COMETH THE DANDY LIONS( for Lori K )

the dandy lions
roar... "We're here!"
and so they are

see how they
surprise the grass
fill the children's eyes

my daughter's feet
run into their colour
a yellow of delight

they bring the Spring
the first feast
for bees

she adores the French
"dents des lions!"
giggles at "pissenlit!"

her father knew them when
he was as little as herself
the "Irish daisy"

hear her sing "dents-de-lions
en printemps
champs de jaune champs de jaune!"

we knock up a sign
"This lawn is reserved
for dandelions only!"

see how they change
from suns into moons
fragile as a wish

that one day she
would become
her self

her breath blowing time
away she now
the woman of today

Mom took my brother and
I to the cemetery when
we were kids.
Her mother and grandma
were there underneath the
grass and dirt.
The spring breeze felt
good on my face.
We put carnations and
lilacs on all the graves.
She told us stories about
our dead relatives.
The tombstones, with the
dates seemed ancient and
final.

After flowering all the
graves, we went to
the pond and fed
the ducks and swans.
There was a fire in
their eyes.
They were always
hungry.
They gobbled the bread
and swam in circles.

When we became
teenagers, Mom took
us to the cemetery, and
taught us how to drive.
She said it was
safer there.
We couldn't ****
anyone.

Many years later
I took my little sons to
cemetery.
I showed them all
the graves and told
the old family stories.
"That's your grandma,"  I said,
pointing to the tombstone.
"She brought me here,
when I was your age."

My oldest son, Zach, who was
seven at the time said,
"When I get old,
I'm going to bring my kids
here to visit the family.
Will you come with us, Daddy?"
"Sure", I said.
Let's feed the swans.

I’m enjoying spending time with my mom - we have an intimacy braided like rope. I forgot how funny she is. At the same time, we’ve been softcore arguing for days.

She wants me to accomplish something this summer - to pad my med-school resume - do anything but relax. But I refuse. If I’m going to complete a master's degree next summer, then I’m going to have fun this summer. Periodt. I’m not an automaton for her to wind. Her stress radiates, as I play Animal Crossing on the couch.

I reach up towards her forehead, “Is there an off button?” I ask.
“Go away,” she chuckles, blocking my hand.
Before I turn away, I add, “You’re the most fun when you’re not giving advice or saying the wrong things..”
“Or breathing incorrectly?” She finished my sentence.
“Exactly,” I laughed, “then you’re practically perfect.”

The boys - Peter (my BF) and Step (my stepfather) - sit or stand, uninvolved, outside the action, like we’re in some other dimension - they try and look at anything but us when we’re wrangling.

Poetry time!

The phantoms of my discontent
are held at bay, by leisure,
are mollified by pleasure.

Am I crazy to set boundaries?
Am I lazy, cause I won’t let her chivvy me?
I’ve got my own voice; I’ll make my own choices.
We have the same goals - but I’m in control.

For every plan I’ve got, she has a hundred caveats.
Sure, I’ve done nothing, while she’s done it all.
I’m her little rocket that she doesn’t want to stall.
But she needs to understand, I’ve left the launching pad.
.
.
songs for this…
Mama by Spice Girls
Hey Mama by Kanye West
Mama, I'm a Big Girl Now by Nikki Blonsky, Marissa Jaret Winokur, Ricki Lake, Motion Picture Cast of Hairspray

PLAYING IN THE MUD WITH CHRIST

Memory
shapes that summer
in its own image

the long days of sun
forgetting
the rainy ones

my little one asking
again and again
for "the puddle poem"

and so Christ
rising from the 7th Century
old Irish words

stands
like her
barely five

blesses
the puddles
He had made

she blesses
them the same
with great childish show

watches
amazed as He
creates birds out of mud

sees  them fly away
at the touch
of his voice

this her excuse
for the scattering
of mud

she sees herself
a Christ
and how words

can create birds
made of the mind
that fly beyond time

*

If I was listening to Joyce she would come and listen to his Finnegans Wake with me...not the least put out by the difficulty and dexterity but the dance of sound even without meaning.

