In The Season of Tissues

 

My mother believed,
            Well, she believed a lot of things
Like pocketbooks and shoes should match,
Lettuce must be torn and not cut,
And Richard Nixon was a crook.
But
She also believed that everything
From colds to flu
To upset stomachs
To a broken heart,
Could be mended
If not outright cured
With soda crackers and warm ginger-ale.
Toss in a couple of red and white cans
Of Cambell's chicken noodle soup
And there you'd have it,
An entire professional pharmacopeia
In a brown paper bag.

But mostly,
It was the love I remember,
The cool hand on my forehead,
The smell of Vapo-rub on my chest,
The way she'd check-in regularly,
Or let me wrap up in a blanket on the couch,
And watch her favorite soap opera,
As she ironed shirts and pillow cases.

That is why I always have soda crackers
And cans of soup in my pantry,
You never know when the most simple gesture
Will be just what the doctor ordered,
When a bit of flour and water
And a little something sweet,
Might help bring down a fever
Or lighten a burden.

I think this is why my daughter,
(who is now a grown woman living in a busy urban center)

Will still call me when she's "meepy"

Which is the word we use to describe

Feeling a little flu-ish and vulnerable,

And I'll call her "honey" and "poor baby"

And ask if her husband can stop on his way home

For soda crackers and ginger ale,

Maybe some soft tissues

The ones with aloe in them.

And she always says "Thanks Mom"

And I always think "Thanks Mom"

And the whole world feels more tender

More caring,

More worthy of saving,

Because love continues to hold steady

In large and small ways

Resonating for generations

Or lightening our days

Right here and right now,

In the season of tissues.

--Carrie Newcomer

Sonnet 73: That time of year thou mayst in me behold

 

That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou see'st the twilight of such day

As after sunset fadeth in the west,

Which by and by black night doth take away,

Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.

In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

As the death-bed whereon it must expire,

Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,

To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

--William Shakespeare

Everybody in the Same House

 

It was after someone's graduation

and even though some did

not want their picture taken,

I engineered the photo,

set up the tripod,

cajoled, insisted, got it:

faces in a jagged line,

the dog a blur,

and some of my love shining

(like now?) old-fashioned in my face.

That night everybody sleeping

under the same roof

in various cots and cubbyholes,

makeshift,

camping out.

This could be the occasion

we'll calculate from:

Remember that time

when we were all together?

That hour perhaps adjacent

to what the sacred might be:

a cave we have found, a temporary

stay, and the children

in their niches, full of sleep,

full of daring, full of risk,

turning over to other poses,

one by one, in safety.

--Majorie Saiser

[Photo of the Gardner-Baasch-Willis Family]

Heliotropic

 

In the evening light the dove's undersides
look yellow, and the bush that grows along
the porch has flowers red as a tanager's back.

At dinner, hummingbirds come to press needle-

beaks into trumpet-blossoms, the music

of their work drowning our conversation.

Why would anyone forsake this gospel of beauty?

Consider the bees covering the heads of sunflowers,

the sunflowers turning to follow the light.

When the world is pink, and the sun has begun

to sink to the other side of the earth, we walk

into fields tall with goldenrod to pick the daisies

my grandmother called moon-pennies, until the dark

makes it hard to see, and we must search for the light

glowing in the windows of the house to guide us home.

--Todd Davis

A Common Poem

 

seasons/changes moods
the things of this earth
are the things that give us pleasure.
the sunset and glow, the rise ... 
the grass blue or green, thin or tall
yet growing
the common flowers or special
the sky blue or gray smiling or sad
the air warm or wet, cold wind and wild
or sweet and careful to the feel,
a loving
touch.
these seasons are the things we love.

—Carolyn Rodgers

  

Take Love for Granted

 

Assume it's in the kitchen,

under the couch, high

in the pine tree out back,

behind the paint cans

in the garage. Don't try

proving your love

is bigger than the Grand

Canyon, the Milky Way,

the urban sprawl of L.A.

Take it for granted. Take it

out with the garbage. Bring

it in with the takeout. Take

it for a walk with the dog.

Wake it every day, say,

"Good morning." Then

make the coffee. Warm 

the cups. Don't expect much

of the day. Be glad when

you make it back to bed.

Be glad he threw out that

box of old hats. Be glad

she leaves her shoes

in the hall. Snow will

come. Spring will show up.

Summer will be humid.

The leaves will fall

in the fall. That's more

than you need. We can

love anybody, even

everybody. But you

can love the silence,

sighing and saying to

yourself, "That's her."

"That's him." Then to

each other, "I know!

Let's go out for breakfast!"

--Jack Ridl

Night thinks it's crying again

      

Night thinks it's crying again and I
keep listening to a song about autumn where
an apple tastes like longing and every leaf
in the maple tree tries to explain loss
through a series of colors—hectic orange,
indifferent red, a kind of gold that speaks
directly to god or moonbeams and in the dark
as I drive down wet roadways watching
for deer, the only thing I can see clearly
are the yellow leaves christening
my windshield and I think how we are taught
not to love too many, too much, the night,
the darkness, and I think I am crying but it is
only rain.

--Kelli Russell Agodon

Autumn

 

Look, the migrating birds

Are leaving us, small souls

That brave three thousand miles

To Africa, to warmth;

They populate the sky,

They take the last

Attributes of summer;

They are gone, and now

The winds will have them,

Their journey starts

In the knowledge that this,

Like the seasons, has to be.

Autumn is a time of reflection;

Of the making of lists,

Of books to be read now

That the nights are drawing in;

Of letters to be written,

Friends to be remembered,

The things they said

To be thought about further.

Perhaps, in short, to think

About what it is that makes

This life so precious

Of what it is that breaks the heart.

--Alexander McCall Smith

[Photo of fall camping with our dogs.]