Tag Archives: wisdom

Listen to your Momma

He took the boy child’s face
between strong hands,
ones rough from painting walls,
pounding fence posts . . .
man hands – nothing soft about them.

“Boy, don’t ever treat women with disrespect,
but never, ever treat your Momma
that way.  She carried you,
gave you life, bore those labor pains
so you could live . . .

Listen to your Momma, and your Sister,
so when you grow older
women will love you
because you hear what they say
and understand.

He didn’t know if he deserved those words –
for they were words that
had never crossed his father’s lips,
and couldn’t be sure he deserved.

Even yet, the boy stored the words
inside his young heart.
And though he made mistakes here and there,
he became a man of shining example.

.

Which am I

Once so cautious
to speak my mind,
and acknowledge that more
existed than fear
behind these placid spheres
of liquid knowledge.
Past points of confusion,
round dimly lit corners
of despair –
I seek the faint glow
of illumination
through phosphorescent images
of truth and understanding.
Pretending an ignorance –
false and impure
so as to protect
a fragile ego
from being trampled
by those more powerful
more forceful and strong,
but ignorant nonetheless
or their callous branding
of silence of stupidity.
Now, to speak vehemently
in more persuasive tomes
about subjects familiar
and search for comprehension
among vacant minds
peering in bleak dismay
as they seek to absorb
my convoluted logic –
am I the trampler
or the tramplee?
Have I, in my eloquence,
become more stupid
than I was before . . .
as I attempt to spread
purity and wisdom
among fellow blind souls?

 

Alta

Crone rocking the hours by,
worn wicker caressing
tissue paper thin skin.
Watching life’s passages
on the tiny porch of
the long closed general store
as dust stirs in whirlwinds
kicked up from pickups
tearing up dirt roads.

To some a forgotten relic
but I, all of five,
sat by her feet,
little legs dangling off the stoop,
hoping to absorb, perhaps by osmosis,
wisdom, stories, gentle words,
knowing she was safe –
too battle scarred by life’s trials
to inflict fear upon the innocent.

Children, grandchildren, great
grandchildren, great great grandchildren,
coming from her loins,
she populated most of the valley,
while many went on to lives
of their own choosing.
needing occasional reminders
she still remained.

Breasts gone, they thought
cancer would rob her womanhood,
but she defied their projections . . .
the old woman
with the name of a foregone era
still measured her life
by the rock of her wicker chair
and remembered far more
than most would forget . . .
and I sat in awe.