Should I get lost, point me in the direction of a poem.
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Threading the Needle

August 11th, 2013 | Posted by bbleen in Family | Love | memory | Mom | Reflections | Sewing - (Comments Off on Threading the Needle)

Mom works the pedal of the Singer,

driving the needle through

crisp rose-colored taffeta.

As she sews we make small talk,

she smiling at her pesky Chatty Kathy

while I, with deepest intention,

thread myself

into the eye of her life.

Sentimental Journey

December 1st, 2012 | Posted by bbleen in Family | Fantasy | Joy | Love | Reflections - (Comments Off on Sentimental Journey)

Home again… arising early

I wander through my parents’ house

in search of memories.

In the pantry are the small clear glasses

hand-painted with tulips.

Instinctively I lift one to my lips,

almost tasting the Seven-up my grandfather

used to pour, remembering how the fizz

tickled my nose, grandpa’s laughter.

I imagine him standing there wearing

his felt hat and checkered flannel shirt,

puffing on his long stemmed pipe.

But too soon, the image fades, as set in the past

as the tulips are in their glass prisons.

From a dusty shelf in the den I retrieve

the old Currier and Ives, copyrighted 1952.

Through its pages I’d traveled America,

journeying by steamboat down the

Mississippi, flat boating the Ohio River,

riding the rail to California.  Always

enjoying my imaginative adventures,

always thirsting for more.

Wistfully I close the book, leaving its

people and places, now slightly faded,

to a future wanderer.

Photographs crowd the living room,

each one caressing a memory-my birth,

birthdays, school days, first date…

every event cascading for eternity in

wood and glass.

The floorboard creaks as my mother

enters the kitchen.  I hasten to greet her

blinking back the tears. Our eyes meet

and we smile, scattering the memories

amongst a million dreams, the air

shimmering with the essence of their

beauty as they surrender, each one

to its designated place.

In the Photo

October 30th, 2011 | Posted by bbleen in Death | Family | Growing old | Reflections | Sadness - (Comments Off on In the Photo)

In the photo my mother is beautiful.

Though it is in black and white,

I picture her cheeks to be rosy as pink Chablis.

Her hair cascades thick and wavy

to meet the soft slant of her shoulders,

covered demurely in a dark dress

I imagine, a shade of red.

She is smiling coyly for the camera,

as if she is the keeper of some secret,

about to spring a surprise.

The couch she sits on is smattered with

clusters of tiny white blossoms.

Behind her, the wallpaper is enmeshed

in huge leaves pointing skyward;

between each two leaves is a single flower.

The floor’s linoleum is a characteristic nineteen fifties pattern

of multicolored and sized diagonal stripes.

In the photo my mother is a constant,

in surroundings I can only describe as busy,

and so she has been for most of her life.

The photo was taken after mine and my older sister’s birth,

before those of our siblings.

It was long before school days, dating, marriages,

children, divorces, grandchildren,

and all forms of crises imagined or real

which have transformed her once vibrant brown hair to gray,

strand by strand.

Long before wrinkles claimed her face,

Arthritis wreaked havoc on her joints,

Osteoporosis settled in her bones.

In the photo my mother is beautiful.

She is poor but happy,

innocent and trusting,

hinging on a promise,

glimmering with love.