Back to Childhood
Mud Pies by Tamara Madison
A Fawn Has No Scent by Betsy Mars
And so, like a deer mother, my parents left me curled up
on the doorsteps, in the flowerbeds, in the rumpus rooms
of others—those with fathers who worked 9-5,
and stay-at-home mothers who boiled hot dogs, fried bologna
for lunch. I stayed quiet, asleep inside my abandonment.
My mother went off to feed, to lure away danger, her scent
so strong. I wore her like an invisibility cloak. I was nothing
like a horse, a colt who could get on my feet. I was safe
without human interference.
Turn left at the first sign of progress
and follow the old highway
along the Stillwater River.
When you hear the whistle of the train,
take a right and cross the covered bridge
that leads to the rodeo grounds
where the silver-maned bronc
caused so much havoc the summer you were ten
and the ghost of your grandfather’s jeep
rests behind the bleached-out grandstand
choked with blackberries.
As you round the corner into town,
there’s a white picket fence
laced with lilacs. Walk through the gate.
You’ll see a blue and white Western Flyer
lying on its side in the middle of the sidewalk.
It will take you the rest of the way.
First appeared on Zingaro Poetry Review
Unless hot lunch at school
was serving something special
like corn chowder
and baking powder biscuits
or creamed chipped beef
potatoes and brownies
I went home
to what my
mother made
like most town kids
Jack walked the furthest
almost to the river
to his unpainted house
by the railroad tracks
We all knew nobody was there
his mom at the tavern already
He always came back
Just in time for the bell.
First appeared in American Life in Poetry
In my sixth grade winter
snowstorms came so close
there was no chance
to clear the roads
just enough sun melt
to sheath the trees in ice
grow long rows of icicles
from every eave and rooftops edge
even build a thick
carapace of ice
around the fire escapes
between buildings
Every day I walked down
icy sidewalks to meet Anna
and together we entered
that space
iced over so thick
it was, we said, a magic
crystal castle, somehow
there for us to wonder at
We thought it was our secret
the ice here thicker
clearer and more solid
in this narrow passageway
than any other, none
even close to ours in icy
splendor
Nights at home seemed
warm and safe
with all the world outside
blanketed in the hush
of thickly falling snow
cocooning us together,
the room at times lit
with candles when ice
had taken down the lines
and we drowsed in the
yellow light, wrapped in quilts,
listening to the sound
of chains on tires, like bells
marking the way of cars
heading home.
the weight of winter
made our small spaces
perfect, like wishes
granted before you could
dream them up.
Until the storms stopped
and all the clocks
reset themselves
the chains came off
the candles were unlit
and coming home from school
we found our ice castle
collapsed in broken ruins
at our feet.
My husband said I was silly. This is America.
Can’t happen here. But I never knew
when I was safe, could never feel safe enough.
Halloween is three weeks away. Bottles
of false blood, elastic gore, plastic wounds
from vampires, zombies, maybe Nazis
line shelves. Make-believe fatal wounds.
Look bloody, look repulsive, look dead, I thought.
Lie very still, hide in plain sight.
First appeared in Coal City Review
in memory of Barbara Thomas
The sand drinks water from the hose;
I am sure I hear it gulping. It is wet
and grainy as I smooth it into tins.
Our pink house is at my back, the sandy
lake of our driveway studded with rocks.
She drives up in a white car. She wears
a yellow dress and a big smile beneath
the white hat. I know her; she is my first
friend. I have spent two years on this earth,
yet still I never talk. Even my family
has yet to hear my first word. But I know
this person. She will accept the invitation,
so I ask: Mrs. Thomas, would you like
to make mud pies with me? Her mouth
opens wide with a new smile. Why sure!
she says, and settles onto the sand beside me.
We smooth the pies with wet sandy hands,
I in bare feet, she in her yellow dress.
It is her idea to place a yellow flower
in the center of each pie. She’ll go in to see
my mother when she’s ready. For now,
there are three more tins to fill,
and a handful of flowers to place on top.
Games We Played by Robbi Nester
They were serious business, those games
we played at in the schoolyard, up the
driveway, against the stoop, with balls,
and bikes, or rakes, chasing each other
up and down the block, building igloos
in the snow. We played family, repeating
all the curse words we heard our fathers
utter, played war. On rainy Sundays,
we got out old box games like Monopoly
or Candyland, dealt hands of Old Maid
on the kitchen table. But I preferred
to play alone, retreating to the damp
basement, where I’d imagine I was
flying in the clouds, though it was just
a stationary bicycle with wings
I’d fashioned out of plywood, laid
across the front end of the seat.