So that summer and I reading old Irish poems from a long ago that had long vanished she would pick up on that...loving the seventh century THE BOYHOOD OF CHRIST and how Christ and her could be the same grand age of barely five. And when she looked into the reflections in a mud puddle she could reenact the poem in her mind and be at one with Him in something she could understand. A Christ in a mud puddle...now there was the Christ for her to be be a playmate with.

She also liked the baise fri tóin( slap on the ***)epigram AN INSULT from the ninth century amazed that there could be someone called anonymous and how some words could win you horses and some words win you...cows!

I hear
he won't give horses for poems.
He gives what his style allows:
cows.

But her great favourite was Pangur Bán with the cat and the monk getting along famously and to be content with each other and the work they had to do...the one chasing down words...the other...mice.

She also was a one for modern Irish-isms such as "Are ya stuck in a shuck( stuck in a ditch )purely for the sound of it and appreciated the sardonic phrase "I will...yea!" meaning "I won't no!"

And the phrase " Ahhh it will take donkey's years to do that" she always heard as "donkey's ears" and made her howl with laughter.

THE BOYHOOD OF CHRIST

When He was barely five
Jesus, the Son of God,
blessed twelve water puddles
He moulded out of clay.

He made a dozen birds
-the kind we call the sparrow-
He made them on the Sabbath,
perfect, out of clay.

A Jew there criticized Him
-Jesus, the Son of God-
and to His father Joseph
took Him by the hand.

"Joseph, correct your son,
he has committed wrong.
He made clay shapes of birds
upon the Sabbath day.

Jesus clapped His palms,
His little voice was heard.
Before their eyes -a miracle-
the little birds flew off.

The sweet, beloved voice was heard
from the mouth of Jesus pure:
"So they will know who made you
off with you to your homes."

A man who was there told everyone
the wonderful affair
and overheard they all could hear
the singing of the birds.

ONCE UPON A LONG TIME AGO

T-Rex roars fiercely
the little hands holding the wool
feeling foolish

Mama-Rex scolds
"Now Junior...just you hold still!
Then you can go make a ****!"

Junior( Teddy-T to his pals )
looks outside the cave
a pterodactyl has the sky to itself

Teddy-T squirms
in envy swears he'll tear it
wing from wing

the **** wool
rolls itself into a ball
like a tiny planet

"Who invented wool anyway?"
T-Rex junior roars silently
"Deus-Rex how I hate these cardies!"

the future looks orange
a bright orange
the sky full of time to come

Mamma-Rex looks lovingly
on her fidgety son
"Oh it hasn't been this icy in ages!"

a diplodocus
saunters by
without a thought in its head

T-Rex Junior fumes
that he is missing all those
tasty time travellers

"Is it me..." muses Mamma-Rex
"... or is there more of them time thingys
this season?"

"Now, Junior..!" she scolds
"You know there will be always
more where they came from!"

a meteorite hurtles towards
the tiny blue ball
singing the song of itself

"Don't stuff yourself with time travellers
...ya hear me now...they're bad
for your teeth!"

the meteorite enters
the atmosphere
"Wow!" shouts Junior "Wow!"

Our ambitions are sweeter
than the fruition of our dreams

I imagine red rain
waking the Maginot line
All of my disdain
falls silver in shame
accordingly

I was caught helplessly
hoping
that the harlequins
would run basking
in the gooodbyes

Standing by the stairway
where I was choking on the promises of hello
a graceless lady stood suffering

Such are the stories that are seldom told
Those that are squandered
on existence
and those that are rejected at the cost of innocence

Were we looking forward
at our past
and found some comfort there
. . . what we imagined there

Bleeding me in the cuts of frustrations
Scabbing the shame
Forgiving the failures
. . . and the pain

always the pain . . .

can't you see

what's it doing to me ?