Sunday, May 12, 2019

With Love and Admiration to All Mothers


(1915-2001)


                                                                  

When her hearing went,
She often said,"I can hear you
But  can't tell what you're saying."
At her kitchen table
We watched a storm pound
Over the old  olive orchard.
Sunlight fled the field,
Crossed the creek and
Dark filled the window,
Then lit blinding blue
With thunder to the bone.
When the room unrattled
She laughed, "I heard that.
I just couldn't tell what it said."
I wish again  her hearing
had been better because
I'd love to know.

15 comments:

  1. I wish we knew, too. It would have been big.

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    1. Joanne, now that my own hearing has followed that family trend into mumbles and tinnitus, I sometimes look up at storm clouds and ask them to repeat their thunderations.

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  2. What a telling yet touching poem. It much reminds me of my beloved dad who had a very difficult time hearing us but always understood what we felt and "said." Thank you for this. :)

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    1. A pleasure, m'Lady, and a privilege. I wrote this poem many years ago in celebration of my mother's gentle sense of humor.

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  3. Beautiful, moving poem and tribute. Captures the relationship.

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    1. Thank you, Elizabeth. I wish you every success in your current travels and hope our city is still in full bloom to welcome you and Rajan.

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  4. Remembering the laugh of our mothers is a wonderful thing. When I think of my loved ones who have gone, I remember, most of all, the laughter.

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    1. Lovely Arleen, it is my firm conviction that true communication is often accompanied by laughter.

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  5. A sweet memory, Geo. Late wishes for Happy Mother's Day to Norma.

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    1. 0_Jenny, Norma is off attending to her Mom, who is 90, suffering caducity, but I'll relay your good wishes on her return. The poem was written in 2001. One evening, I stopped by my mother's house and noted the newspaper was still in the driveway.

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    2. Oh, Geo. ... I can only imagine your heart falling when you saw that.

      All my best to Norma and her mom. It's hard to see one's mother decline.

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    3. Happily, she didn't have an overly arduous decline, Jenny. It appeared she was heading to the kitchen phone after breakfast and just dropped dead. One hand was on her breast, to show where the trouble was. Coroner confirmed later that night. I didn't sleep. Worked the next day --tend to grab "normal" with both hands-- but had to leave at noon because my composure threatened rebellion.

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  6. I love the disarming way in which this poem begins. You are straight in there, straight back and the depth of your love is clear.

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    1. Thank you, and welcome. I went to your excellent blog but didn't find a GFC gallery --so I put "Yorkshire Pudding" on my blogroll at the right margin here.

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