Sometimes as I flew, I’d sing along
to records of Broadway shows,
learning all the words. I still
remember some of those songs.
They were serious business, those games
we played at in the schoolyard, up the
driveway, against the stoop, with balls,
and bikes, or rakes, chasing each other
up and down the block, building igloos
in the snow. We played family, repeating
all the curse words we heard our fathers
utter, played war. On rainy Sundays,
we got out old box games like Monopoly
or Candyland, dealt hands of Old Maid
on the kitchen table. But I preferred
to play alone, retreating to the damp
basement, where I’d imagine I was
flying in the clouds, though it was just
a stationary bicycle with wings
I’d fashioned out of plywood, laid
across the front end of the seat.
Sometimes as I flew, I’d sing along
to records of Broadway shows,
learning all the words. I still
remember some of those songs.
Previously published at The Journal of Radical Wonder
The Black Bicycle by Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca
(After the William Carlos Williams poem ‘The Red Wheelbarrow’…only longer)
For my father, who taught me how to ride my first bicycle.
So much depends
On a black bicycle
Resting serenely against
the overflowing petunias in the window boxes
and the rain drenched cushions
on the comfortable patio.
The cushions are sun- dried now
The cherry tomatoes will soon be red.
I may lie down on the patio
with a handkerchief over my eyes
like my poet father did on his bed,
and wait for words,
Or dream of lines like his.
In the garden of my childhood
I sense his hands holding the bicycle
Then the letting go
Falling repeatedly.
Finally Death took over, as it must do
The permanence of the letting go.
Now, life deals me different falls,
As I watch the purple pansies
With their faces upturned
To meet the sun.
I no longer ride bicycles.
Without father,
The balance is difficult,
Yet, the poems of childhood
Drift in and out
In solid shapes.
Sometimes, I sense
His invisible hands
Guiding my words and lines.
Appeared in Verse-Virtual
(After the William Carlos Williams poem ‘The Red Wheelbarrow’…only longer)
For my father, who taught me how to ride my first bicycle.
So much depends
On a black bicycle
Resting serenely against
the overflowing petunias in the window boxes
and the rain drenched cushions
on the comfortable patio.
The cushions are sun- dried now
The cherry tomatoes will soon be red.
I may lie down on the patio
with a handkerchief over my eyes
like my poet father did on his bed,
and wait for words,
Or dream of lines like his.
In the garden of my childhood
I sense his hands holding the bicycle
Then the letting go
Falling repeatedly.
Finally Death took over, as it must do
The permanence of the letting go.
Now, life deals me different falls,
As I watch the purple pansies
With their faces upturned
To meet the sun.
I no longer ride bicycles.
Without father,
The balance is difficult,
Yet, the poems of childhood
Drift in and out
In solid shapes.
Sometimes, I sense
His invisible hands
Guiding my words and lines.
Appeared in Verse-Virtual
Reset by Joanne Durham
At Kaywood Kindergarten,
while Patty and Ricky
glued ears on Styrofoam
bunnies, Brian and I
designed a bowling alley.
Brian had two stumps
at the knuckles instead of fingers,
a mark of distinction
as our hands bumped together
along the floor, on a long scroll
of white paper, the kind
that lays the limits
of a wedding aisle. We tore
open empty paper towel rolls
for gutters, drew score cards.
The main feature was to be
the automatic reset.
Brian tied yarn
around each pin’s neck
and I crayoned a bright red
button labeled PUSH.
Nothing worked.
On hands and knees
we scrambled after
those pins, under desks
and around still wet
finger paintings,
stood each one up again
on their wobbly bottoms.
We hadn’t even considered
failure. So much we didn’t
know, didn’t know we’d ever
have to consider.
At Kaywood Kindergarten,
while Patty and Ricky
glued ears on Styrofoam
bunnies, Brian and I
designed a bowling alley.
Brian had two stumps
at the knuckles instead of fingers,
a mark of distinction
as our hands bumped together
along the floor, on a long scroll
of white paper, the kind
that lays the limits
of a wedding aisle. We tore
open empty paper towel rolls
for gutters, drew score cards.
