My Mother's Poetry

An Aging Poet

by Gerry Binder

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Fred's Memorial Gallery

 

This is a collection of poetry that my mother has been writing over the years. She and my stepfather have self published these collections to give to friends and family. I have watched with pride as her talents have matured and touched my heart, as well as the hearts of so many others. I am so proud of her, and would like to share with you MY MOTHER'S POETRY!

---

November 28 , 2006

On Tuesday, my mother was taken by ambulance to the local ER as a result of a fall. While in the ER she described it this way, "I went spiraling down like a cheap Woolworth's top." She was in more pain than she could ever remember. X-rays revealed nothing. Because her oxygen levels were low, she was admitted. Still in a boatload of pain, she was taken on Thanksgiving for an MRI. She is very claustrophobic and apparently had to be sedated. At some point during the MRI, my mother had a mild heart attack. She was brought back to her room and was quickly wisked from there to ICU. We are in shock. The week before this, Gayle and I had taken her with us to the Cape, and she was collecting shells on the beach and writing Fred's initials in the sand with her cane. My mother is legally blind. At this point, she has tubes everywhere. She has pneumonia and kidney problems. Please send her good, healing thoughts and prayers. In the meantime, I have written two poems by her bed as she did with Fred.

 

11/27/06

Critical

An interesting word
Used in so many ways.
My daughter is critical
Seeing what so many of us miss.

Numbers are critical.
Even minutes can be critical.

But now it is my mother that is
Critical
And it is not interesting at all.

 

---

Little Hand

Your head against the
Crisp white pillow
Grey hair flat against the white
Tubes like slender snakes
Resting on your body
You look so small.

I poke my finger into your
Tight fist
Holding your little hand in mine
As you must have done
When first you held me
Sliding your adult finger
Into my little baby hand.

I wish you would open your eyes
So that we could have what might be
That last look, not unlike the first.

 

---

 

June 26, 2006

Last year my stepfather had a stroke and my mother has not had much time for poetry. Also her eyesight is nearly gone. Last week my stepfather fell and broke his hip, was operated on, then suffered a heart attack. My mother is by his side always, and when he sleeps, she writes poetry. These are her most recent pieces. She calls herself the blind poet. I am amazed and moved by her efforts as well as her devotion to her husband.

Fred went gently on June 27th.

Fred's Memorial Gallery

 

 

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Talking to myself - trusting it will help
 
Grief is a rainy day emotion - cloudy and gray.
Not like it’s distant cousin joy, which is born of
sunshine and laughter. Never the two will meet.
Grief is something you try to hide with a smile and cheery words.
No one really wants to see your tears.
Grief is the enemy you will learn to conquer in time.
Or maybe it will just up and disappear one day.
 
Nice thought but I know better.
I’ve been there a time or two.
Days and weeks and months will pass.
But grief persists.
 
Years from now the pain will be smaller.
So they tell me. I must believe it.
I’ll wait. Patiently.

---

 

Thoughts On A Rainy Day

We are two strangers in a strange land
wandering in a place we’ve never been before
a lonely, empty, dark and desolate place.

I know how we got here.
I know what brought Fred and me here.
It was The Stroke.

Knowing doesn’t help.

I’m searching for the us that used to be
for the active, happy people we once were.

It’s been almost a year since The Stroke that changed us both.
We’re learning some coping skills.
We live each day the best we can.
Some days are good,
then there are the other kind.

Oh, yes! There are times of joy
when we can almost feel like us again.
But the darkness never lightens for long.
The shadows dart in and out
reminding us we are sometimes the ones we used to be.
Tears come.
We fight them.
We pretend.
Two strangers to each other and to ourselves.
Is there a door we can open?
A portal leading back to the world we knew?

We have this illusion thing called hope
to which we cling
like sailors lost at sea
grasping at anything that floats.
Will we sink or swim?
My mind thinks sink.
My heart cries swim.

Two strangers in a strange land
needing your continued prayers and your patience.
Your love heals a lot.
For all of this we are grateful.

