O Holy Night, and teaching us Chopsticks
Candied fruit slices and delicate ribbon confections.

Silent empty rooms, boxes holding memories
Station wagons bearing furniture down the curving drive
The secret door and narrow treacherous stairs to the attic
A solitary bentwood chair cradling a dusty red velvet photo album
Sepia images long forgotten

Carousel

My daughter and I both listen to our blood.

She waits eagerly for its first twinge
and I wistfully for its last wail.
She squints in search of the first delicate blond hairs
while mine coarsen and silver.

She waits impatiently for her curves
while I struggle to keep them under control.
She preens coyly in front of the mirror
while I attempt camouflage.

She is frightened by her fits of temper and turmoil
as much as I am by mine.
She giggles with giddy infatuation
both recent and distant to me.

She wears my earrings in her newly pierced ears
and I wear her crystal charm for memory.
She twirls as her own carousel, blond hair flailing straight
as I take a different turn on the wheel of life.

Her eyes sparkle with the newness of living
while mine shine with steady eternal fire.

For Kari on her 13th Birthday

I am now the mother of a teenager;
a lovely girl in shabby chic and
thrift store stilettos holding peace signs.
Blissfully oblivious to the attentions of boys,
she still spends hours in front of the mirror
assembling quirky ensembles whose audacity I envy.
When she was 9,
she painted her cheeks blue and her eyelids pink.
Now, she carefully applies her liner and mascara,
but reads the ingredients, first.
She debates her teachers on the global economy,
on war and the president.
She is skeptical of everything.
 
I only hope when the hormonal poisoning sets in,
she will wield equal discretion with men.
She questions authority, but spreads affection
like flower petals on a May breeze.
Everyone is worthy of her love,
even when they are thoughtless and absent.
There is such joy and hope in her face
I hesitate to taint her innocence.
 
Will she honor her own perfection,
and guard her heart from harm?
Will I endure her tears
when the unworthy squander her gifts?
What role does a mother play
in the life of a blossoming woman?
At what pace do I step back?
With what urgency do I step in?
At what point is my experience interference?
With what glance or sigh or word
might I push her away with my love?
At what moment must I remain in the doorway
and let her flutter away?

Melk Pusset

In the aftermath of Thor’s thunder,
and bright flashes,
Kari pattered into our room,
doe-eyed and flannelled,
white bear in slender arms
to cuddle away her fears.

Snuggling her against me,
her breath calm and even
and scented with milk,
I thought of my baby girl
and our Norse name for her
and rocked her to sleep.

Snapshots of Peter

The giant soap bubbles float gently down the street
followed by a bouncing 7-year-old
dancing and waving and bobbing
and reaching for their invisible strings.

The frame of the bed is maple
and does not dent
as he grasps it firmly
and bangs his head against it
over and over and over
crying, no one loves you
you’re so stupid.

He reaches for paper, tape, paints, stamps
bringing forth with gleeful abandon
Valentines and masks and handprint turkeys
and the Ogre faces now taped to kitchen cabinets.

The carpet under his bed is toy-littered
and the Legos press into his face
and the dust chokes him
as he wedges his chest
between springs and floor
and gasps until fear makes him scream.

The intrepid superhero bounding across the street
woobie-cape flapping in the breeze
has not come to save the front yard from evil
but to plant a goodbye kiss on his mother’s cheek.

He has wrapped his blanket
over his head and around his neck
and pulled the ends tightly
hoping I won’t notice
and he panics that
I will have to cut his beloved blanket
to allow him to breathe.

The ladybug moves quietly in his cupped hands
as he carries it carefully to the garden
and sets it gently on the strawberry plants
next to the gravestone he painted for his roly-poly bug.

He has crawled into the far corner
half-buried by a pile of books
and wails and rocks and weeps.
I sit on the corner of his bed
and call to him softly
and take him onto my lap
and together, we sit and rock and weep.

The Swan Boats

Last Christmas a sister gifted me with
Make Way for Ducklings.
As I turned the pages, the images blurred as I remembered
little girls, in frilly dresses and patent leather shoes
clutching Nana’s hands and small brown paper bags
gleefully flinging peanuts to eager ducks
from the benches of the gliding boats.

Nana no longer recognizes me.
She dreams in a room with invisible bars on the door,
but her enemies are within
playing reel after reel of tortured memories
to an audience of one.

I pray for an intermission where she can see
warm spring days and adoring grandchildren
and the Swan Boats in the Public Gardens.

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