The main feature was to be
the automatic reset.
Brian tied yarn
around each pin’s neck
and I crayoned a bright red
button labeled PUSH.
Nothing worked.
On hands and knees
we scrambled after
those pins, under desks
and around still wet
finger paintings,
stood each one up again
on their wobbly bottoms.
We hadn’t even considered
failure. So much we didn’t
know, didn’t know we’d ever
have to consider.
From To Drink From a Wider Bowl
Kindergarten Boyfriend by Shoshauna Shy
are two words as soothing as “summer
vacation” and “cinnamon swirl” because
there was red brick Dewey School,
the lacy elms that graced it,
the purple rug I brought from home,
my little raft for naptime.
Fat Crayolas, Elmer’s glue that dried
on palms for peeling; Mrs. Schumach’s
piano, Steven Kaylick’s cowboy boots.
Was he my boyfriend, my first crush?
Before I knew what that was, I felt
a sense of kinship with his gap-toothed
grin, his cowlick, his cherry-red suspenders.
Even his name was fun to say
and I sang it walking home
from that magical realm of my afternoons
called Half-Day Kindergarten.
We all were such tender budlets
enthralled with everything.
First appeared in Your Daily Poem
are two words as soothing as “summer
vacation” and “cinnamon swirl” because
there was red brick Dewey School,
the lacy elms that graced it,
the purple rug I brought from home,
my little raft for naptime.
Fat Crayolas, Elmer’s glue that dried
on palms for peeling; Mrs. Schumach’s
piano, Steven Kaylick’s cowboy boots.
Was he my boyfriend, my first crush?
Before I knew what that was, I felt
a sense of kinship with his gap-toothed
grin, his cowlick, his cherry-red suspenders.
Even his name was fun to say
and I sang it walking home
from that magical realm of my afternoons
called Half-Day Kindergarten.
We all were such tender budlets
enthralled with everything.
First appeared in Your Daily Poem
Babs and the Bully by Sharon Waller Knutson
The day after my 100-year-old
aunt’s funeral, her son, Larry,
my cousin and I thumb through
the family photograph albums
recalling happier times. As my aunt
peers over the back of the rocker,
he barely a year old, concern
stamped all over his freckled face,
sits holding a wrinkled infant wrapped
in a pink blanket, mouth open wide
like a baby bird begging for a worm.
All I wanted to do was protect you,
he says. I was the sister he never had
and he was better than a big brother.
But the first day of school, we are kittens
facing a pit bull when the third grader
in a giant’s body holds us hostage
on the sidewalk as we walk home
until my tiny aunt – outmatched in size
and stature - storms in like a tornado
and smacks the bully in the back of his head
with her purse heavy as a hammer
pounding him like a nail as he runs
down the street blubbering and bawling.
I giggle with glee, but my cousin scowls
because he knows his mother
has given the bully more ammunition
for his taunts. Sissy Boy. Your mama
has to fight your battles for you,
the bully shouts, but this time
he keeps his eyes peeled to make
sure my aunt is nowhere around.
From The Leading Ladies of My Life
The day after my 100-year-old
aunt’s funeral, her son, Larry,
my cousin and I thumb through
the family photograph albums
recalling happier times. As my aunt
peers over the back of the rocker,
he barely a year old, concern
stamped all over his freckled face,
sits holding a wrinkled infant wrapped
in a pink blanket, mouth open wide
like a baby bird begging for a worm.
All I wanted to do was protect you,
he says. I was the sister he never had
and he was better than a big brother.
But the first day of school, we are kittens
facing a pit bull when the third grader
in a giant’s body holds us hostage
on the sidewalk as we walk home
until my tiny aunt – outmatched in size
and stature - storms in like a tornado
and smacks the bully in the back of his head
with her purse heavy as a hammer
pounding him like a nail as he runs
down the street blubbering and bawling.
I giggle with glee, but my cousin scowls
because he knows his mother
has given the bully more ammunition
for his taunts. Sissy Boy. Your mama
has to fight your battles for you,
the bully shouts, but this time
he keeps his eyes peeled to make
sure my aunt is nowhere around.
