BEAUTIFUL BLOOMS – PROMPT #81

Our parents had given us our identity and we carry traits of each with us long after our births. The poems we wrote of our mothers stirred the pot of emotion. If that was the case, this week’s work has set the pot to boil. We live in this stew pot  of memories. And again they are worthy of recognition with the awarded BLOOMS.

MARIE ELENA’S CHOICE:

Reflecting on our own fathers probably brings up the strongest emotions (whether good or bad) of just about any other relationship we can explore.  This may or may not be true, but certainly appeared to be so when reading your emotion-laden poems.  Being one who loves and thoroughly enjoys my own father, I was particularly moved by the tenderly penned pieces of those of you who either lost your dad too soon, or did not have a relationship you long to look back on.  It was once again so very difficult to choose just one to highlight here.  But Patricia Hawkenson’s “Stern Mooring” kept returning to haunt me for its little girl’s disconcerting melody.  Patricia, I don’t think you could have expressed your unyielding longing more fully, nor more poetically.  Your title is absolutely brilliant, and the brilliance flows unceasingly from there.  Please accept a hug with your Beautiful Bloom.

Stern Mooring by Patricia A. Hawkenson

I wanted
to feel the ground
solid beneath my feet
to know there was a wall
formidable, unwavering,
that could barricade me
in love.

But I felt
the slippery rocks
that rose from troubled waters
pulling me by the ankles
into the shocking cold
where my tender forehead
eager for a goodnight kiss
softly upon my brow
waited
and waited
till the distant
ebb and flow
of time
forgot what
I had wanted.

WALT’S CHOICE:

The difficulty factor was through the roof on this one again. The power in each piece was hard to read at times, bringing recollection of my father and our lifelong battle to find the friend we always wanted in each other. There were touching moments and moments of pain, and each expression dripped with the emotion of each. The piece I had chosen by this poet went to great lengths to tell her story which was riveting and heart-rending. I applaud this effort by offering my BEAUTIFUL BLOOM to Sharon Ingraham’s effort.

His Eyes Were Serenely Blue By Sharon E. Ingraham

Hospital walls glow
Sickly mint-green
Late afternoon sunshine
Slants sneaky shadows
Across dirty tile floors
Floors I’d expect to find clean
Spotlessly sterile in fact
In this environment
This long, broad hallway
Is filled with light
And hilliness, slopes, inclines
My father, dressed in brown
A sienna brown suit
I’ve never seen before
Has just finished hugging me;
I am reeling, faint with it
He rarely hugged anyone
Not even me, his favourite
As I stand in the basin
Of the slopes, I watch Dad pivot
Turn, and walk hurriedly up
The incline going away from me
When he reaches the top, he turns
His eyes are clear, serenely blue
There is no pain there, it’s plain
He smiles broadly, waves at me
I muster up my own smile and wave back
Grinning, he turns sharply, walks out of my view

There is something off about this
But I can’t quite put my finger on it
The niggling remains after I awaken
And all the next day as well
It’s like a name you’re trying to remember,
Or a word you can’t think of
It’ll be “right on the tip of your tongue”
And then – boom – gone, seemingly irretrievable.

It wasn’t until I saw a child struggling
with his crutches later that day,
that it finally hit me

All my life, my Dad, so uncomplaining,
it was easy to forget – had a pronounced limp;
he’d been severely crippled as a child
And in later years, he was slowly resigning himself
To having to use canes and other “assists”, as he put it.

As fate would have it, lung cancer put paid
to any of those notions
Dad had more to worry about
than walking sticks, when he got sick
And he was in so much pain
in such a short period of time
He didn’t do much moving at all
in the few months left, after his diagnosis,
The issue of pain management
was the only thing that mattered at the end
And his trouble getting around became
part of his history, by the time he died.

But in my dream, Dad was vital again,
and he was walking tall, striding really
and with no sign of a limp,
no hesitation to his step even
I rewound the dream-reel in my mind,
Picturing him pivoting and strolling briskly
up the incline of the hospital hallway
Then turning abruptly at the top,
He smiled widely—he was inordinately proud
of keeping all his own teeth; I thought
that was what the smile was about—
Ah, but his eyes were so serenely blue
As he waved good-bye to me—
Of course, I should have seen it,
Not only was he pain-free,
He could walk normally, briskly
Probably run if he chose to;
I like to think he was off to some rink
To try out ice-skating.
He’d always wanted to.