---

 

Best Laid Plans

Old Robert Burns sure had it right when he wisely wrote,
“The best laid plans of mice and men, oft go astray.”
I had my plans for Wednesday well ordered.
I knew just what we were doing and where we were going.
Then at 3:30 in the morning of Tuesday, Fred tumbled out of bed
breaking his hip.
Our carefully laid plans went to hell in a hand basket
shattering the plans and expectations for months to come.
That’s life, isn’t it?

A life without plans would be like driving endlessly on back country roads
with no posted signs, no street lights, and no maps to guide us.
We must plan but be flexible enough to shift gears
and travel other roads when we must.

---

Fear

Fear is a slinking cat
sneaking up on you unawares
striking at you, clawing away at your strong resolve.

Fear is an unwanted guest
uninvited, tolerated, but not welcome.

Fear is a foe deserving of your ire.
Face it.
Fight it.
Overcome it.
Fight fear with all your might,
Then pray it away.

---

Old Folks

Please don’t call us old folks.
Once we were young like you.
We lived and loved. We did our thing.
We made a mark in the world, some of us more so than others.
Each of us mattered to someone.
Most of us still do.

Please look closely at us
and you will see the young person
before arthritis
before lost hearing
before vision compromise
and body challenges.

Peel away the layers of years and you will find youth
alive and well within the soul.

We are not old like that ancient oak over there.
We are simply young folks
a little the worse for wear
but not through with this precious gift
we know as life.

It is yours and it is ours as well.
We are not done yet!

---

The Dreamer

I believe in dreams.
Not the ones we have at night but the ones we have in
our waking hours,
the ones we create out of whole cloth
and fashion into beautiful garments
fit to clothe a king and all his court.

I believe in me
the garment maker,
the stitcher of the king’s clothes.

I believe in the dream maker.
I believe the lovely robes I’ve fashioned
will last my lifetime, and maybe
just maybe
another dreamer will come along
to don my creations
and alter them to suit her dreams.

---

Will this be the day ?

Is this the day
he will go away ?

The day he will leave behind
all the aches and pains
the day his hurting body
will be free of suffering.

I pray this will be the day
he will fly on eagles wings
to a place of rest.
A place of peace.

I pray his long journey
will end soon for him.

I pray all of us who love him
will be brave as we pray him
safely home.

---

Here we are...


I've held your hand
and walked with you
uphill and down
along life's pathway.

We've journeyed far
now here we are
near the end of the road
your hand in mine
holding tight.

We'll not stumble or fall
the sun shines on our path
the ends in sight.

You will leave me
I'll walk alone
but you'll leave behind
enough of you to see me through.

Until one day
my turn will come.

Once more we'll walk
hand in hand
forever friends together.

Out Of The Darkness

Out of the darkness, light
out of the cold, warmth
out of the pain, comfort.

The days drag slowly by
each hour precious
as the end looms large.
Recovery is a dictionary word.
Release – the path we’ve chosen
a time to be unselfish
hard choices
but strong love wins.

We wait and pray.
We hold his hands
smiling through our tears.
His life will end.
His love for us remains
Our love for him, endless.

---

Passage

All day long the sun
has been playing tag
with the clouds
darting in and out
sometimes hidden for only minutes
sometimes going for ever so long.

The day has been alternately
bright and dark.
now at eventide the sunlight
streams in our hospital window
slowly moving toward the horizon
bringing another day to a close.
It has been a long one
watching my husband drift away.
I wish for a lovely sunset.
I pray for a gentle, easy
passing for my Fred.

---

Quiet Reflections
 
So very quiet
When the chores of the day are done
when my sons have gone to their home
when the hour
is too late for phone calls
then I feel the silence is as thick as molasses.
It is then the missing you doubles and triples.
It is then that I dread going to bed
knowing the tears I’ve managed to hide all day
will surface and spill out on the your pillow.
My grief is so new.
I’m told it will lessen in time.
Right now that is hard to believe.
But I’ll try. I’m good at believing.