From The Leading Ladies of My Life
A Fawn Has No Scent by Betsy Mars
And so, like a deer mother, my parents left me curled up
on the doorsteps, in the flowerbeds, in the rumpus rooms
of others—those with fathers who worked 9-5,
and stay-at-home mothers who boiled hot dogs, fried bologna
for lunch. I stayed quiet, asleep inside my abandonment.
My mother went off to feed, to lure away danger, her scent
so strong. I wore her like an invisibility cloak. I was nothing
like a horse, a colt who could get on my feet. I was safe
without human interference.
First appeared on ONE ART
Dollhouse by Alarie Tennille
I wanted Kathy’s dollhouse
with its green-shingled roof,
front door that really opened,
and a grandpa who would make
such wonders for me.
Mama gave me crayons,
snub-nosed scissors,
a cardboard box:
“Use your imagination.”
Kathy’s doll slept in a four-poster bed
like the ones in Williamsburg.
My doll suffered a succession
of ugly brown homes
that sagged in the summer humidity.
Now I build my houses
with walls of words
and skylights into the past—
and sometimes the doors swing open.
from Spiraling into Control
I wanted Kathy’s dollhouse
with its green-shingled roof,
front door that really opened,
and a grandpa who would make
such wonders for me.
Mama gave me crayons,
snub-nosed scissors,
a cardboard box:
“Use your imagination.”
Kathy’s doll slept in a four-poster bed
like the ones in Williamsburg.
My doll suffered a succession
of ugly brown homes
that sagged in the summer humidity.
Now I build my houses
with walls of words
and skylights into the past—
and sometimes the doors swing open.
from Spiraling into Control
Directions Back to Childhood
by Judith Waller Carroll
by Judith Waller Carroll
Turn left at the first sign of progress
and follow the old highway
along the Stillwater River.
When you hear the whistle of the train,
take a right and cross the covered bridge
that leads to the rodeo grounds
where the silver-maned bronc
caused so much havoc the summer you were ten
and the ghost of your grandfather’s jeep
rests behind the bleached-out grandstand
choked with blackberries.
As you round the corner into town,
there’s a white picket fence
laced with lilacs. Walk through the gate.
You’ll see a blue and white Western Flyer
lying on its side in the middle of the sidewalk.
It will take you the rest of the way.
First appeared on Zingaro Poetry Review
Noon Hour
By Peggy Trojan
Unless hot lunch at school
was serving something special
like corn chowder
and baking powder biscuits
or creamed chipped beef
potatoes and brownies
I went home
to what my
mother made
like most town kids
Jack walked the furthest
almost to the river
to his unpainted house
by the railroad tracks
We all knew nobody was there
his mom at the tavern already
He always came back
Just in time for the bell.
First appeared in American Life in Poetry
The Ice Castle by Mary McCarthy
In my sixth grade winter
snowstorms came so close
there was no chance
to clear the roads
just enough sun melt
to sheath the trees in ice
grow long rows of icicles
from every eave and rooftops edge
even build a thick
carapace of ice
around the fire escapes
between buildings
Every day I walked down
icy sidewalks to meet Anna
and together we entered
that space
iced over so thick
it was, we said, a magic
crystal castle, somehow
there for us to wonder at
We thought it was our secret
the ice here thicker
clearer and more solid
in this narrow passageway
than any other, none
even close to ours in icy
splendor
Nights at home seemed
warm and safe
with all the world outside
blanketed in the hush
of thickly falling snow
cocooning us together,
the room at times lit
with candles when ice
had taken down the lines
and we drowsed in the
yellow light, wrapped in quilts,
listening to the sound
of chains on tires, like bells
marking the way of cars
heading home.
the weight of winter
made our small spaces
perfect, like wishes
granted before you could
dream them up.
Until the storms stopped
and all the clocks
reset themselves
the chains came off
the candles were unlit
and coming home from school
we found our ice castle
collapsed in broken ruins
at our feet.
Crayons Can Say So Much by Fran Abrams
She starts with scribbles of green
across the bottom of a clean sheet of paper.
Then picks up a yellow crayon
and draws a circle near the top
whispering "sun" to herself.
She chooses an orange crayon,
adds a solid round shape
in the center of the paper,
adds a small orange ball
connected to the top of the large one.
A few blue lines next to the orange
as she proclaims, "Done."
