"August Lullaby " and Other Poems

August Lullaby

For Caity

Bougainvillea branches scritch-scratch the backs
of the sun-crackled pale adobe walls,
while the splish-spatter-splash of the circling sprinkler
bathes the porch's corner as it makes each pass.

The wheeze-purr snore from the asthmatic cat
recovering from a bout of bronchitis,
her baton of a tail keeping time to sultry squeals
of smiling oak smooching with Saltillo tiles

as Mama rocks you gently to your dreams . . .

The tip-tap of my fingers on the keyboard
typing my answer in hopes you'll someday ask:

Papa, what's your favorite song?

---

Elevation

Daughter, in the perfect cradle of my lap,
you lounge and listen to stories of my mother,
memories that linger in the immediacy of yesterday,
though she's been gone for thirty-five years.

And as my words breathe your grandmother back to this moment,
I find myself in the comfort of her lap,
listening as she breathes your great-grandfather to life . . .

inhalations, exhalations,
lap stacked upon lap;
generation upon generation,
back to the foundation
of the arms, thighs and fertile breeze of Eve.

Love has built for us a lofty tower, child;
we've been lifted to the very breath of God.

---

Pretty

On the bed of green ivy vines
printed on white sheets, my daughter perches
on the woven legged lap of her mother.

Tail pinched between fat fingers,
an origami bluebird dips and dives as it flies
through the tweet-tweet toddler trilled morning air.

Hold still, hold still, is Mama's mumbled mantra,
while aiming comb, she misses lively curls
which have taken flight beside the paper bird.

Don't move! grumbles the thunder of Mama,
and would have been ignored without the magic spoken spell:
Don't move. Don't you want to be pretty?

Then the bluebird alights on the green ivy vines,
and chubby fingers fold as if in solemn prayer,
the twittering dies, and blue eyes stare, crystallized,

while Mama combs, parts and pulls wild tresses into order;
two tails bound with rubber bands, then satin bows.
She twirls each auburn tail around her finger, taming further;
a spritz of spray ensures two perfect corkscrew curls.

And I realize how constrictive is pretty;
today, while only hair is bound, tomorrows' shackles visualize:
bras and corsets, pantyhose, high-heeled pointy-toed shoes,
and hunger clenching stomachs from diets clipped from magazines,
a narrow golden band wound 'round a fake nailed finger,
and please, God, no! No dark glasses hiding plastic surgeoned sutures . . .

My daughter's face meets mine as she preens to the mirror,
the bird abandoned, lost among the ivy. How do I look?
she inquires. I slowly wipe my eyes
and chant the magic words:

Pretty.
Pretty.

---

Earthquakes

Your little pink tongue peeks
from the corner of your smile,
as you carefully stack blocks
upon my knee.

      My tiny child, I am the ground
      you build your world upon.

Just a jiggle of my ankle
sends your tower tumbling down;
you giggle at the ruins
around your feet.

      There will be earthquakes in the future
      which won't always cause you glee.

You climb upon that knee
which tumbles towers,
place your head against my chest
as I hold you tenderly.

      I hope to teach you of constructing strong foundations
      for when it's time to build your world upon yourself.

---

The Artist And Her Mentor

An hour after his usual bedtime,
Jonny finishes his report on the Mayflower;
his best I'd-rather-be-playing-video-games cursive
crests and falls across the page
like waves on their way to Plymouth Harbor.
He centers his work on the coffee table to be admired
by the night roaming cat
and the eyes of Mom in the morning.

Sissy toddles to the breakfast table
flashing a Crayola-flecked smile;
her latest masterpiece proudly displayed in her hands:
two red misshapen circles, one green squiggle
and a jelly handprint signature crumpled in the corner.
Her canvas: a loose-leaf paper page
pre-decorated with historic dates, facts and names.

Jonny's hand flies up like a traffic cop's;
Mom's speeding scold brakes to a halt
as he oohs and ahhs his sister's work.

Together, they sit on the cold kitchen tiles —
Jonny copies his homework
in his best I'm-gonna-be-late-for-school cursive;
Sissy, watching his pen dance across the page,
drums a song on a pan with a spoon.