---

Sunday morning blues

It feels like just another Sunday morning.
Up early, a quick look outside to check the temperature.
Is it going to rain? It looks iffy.
I’ll eat breakfast and then decide on what I’ll wear to church.
The radio drones away in the other room with news of war and more war - everywhere, it seems.
This all seems so normal - like hundreds of other Sundays.
Except it’s not.
Something is missing.
Someone is missing.
It’s been almost a month since Fred’s death.
I can say the word.
I can write the word like it was just another fact.
But behind that word is an emptiness beyond words.
So difficult to accept.
So unreal. So hard it hurts.

There is no one to share breakfast with.
No one to remind that we only have an hour to ready ourselves for church.
No one to fasten the clasp on my necklace.
No Fred to check my hair.
No one is what hurts.
Will it get easier?
My mind knows it will.
My heart has its doubts.
A part of me wants him back so badly.
The tears flood my soul.
But the better part of me wouldn’t wish him back to the pain and suffering he endured.
I will go on missing him probably forever
no less than I do at this moment - which is huge!
But I know full well, like all the others who have lost their beloved ones, I will survive.
The love I knew from Fred will strengthen me.
Life goes on. And so will I - in time.

---

A Promise

I will not linger long in this shadowy place
where I have come to mourn.
My beloved Fred is not here.
He has gone home to be with our God.
I’ll not linger long in this valley - only ‘til my tears dry
and my heart begins to heal.
In time the darkness will fade
and I will once again walk in sunshine.
Even as God has closed the door on the life
Fred and I shared, He has opened another door for me.
With God’s Grace, I will walk a new path
bright with remembered love and precious,
precious memories.

---

Such a question...

What will I do now now that you are gone.
All those months of caring for you
all those days and nights of loving you
and praying you better.
All gone now and I’m left alone.
Alone with my relief that you are finally free
Free of pain and suffering.
As the end neared, all of us prayed
you home with God.
But the missing you is overwhelming.
My arms are empty. My heart is broken.
Yet I will go on day by day living the best I can
knowing you would want me to be strong
strong for myself and strong for those we love.

---

Enough is enough

Grief will be with me for a long, long time.
I know that. How long will it last ?
I don’t know that.
Somehow. Some way. I must move on.
For years I’ve written about all sorts of things
the moon on a crisp Autumn night,
the sunrise over the ocean,
the big old tree in my back yard,
people and places.
Ideas flowed freely from my head to my hands.
Words have always been my friends.
Could I send an email to my muse inviting him to return ?
Will he return while grief grips my heart
and won’t yet let go ?
So many questions. So few answers.
Guess I’m just going to have to begin
and see what happens.

 

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The following poetry was written prior to Fred's stroke and final passing.

---

Would that I were wise...

Strange things happen to us
as we travel the road of life.
What once came so easily now becomes
a daunting challenge - a task
we wonder if we can manage.

The books lining my shelves now gather dust.
The sight I never once gave a second thought
is now an obsession with me. A dozen times a day
I mourn the loss of sight and struggle
with the simple chores like cooking.

My arthritic limbs make even climbing stairs
and lifting laundry, jobs I now groan over.
But, here I am at nearly seventy-nine.
I am up and about doing what has to be done.
Have I the right to moan and groan?

No, I must instead count my blessings
and get about the things I can do.
Mostly I do- but there are times like today
when the sun doesn't shine and the sky is bleak
that I give in to my sorrows and my complaints.

Then I hear a voice from the past admonish me,
"Stop feeling sorry for yourself." It comes through
loud and clear - my Mother's sweet but firm voice.
I will heed her words and get on with life as she
would have me do.
Strong, patient, and grateful.

