Piled Up: Prayers of a Desperate Mother - a poem.

Note: This poem continues my exploration of a monologue-style poetry featuring a narrator who is not myself.

I just hope that these aching prayers don’t go to waste—

piled up at Your door

like newspapers when the resident’s away,

graying and disintegrating below

while the new ones plop on top.

It hurts my feelings, you know—

Is Anyone even home?

Or arranged like Christmas presents

that You just shoved in a closet,

wrapped in a hundred pretty ways,

looking lost when Christmas decor is taken down

but not them. Not them.

Eager shininess loses festivity, breeds confusion.
Did You forget to open them, God?
I wrapped them just for You!

Don’t save them as keepsakes—

what they contain I care most about.

Receive them, unwrap them, redeem!

Or like warm goodies left on Your stoop,

baked fresh with care.

Don’t You dare repackage them as day-olds

and profit on them secondhand!

Or at least haven’t I been the persistent widow

going before the judge—

pesky enough that he grants her petition

just to make her go away?
Haven’t I at least been her?

I want this soul to find You,

I know it’s what You want

even with free will, there’s more that You could do—

Bring believing friends, reflective moments

a cherished memory or a bizarre encounter

to make divine love inescapable, irresistible.

But years go by, and no such things occur (that I hear).

So, discouraged though I am,

not knowing what else to do, I go on piling

papers,

presents,

pecan rolls,

petitions,

—whatever my prayers resemble most—

at Your door...

in hopes for something more.

 
©Ellen H.

Valley Fever - a poem.

Note: Most of my poems are autobiographical non-fiction in first person. Lately though, I've gotten ideas for poems featuring narrators whom aren't myself, more of a sort of Monologues by fictional characters. The following poem is in this almost-theatrical style, and perhaps I'll share more like this in the future. This is still "real life" however, in that the sickness called Valley Fever is a real condition caused by a fungus found in the soil that can turn into a harmful respiratory infection.

Valley Fever

They say the earth is helpful, healthful,

good for your body and soul

but I say that a poison runs in her veins

less obvious and less useful than petroleum.

They say that the ground can grow no harm,

if it’s a plant, it’s probably good,

if it’s from the soil, it probably will do you well…

except tetanus and

except this fever in my lungs

a deadly, silent, fungus of the earth

and those who work her ground are most vulnerable to it,

like a smothering, revolting relative with toxic breath

who pulls you in when she hugs you then

blows a hot wind over your face

stirring up the dirt and you can’t help but breathe it in

only to discover much later that you can’t breathe at all

because her venomous legacy is growing in your lungs...

Some call it Valley Fever

All I know is that Mother Earth is not the benevolent nurturer

all the ads and bohemians love to tell you

but rather one who builds weapons against us

or at least lets parasites quite insidious

grow beneath her nails

unseen, unchecked

and when you get too close to her

she scratches you

They call the Earth their Mother

but I say let’s call her a Wicked Step-Mother

© Ellen H. 2018 

© Ellen H. 2015

How things have changed.

My, how the tides have changed...

I am the youngest child of three, and when I was little, watching TV with my siblings, my brother always had control over the remote.
In about year two of marriage, my husband started automatically giving me the remote at the beginning of a movie or show. We're in year six of marriage now, and I still marvel at the privilege and power of completely and solely controlling the volume of a TV show. Sometimes, I still secretly congratulate myself on this honor.

In my family growing up, I was always chided for being so "sensitive" and not being able to take a joke. I cried often and hated it when they tried to cheer me up by making me laugh. In their sincere love for me and concern for my apparent lack of resilience, I was frequently told to just "get over it."
In my husband's family, I am the strongest-willed, most blunt person of the group. This has completely changed my perspective on the family environment people grow up in and how much they can vary. I also marvel at how much this can change the person you become by default, as well as the person you decide to be, on purpose, when you leave home.

In my family of origin, I am famously terrible about losing my belongings, and about not looking for them thoroughly enough. My mother and brother were particularly good at keeping track of their things, and at knowing where my items would be too. The summer after I graduated college, my brother and I lived together in a three story house. I lost my sunglasses so often that he cut a deal with me that if he found them, I'd have to pay him to get them back.
In my current household, where I am a wife and a toddler-mother, I am the one who knows where everyone's misplaced belongings might be. And I know whether the fridge still contains barbecue sauce or not. I am so good at this that my husband realized it was more convenient to simply ask me where items were, instead of looking for them himself. When I tell him to look first anyway, he does and insists they're gone. After getting him to swear it, I then go and find them in that exact place. I mean, c'mon, how did this happen?


But mostly, all I can say to myself lately is,
My, how the tides have changed.

--Ellen H.

I Remember the Pines - a poem.

Some time ago on this blog, I shared a writing exercise about an early childhood memory that involved walking to preschool with my mother. Here is the more polished, poetic version of that in honor of Mother's Day.

I Remember the Pines

In a memory so old it’s nearly a dream,

but so true its details don't fade,

I recall pine-scented walks

hand-in-hand with my mother.

We were walking to Saint Patrick’s Catholic Church—

for non-Catholic preschool attenders like me—

happily.

Those walks with my mother were precious:

mornings of pine-scented quiet,

so close to home we just walked

but me still too young to go by myself.

I especially recall how

we didn’t have to hold hands—

but we did anyway.

First we came to a stand of carefully planted pine trees,

already old,

a wall of protection between our quaint, safe neighborhood

and the business part of town.

At this dead-end street, there was no sidewalk;

we just stepped over the curb

to the earthen deer path the last twenty feet

to the empty parking lot

leading to the back door of the church classroom.

I’ve always liked trees:

maybe those pine trees started it all?

They stood even taller

to my young eyes,

majestic and special, like little Swiss Heidi’s

for whom the swishing of needle-laden branches in the breeze

became a very nostalgic sound.

Those raised near the coast

may fondly remember the ocean’s pounding surf,

but I, a Wisconsin girl through-and-through,

remember the pines.

Maybe I go back to this memory

just to squeeze my mother’s hand again,

to look up and say, “Thank you for this walk,

thank you for your part in my love of trees,

of morning walks and

quiet neighborhoods.”

I see now that it was an end of an era

of me living at home,

leaving the special last-kid-at-home stage

just before my entrance into a much longer era

of full time school.

Now looking back, it’s encouraging to realize

my memory is not ever of her crying,

never of her holding me back

from going to school, nor from growing up,

but rather of her quietly holding my hand…

taking me there.

-Ellen H.

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