Remembering

—Poems by Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA
—Photo Series entitled “Charmed, I’m Sure!” 
by Carol Louise Moon

WHISK BROOM

I make a habit to carry
a whisk broom when I’m out
cycling. Broken glass, wet
leaves—you don’t know what
you’ll find needs sweeping
to create a smoother path.

Rains are coming, gonna wash
debris right onto this path
soon. I make a habit of using
a whisk broom out on the road
cycling, also on car carpeting.
Mom’s been gone thirty years,
today.

You don’t know what you’ll
find needs sweeping: memories
of her cancer treatments. . . the
grief. Talking to my deceased
mother isn’t easy, but I make
it a habit.

Carrying a whisk broom in my
backpack’s a good idea;
dwelling so much on the end
of Mom’s life isn’t such a good
idea.

I don’t know why I find myself
sweeping away those years
before her cancer diagnosis—
an announcement that time is
quickly ticking. Out of habit,
I carry a whisk broom for all
the life issues need sweeping.


(prev. pub. in Peeking Cat Poetry, #22)

ONE BIG STAR

They say our sun is one big star.
That’s hard to believe because
we’re looking at it up close—
well, closer than other stars.

So, instead of twinkling, the sun
looks to be a lamp without a cord.
Don’t stare at the sun and hurt
your eyes, Mom would say.
Looking directly at the sun could
make a person see stars. Just
star-gaze through a telescope
the more distant stars—

sort of the way you spend all day
looking through those John
Wayne movie star magazines,
instead of time with little brother
who looks left-out-of-all-the-star-
gazing and big-kid fun things.
Looks like he’s got you on a
pedestal—you, a star brighter
than all other stars. 

 

 GOOD NIGHT

Tonight this mother
tips two wooden chairs
on their backs on the lawn,
just as she and he had done
so long ago. And, once
again, she lies in one.

Gazing into the heavens
she sees visions of her
teenaged son full of life
and love, as if he were
not gone, as if he
had not slammed into
a tree and left her alone.

This was his special night
so long ago, when prom
kings and prom queens stood
silent in their regal attire
accepting the honor bestowed
from friends and colleagues.

Yellow carnations in a vase,
in a field encircled by an iron
fence, are still fresh from her
graveyard visit.

The sky expands, as if sighing,
and somehow she knows
he hears: Good night,
My Sweet Prince. 

MY CAMEO PIN
White against a ruddy cliff
you stand, chalcedony on sard.
       —“The Cameo” by Edna St. Vincent Millay


White against a ruddy cliff you stand
on a rock in the surf of the bay. Time
has engraved this image of you.

A cameo pin sticks in a groove of my
heart. Black is the ribbon which
binds up my throat—Mother,

my friend, my medallion of life:
your profile looks away. Though
you are gone, I see you still in
chalcedony and sard.


(prev. pub. in Peeking Cat Poetry)

REMEMBERING MOTHER

This browned and fallen magnolia
petal reminds me of an elephant’s
ear, and elephants never forget, or
at least they seem to remember—
the way I often remember the look
and feel of my mother’s thick brown
hair as she sat in the cushioned
wood chair—which I remember.

I am reminded that elephants with
ears that look like magnolia petals
have burial grounds, like the burial
ground where my mother lies.

I hold this elephant petal in my hand
and remember her long, soft brown
hair flowing over her shoulders
onto the old cushioned wood chair. 

Today’s LittleNip:

OF THESE THREE
—Carol Louise Moon

The ringing of a large brass bell,
parlor cards that we would play,
two coins tossed in a wishing well,
of these we’d draw a parallel.

Let’s decide, then, we would say:
the ringing of the large brass bell
or tossing coins into the well
will determine how we pray.

For you and me, to heav’n or hell
will be our fate! This I say,
let the coin-toss point the way.

The ringing of the large brass bell
is too predictable; we’d make
it sway
and mean what we foretell.

The coin-toss, too, is not the way.
Alas, the card-toss—this will stay!
We’d not ring the large brass bell,
but read the cards by how
they fell.


(prev. pub in Spare Mule Online, Missouri
and Hart Center Anthology)

_______________________

Medusa, thanking Carol Louise Moon for her “charming” collection today!

For information about how to donate to Sacramento poet Indigo Moore's birthday project (happy belated birthday, Indigo!), go to www.facebook.com/donate/257442912143072/.

 Am I too late for May Day?

 —Public Domain Photo

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