CREEK ROAD GANG
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Kate Lydon: 5 Poems
copyright 2010
Magill Road
In the time when every sentence
began with the word Mommy,
I spread the ABC quilt under the blooming cherry
in front of the house where I thought we'd live forever.
We snacked on graham teddy bears, my little ones and I.
I told them stories, sang with them, wiped their faces.
Then I lay back, looking up
at the flurry of falling pink petals,
my arms full of cuddles and giggles,
rich beyond my wildest dreams.
Dad
Surely God will hold you close,
safe in the loving cradle of his hand,
even as you still laugh in my heart,
telling jokes, playing catch, reading me the sports page.
And I won’t think of physics,
black holes, galaxies,
stars of solar systems far beyond my reach,
of alien life, of staggering vastness –
thoughts that whittle at
the simple, trusting faith we shared
when I knelt by your side
as you taught me to pray.
In My Mother's Kitchen
Past counters strewn with trivets of my childhood,
barefoot across the cool ceramic floor,
I step from one island,
warm and comforting,
to the next –
on area rugs we should remove, they say,
lest she trip.
Through the dark, 4:23
glows red from the clock on the stove.
I still smell the soup we made
for last night's supper,
full of vegetables we chopped together,
she helping against my protest
just an hour after she came home from the hospital.
Leaning against the kitchen door,
I look through the panes
at bare trees against a blush of retreating cloud,
and past the porch, the full moon,
a luminous will-o'-the-wisp,
casts a foggy glow
through mesh of branch.
Still on patrol,
I listen
to my mother's sleeping breath,
six nights past bypass,
as she dreams once again in her own home.
White Rose
Last night you brought me
two dozen long stem roses,
pink, white, yellow, red.
I clipped an inch off
stems of twenty-three,
arranged the flowers
filling the elegant vase
you gave me last year.
Pale twenty-fourth,
my favorite,
stem broken, petals opening,
sits in an old jelly jar
on the windowsill over the sink,
its perfume rising to me
over soap bubbles this morning
as I wash the breakfast dishes.
Mirror Glance
This face has been with me
through thick and thin
sometimes chubby-cheeked
sometimes revealing cheek bone
pale and demure
flushing
smooth and soft
acne-pocked
character-lined
wrinkling
revealing
many years now.
It serves me well.
I see no reason
to decorate
contour
color
emphasize
disguise.
It speaks for itself
is good enough
for me.
In the time when every sentence
began with the word Mommy,
I spread the ABC quilt under the blooming cherry
in front of the house where I thought we'd live forever.
We snacked on graham teddy bears, my little ones and I.
I told them stories, sang with them, wiped their faces.
Then I lay back, looking up
at the flurry of falling pink petals,
my arms full of cuddles and giggles,
rich beyond my wildest dreams.
Dad
Surely God will hold you close,
safe in the loving cradle of his hand,
even as you still laugh in my heart,
telling jokes, playing catch, reading me the sports page.
And I won’t think of physics,
black holes, galaxies,
stars of solar systems far beyond my reach,
of alien life, of staggering vastness –
thoughts that whittle at
the simple, trusting faith we shared
when I knelt by your side
as you taught me to pray.
In My Mother's Kitchen
Past counters strewn with trivets of my childhood,
barefoot across the cool ceramic floor,
I step from one island,
warm and comforting,
to the next –
on area rugs we should remove, they say,
lest she trip.
Through the dark, 4:23
glows red from the clock on the stove.
I still smell the soup we made
for last night's supper,
full of vegetables we chopped together,
she helping against my protest
just an hour after she came home from the hospital.
Leaning against the kitchen door,
I look through the panes
at bare trees against a blush of retreating cloud,
and past the porch, the full moon,
a luminous will-o'-the-wisp,
casts a foggy glow
through mesh of branch.
Still on patrol,
I listen
to my mother's sleeping breath,
six nights past bypass,
as she dreams once again in her own home.
White Rose
Last night you brought me
two dozen long stem roses,
pink, white, yellow, red.
I clipped an inch off
stems of twenty-three,
arranged the flowers
filling the elegant vase
you gave me last year.
Pale twenty-fourth,
my favorite,
stem broken, petals opening,
sits in an old jelly jar
on the windowsill over the sink,
its perfume rising to me
over soap bubbles this morning
as I wash the breakfast dishes.
Mirror Glance
This face has been with me
through thick and thin
sometimes chubby-cheeked
sometimes revealing cheek bone
pale and demure
flushing
smooth and soft
acne-pocked
character-lined
wrinkling
revealing
many years now.
It serves me well.
I see no reason
to decorate
contour
color
emphasize
disguise.
It speaks for itself
is good enough
for me.
Biographical Note:Kate Lydon is a storyteller, writer and editor who also hires out as an adjunct professor. She grew up along the rocky coast of Massachusetts, but has lived most of her life amid the trees of Pennsylvania. Daughter of a man who made the best donuts in the world and a woman who acted out Macbeth and read poetry for her children, Kate is the oldest of five, and thus is prone to giving advice. However, her husband, two children, two cats and one dog, independent souls all, pay scant attention, and so she writes. Kate’s
satirical murder mystery, Off
Center, is now available through Amazon’s Kindle Store. She is currently working on another novel, as well as a book of stories. See the Prose Author Index for links to some of her stories.
