I love poetry. But unless you’re one of those sweetie-pie buttercups or deep, dark, depressing kinds of people, you’re generally not going to sit and read a novel of poetry in your alone time. On the rare occasions that time comes, I’d rather curl up in my afghan with Louis L’Amour or Max Brand on a snowy night in my rocker by an open fire. Now that’s heaven!

But, occasionally, I’ll pop open something with meter and rhyme. That’s my journal. It’s safe. I only kept a “diary” once as a kid. I began writing poetry notes after my sister found my diary and blabbed to the world how infatuated I was with what’s-his-name. Humph. (Oh yes, everyone has one of those relatives.) With poetry, one can write deep, dark secrets in code… poetry code. Not many “get it.” But to those who do… one can hop into a whole ‘nother world. So, I thought I’d go out on a limb in this post and give you a smidgeon…

Like the leaves that grow
on a tree in spring,
words from a poet,
joy to our hearts bring.

When winter is past,
silent words inside,
come out in full bloom,
sing poetry’s pride.

My mother typically complained that no one ever did anything for her. I have pictures from the early 1990s showing lots of people gathered in the Shaffer’s neighborhood clubhouse, decorated with balloons, candles, streamers, and 50 candles on the cake (all at my expense). However, the only thing you will hear from her is how everyone forgot her half-century birthday. **Sigh**

I remember one Mother’s Day back in the same time frame, I was asked to take part in the proverbial church program. I don’t recall the name of the song the director picked for my solo, but it was about a mother’s love, and I was surrounded by the kids on the platform. My vocal cords were in full swing that morning, which is strange since most mornings I’m lucky to get out a gurgle. Along with that song, I wrote and recited this poem expressing my vision of motherhood:

A Mother’s Legacy

A visit long ago,
memories deep in my mind.
Peach cobbler, apple pie,
made with hands old and kind.

Asleep in her bosom,
Grandma would slowly rock,
humming, “My child love on”
not a thought of the clock.

My mother’s loving care,
for each button to sew,
deep in the night she worked,
that I might steal the show.

So proud of each success,
as if it were her own.
When failure would descend,
she then made her love known.

With children of my own,
this legacy to pass.
Careers, sitters, day care!
Button up! Off to class!

No time for soft moments,
precious time we misuse.
Society’s pressure,
priorities to choose.

Will children call me blessed?
The Lord’s ways have I taught?
Did I take out the time
to instruct as I ought?

Asleep on my bosom,
my grandchild I now rock,
humming, “My child love on”
not a thought of the clock.

The “code”?? Can you feel the security in a grandma’s care? Can you see the love of a mother who is available to help make costumes for her child’s 1st grade school play? Can you feel the frustration of not having the same experience with her own children because of the busyness of modern life? Can you sense the pendulum swing back around as she loves on her own grandchild? Did you catch the codes?

Poetry can be reflections of our realities… more often; poetry is a reflection of our dreams.

On that Mother’s Day… church was overflowing with mothers everywhere…

Except mine… she didn’t show up that Sunday…

.