---

It’s not easy trying to be a poet

Somewhere down in the depths of me
there’s a love song pounding on the door
wanting to get out.
A little gremlin complains:
"It’s all been said before."
A wiser one knows that’s a lame excuse
for doing nothing. Time to get to work.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning wisely asked,
"How do I love thee?" Then went wisely on to state the ways in perfect poetry.
Well, I’m not in Elizabeth’s league
- but that’s never stopped me before..
Perhaps this lovely September night
will bring out the muse to work with me.
It didn’t work. It’s the end of November.
My love poem’s nowhere in sight.
Time to move on to other things - like preparing supper, letting reality rule.

---

Comparatively speaking...

How like me you are
old and bent and broken
yet standing tall in your place.
Like me. Neither of us about to quit.
You’ve stood now for a century.
I’ve not yet reached eighty
but getting close. Are we soul mates?
Not likely though I wish we were.
Trees don’t have souls and they don’t talk.
Sometimes I wish this one did.
This old maple in my yard
has seen me through many moods.
I’ve seen her through myriad changes
from Spring’s bursting buds
to Summer’s glowing green.
to the shimmering gold of Autumn.
Now November has come
and you, my tree, are bereft
of all your glory. Stark you stand
your branches streaked with first snow.
Winter is but a whisper away.
You and I have many new storms
to face before Spring and warmth
returns to cheer us both. Are we ready?

---

Aging - Terminal but manageable

Were all getting there - some sooner than others.
Do we fear aging ? Sure we do!
But, for most of us, it’s not high on our list
of concerns - like, What’s for supper? or
Which gas station has the lowest price?"
We deal with life one day at a time.
We learned that lesson long ago.
Yet there are times when troubling thoughts
of our mortality rear their ugly heads.
Like on rainy days when we imagine
a world without sunlight - when reason
flys out the open window leaving us
with clouds of fear, anxiety and despair.
Is there an answer? Of course!
Take charge. You know you are bigger
than your nagging thoughts .Remember -
you’ve been growing old since the day
you were born. Right? No big deal.
So let’s go on living, loving and laughing.
This way we’ll manage the aging process.
And, by George! We’ll do the job well.
Won’t we...

---

Who knew?

It was 1939,
War clouds hovered over Europe.
The world was changing.
But what did I know? I was a chubby little
Girl Scout carrying my country’s flag
up a steep hill to a cemetery.
I knew what Memorial Day was about
but I didn’t know what this day
would come to mean to me.
I just knew I was hot and tired
in my long-sleeved uniform.
I didn’t know then that in a few short years
our nation would be at war.
I didn’t know I would graduate beside boys
in a different uniform on leave.
l didn’t know one of my classmates
and my friend, who lived next door, would die that Summer in Texas
learning to be a soldier.
I didn’t know how sad I’d be.
I didn’t know I would one day see
in my parents’ eyes the pride and fear
they felt watching their first-born go
off to serve the country we all loved.
That little Girl Scout grew up fast.
She didn’t go to war but she lived it.
She bought war bonds, gave blood.
helped the Red Cross and the U.S.O..
She lived in a united time .
We all worked and believed
one day we’d win and we did.
The world knew peace
for a little while.
Who knew then what we know now?
Sixty years and many wars later
we are once more decorating graves
remembering more recent deaths.
Who knew Memorial Day 2004
would be another sad day
remembering and honoring
the dead of this latest war?
Will the time one day come
when we put away our weapons
and wage peace as aggressively
as we have endlessly waged war?
Who knows?

---

Seeking solace...

Starting a poem on a gloomy,
rainy, dark day is a bad idea.
There’s no way it’s going to be
anything but dour like the day.
So -why am I doing this?
Inviting the muse to join me
for what can only be, at best,
a pity party for two?
Maybe I’m hoping to climb
out of this pit creating a bit
of our own sunshine. Possibly?
Let’s give it a whirl.
The falling rain is ever so gentle,
scarcely audible as it patters
on my skylight. The green leaves
on my big old tree sway softly.
Kind of like an elegant lady
sitting on a plush green couch
stirring the air with her fan
waiting for her man to arrive.
Now there’s a romantic notion
to drive away the blues.
Let’s see if I can imagine more.
The festive music on my radio
can turn this into a ballroom.
I can dance the afternoon away
in the arms of a charming chap.
I feel worlds better already.
How about you?

