Framing

This is a man

This is a woman

this is a man-

in theory,
     he is more than a boy

this is a woman – in theory
sometimes,
she feels, still
like a girl

this man is metal –
     solid, shining

this woman is medley of lustrous facets
polymorphic

this is a man with two children

this is a woman with four children

this is a man with two children- both
boys  this is a woman with four children-
one boy, three girls – respectively

the children all - bright boundless blend

this is a man in love with a woman-
     a woman in love with a man
this is their second go round
this is optimism   this is a beginning-
again

this is family – this alloy,
crystallized into solidity

this is life – these days 

this is an awful
lot of children  a lot of mouths to feed

this is a man trying – heroically 
respectably, day after day
to bring home the proverbial bacon 
a man who found some of what he wanted
and knows there is always more to want

this is a man
more castellan than king

this is a woman trying  this is a woman
this is a writer this is a mother  this is a stepmother 
scratch  mother  this is a wife  a bride  a teacher 
this is a woman trying   trying to be an optimist

this is their house 
a house with six children inside
almost always
almost always
there  almost always moving  talking 
eating  playing  learning 

in all directions      nonstop 
out of house and home  loudly
at the table
on the floor  gathered round

this woman sometimes
feels like the old woman
who lived in a shoe

this is the man and woman’s life joined
until they die  they pray  united 

this is their dandelion house – full
and fat with promise  this is their house
held up carefully  gingerly  with the understanding
that when grown  children swirl away pulled
by their own winds

but this house for now is full and clothed
in children  bedecked in toys  this noise
is its constant din:  the cries; the laughter;
the pleas and bedtime prayers, the stories; songs;
the lessons; the feet running across the tile;
the dirty hands smacking prints across the walls

these children are still forming

this man has been made steel
                                   day after day
heroically, trying

this is a woman trying
hard to stay soft

This is a life
This is their life
This is the life

This is their story, unfolding

This is a woman unfolding stories
in a house full of children-
three boys, three girls,
their individual stories

This is the swinging pendulum of time
and this is now

Disjointed

Disjointed but
    Still
    somewhat content

Yet, there will exist in transit
A preferred belief, as seen
    In combat

                     Together, added,
Wed, stayed, confined
In telling circle-prayer

Then out of confessing mouths
Of babes- a disconnection
Vocalized in whatever feeble attempt

To connect
These critical dots-
How it is now with

How it was then and no prefigurement
Can belie inside a forming mind
                     Still clasped tight

In fervency this held,
Preferred belief. 
The smallness

Of the exclamation
And expression
                 still
                 sharp and wounding.
They could be mine,

For, already, elements
Show forth, in digging,

Of a familiar type
Of thaumaturgic thinking.

Already perfume
Of a false relief wafts
To tease
the air

With an invisible,
Presiding fragrance
And even

Unexpected
                    Delight
Cannot

Prove true outside
Of what any heart

Would naturally
Want. 
Cannot presume

To mend the unrent determination
  Of how it ought to be;
  What was meant

To be. Later,
Even doubt found in chilling
Waves of truth,

Expositions
Of transgressions

Will be secondary to
                                 The firm dependence

On the poet-like impression
That to relive or re-survive

One’s childhood would or could
Be worthwhile- this, they
Will rock themselves

To sleep with.  Now,
The whole is still
Hidden

By an, as of yet,
Unrealized

Reality
and though
the storm
Is behind the bend it seems

The answer
To the thirst

Of soul-drought.  Daring, this desire
                                In fruitless romance-trifle,
dancing
Ever dangerously

With denial
But  forspoken bone-bonds
Are never broken.

Yes, every boy
Is born with savior-complex

Builds a fort of this, presuming
Every girl in wait, singing

Calls from some faraway window
So transferring the need

The mother is transfigured
And this woman resumes
Her place on knees,

Releases, dies to self, 
And thus receives.

A sometimes silence

So, if
     I gather them in the hammock of my honesty, and we swing softly
           to
           the hymns of tales told in truth,
would that be alright?
If the messes gather during
                              day while a sometimes silence
                                       interrupts the
                                         more often heard tattletaling, marking its
                                                                            insignia with a lead stroke of drawing and I take
                                                                                            the time,
while it visits, to pen as well, imaginings of evenings of explanations and understandings, the brood, seated in a circle, while I bring You in?  Forlorn without them, I miss them while they're here because the sand drips
faster than ever,
 forks are forming,
frost is coming
and I don't want to
find it gone.
       The clash of age hangs in the balance, hewn on the
          heart of the home.
Manic Mondays
play relentlessly and I remember in a Sunday the peace we knew before. If you fuse this prayer with grace and new mercies, we can make it. Drive desire in, and give me calloused knees to kneel on, so that I won't
                  waste this time.
                    Affair alarms
                    a signal, the chores wax but I wait and still,
 find comfort in the story of a woman of desire,
wonder if she had children, if You knew their names and I know you did.

The Sunday Whirl

We flew to the moon

We flew to
             the moon via balloon,
watched the earth
shrink
smaller and smaller until it was a trifling, pea sized ball.
                                  I felt so light.
 
                                        The moon was a field of flowers:
poppies and tulips and whatever you like and the grass waved a welcome and we laid
                                               right down.  I looked at
                                                    the sky,
                                                         still blue here and thought about our getaway,
                                                                      how it was planned years ago. You were the
                                                                        ones.

The boy ran to his father, embraced in so much love and you girls, twirled, arms outstretched, giggling, flowing with the air, simple, fancy dresses fluttering with your steps and I closed my eyes, smiled
and relaxed.
Then He and I floated on a raft crafted from wood, square and big enough.

                                           Fear did not exist.


Poetry Jam

I Will

All girls long for little luxuries,
                             for flower feasts,
                             for deep bliss submersion.

So darling, though they bloom
 not as beautiful as you,
                   I will bring you roses, I will draw your bath.
                   I will paint your childhood with love, colors, vibrant, as best I can
                                                                           and your story, I'll pen with belles-lettres,
                                                                                                         while I'm able.

And when fully blossomed and in love
                                 my prayer will be that he, too,
                                                  will often bring you roses.


Submission for Thursday's Poet Rally, sepia scenes, feeling beachie