tribute to my mom...
attending in the paisley dress
she snagged some sunny Saturday
from a folded out garage display
(a prize that lit a secret smile
on her careful lips with powdered fringe).
She's proud, he knows, but empty of
that preening braggadocio
which claims any credit for herself
and summer stories on the lawns
where shining sheaves of kids were reaped,
or mornings when, with daily bread,
she and his dad were heaven-fed.
He sees her simple smile out there,
but for his own sake crooks his eyes
away from the glasses crossed with lines
and from the Lilt-ed lovely hair
she lost to late leukemia
(then bravely sporting knitted caps).
But now he sees her nesting there
amid the flock of saints she loves,
rehearsing standards Sunday school
has rooted in her singing soul.
Her soul was good, graciously good,
for though she treasured pardon's coin
and though she shone with intellect,
she never linked one with the other;
she would repent of such a thought.
Now that she's gone, he sees her still,
and sings through tears upon the stage.
Poetry by Mark Aikins
Read 745 times
Written on 2006-12-31 at 04:20
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He Sees Her
He sees her in the fourteenth rowattending in the paisley dress
she snagged some sunny Saturday
from a folded out garage display
(a prize that lit a secret smile
on her careful lips with powdered fringe).
She's proud, he knows, but empty of
that preening braggadocio
which claims any credit for herself
and summer stories on the lawns
where shining sheaves of kids were reaped,
or mornings when, with daily bread,
she and his dad were heaven-fed.
He sees her simple smile out there,
but for his own sake crooks his eyes
away from the glasses crossed with lines
and from the Lilt-ed lovely hair
she lost to late leukemia
(then bravely sporting knitted caps).
But now he sees her nesting there
amid the flock of saints she loves,
rehearsing standards Sunday school
has rooted in her singing soul.
Her soul was good, graciously good,
for though she treasured pardon's coin
and though she shone with intellect,
she never linked one with the other;
she would repent of such a thought.
Now that she's gone, he sees her still,
and sings through tears upon the stage.
Poetry by Mark Aikins
Read 745 times
Written on 2006-12-31 at 04:20
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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Mark Aikins |
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Rob Graber |