---

A latter day me...

Some thing’s in life need proving
like numbers in a check book,
like your showing an I.D. at airports,
like proving you’re you at courthouses
and public buildings.
Then there are the lovely things
that need no proving at all
like love and faith and trust,
like the sun in the morning
and the moon at night.
The wonder of the world
is way beyond a need of proof.
It may have started with a bang.
It may have been God’s magic.
Does it really, truly matter?
Not to me. Not any more, anyway.
I loved the proving in schooling.
I value learning, but I will leave
the deep prodding to others.
For this stage of my older life
I will savor the magic left over
from my youth. I will dream
and believe and rejoice
in the magic of the moment.
I ask no more than this.

---

Farewell

When Autumn colors appear
upon the mountain side
crimson and gold
and touched with brown,
my heart grows sad
knowing that summers warmth
so swiftly passed me by.
I basked beneath the August sun
and watched the clouds drift past
as if the summer might forever last.
September is here
the air is crisp and cold and clean.
The leaves are turning now
and soon - so very soon
each leaf will flutter down
to lie forgotten on the ground.
October will quickly come and go
long before I’m ready to bid her farewell.
Then Winter winds will blow
frost will lock the earth in it’s grip.
And one bleak November morn
I’ll watch the snow fall from the sky.
From my heart I’ll heave a sigh
for loveliness which must die
beneath a grey November sky.

---

The healing time

I love the end of each day
watching the sun slip slowly
from sight as the Night Queen
arrives in her silver splendor.
I love the calm following the hurried pace
of the daylight hours when we do stuff..
Night wraps us in a soft velvety blue
that gentles our souls and soothes ourselves.
The end of the day is our reward
for jobs well done. Closure comes.
We settle down by the fire in Winter
or out on the porch in Summer.
There is a peace at eventide
that hungering hearts require.
It’s the balm that readies us
for whatever tomorrow brings.

---

Still life

Isn’t that an oxymoron?
Seems that way to me. Still?
Everything in the life I know
moves at a pace far faster
than these old legs of mine go.
Still life we leave to the artist
who paints snippets of life
while the rest of us rush
from task to task to do
the things that need doing.
Sometimes we find
still life at day’s end
when work is done
and quiet descends.
Maybe then we will see
and hear with an artist’s eye
and ear, life that is motionless
wrapped in a mantle of peace
a gift to cherish fully, gratefully.

---

Remembering Danny Kaye singing, "Inchworm, inchworm measuring the marigolds."

How do we measure our lives?
By days and months and years?
By the passing of time and events?
Do we gauge ourselves by our deeds?
By things we’ve done or not done?
Do we rate ourselves by our victories
or sometimes by our failures?
Those are mere marks
on the wheel of time.
Surely our relationships are more
the measure of our worth.
We are the sum of all our days.
We are the love and laughter
the warmth and smiles shared.
We are everyone we’ve loved.
Age is the deep well wherein lies
all our emotions and experiences.
Age is what we’ve earned
for doing our best each day.
How do we measure our lives?
Our hearts reveal to us
the measure of our time spent.
Our souls show others
the measure of our worth.
The inchworm measures
the miles we’ve traveled.

---

Thoughts on a late April evening

I love the end of each day
when the golden sun slips slowly
out of sight - sometimes - not always
splashing the sky with luscious colors.
I love the way night sneaks in
slowly in Spring like a cat
coming to the door reluctantly
not really ready for indoors.
I love the way lights go on in houses
first one and then another welcoming
back those who have been busy away
at school and work - wherever.
I love the sounds of nightfall
when crickets sing and owls hoot
when noises of the day ebb
when silence begins.
Most of all, I love the rising of the moon
when the stars begin to dot the sky
when the sky turns navy blue
glistening with tiny lights.
Daytime is for worldly tasks
for jobs to do. But nighttime.
Ah!! That’s for dreamers
romantics like me.