She shows the page to her nursery school teacher
saying, "That's me and my blankie
when I was a baby." Her mother’s tears
will stain this treasure
before it goes up on the fridge.
She starts with scribbles of green
across the bottom of a clean sheet of paper.
Then picks up a yellow crayon
and draws a circle near the top
whispering "sun" to herself.
She chooses an orange crayon,
adds a solid round shape
in the center of the paper,
adds a small orange ball
connected to the top of the large one.
A few blue lines next to the orange
as she proclaims, "Done."
She shows the page to her nursery school teacher
saying, "That's me and my blankie
when I was a baby." Her mother’s tears
will stain this treasure
before it goes up on the fridge.
We Didn’t Know We Were Poor by Rose Mary Boehm
Sometimes we went hungry, but not much. Mother made dandelion salad and stingy-
nettle soup. Potatoes and carrots in water with salt. Mother had been on the train again to visit farmer Ruttenberger. Left our last silver flatware with his wife. Brought back a big sack of rye. Can see her still, her too large dress, her apron, the coffee machine between her thighs, milling. Everyone was the same. You don’t notice if you have nothing to compare yourself to. My scary aunt with the deep voice and a wart on her chin would send us into the woods: ‘Don’t you go eating the blueberries now. Bring them home, you hear? I need them for jam making.’ There was a place near the brook, where the world smelled of woodruff and ceps, where bluebells announced our indelicate approach. Getting back empty-handed, round-eyed and honest-to-god we hadn’t found even one, my aunt wiped blue-purple stains from our guilty faces while winking at my mother. My uncle is looking for his cat with a darkening face. ‘I’ll find out who ate her!’
Appeared on Poetry X Hunger
Sometimes we went hungry, but not much. Mother made dandelion salad and stingy-
nettle soup. Potatoes and carrots in water with salt. Mother had been on the train again to visit farmer Ruttenberger. Left our last silver flatware with his wife. Brought back a big sack of rye. Can see her still, her too large dress, her apron, the coffee machine between her thighs, milling. Everyone was the same. You don’t notice if you have nothing to compare yourself to. My scary aunt with the deep voice and a wart on her chin would send us into the woods: ‘Don’t you go eating the blueberries now. Bring them home, you hear? I need them for jam making.’ There was a place near the brook, where the world smelled of woodruff and ceps, where bluebells announced our indelicate approach. Getting back empty-handed, round-eyed and honest-to-god we hadn’t found even one, my aunt wiped blue-purple stains from our guilty faces while winking at my mother. My uncle is looking for his cat with a darkening face. ‘I’ll find out who ate her!’
Appeared on Poetry X Hunger
Hiding Places
By Tina Hacker
Some survived because they hid
behind false walls, in secret attics,
under floors in pits the Nazis missed.
When I was a child, I hid inside a shadow
when obliging drapes held sunlight
at bay. I felt invisible except Mother
always found me. Sometimes angry,
she’d ask, “Why didn’t you come
when I called?” I wouldn’t answer.
I hoped my stillness would shimmer
like a mirage, blurring me until
I was sure I was safe. I never knew
when I was safe. In my first apartment
I looked for a place. Bent down to peer
under our bed. Too childish, too obvious.
I pushed our large recliner into a corner
and crouched behind. A tweed grizzly
guarding my cave, but its hulking body
left revealing gaps. Maybe bury myself
beneath piles of pillows, become invisible
under shams, throws, bolsters on our bed.
By Tina Hacker
Some survived because they hid
behind false walls, in secret attics,
under floors in pits the Nazis missed.
When I was a child, I hid inside a shadow
when obliging drapes held sunlight
at bay. I felt invisible except Mother
always found me. Sometimes angry,
she’d ask, “Why didn’t you come
when I called?” I wouldn’t answer.
I hoped my stillness would shimmer
like a mirage, blurring me until
I was sure I was safe. I never knew
when I was safe. In my first apartment
I looked for a place. Bent down to peer
under our bed. Too childish, too obvious.
I pushed our large recliner into a corner
and crouched behind. A tweed grizzly
guarding my cave, but its hulking body
left revealing gaps. Maybe bury myself
beneath piles of pillows, become invisible
under shams, throws, bolsters on our bed.
My husband said I was silly. This is America.
Can’t happen here. But I never knew
when I was safe, could never feel safe enough.
Halloween is three weeks away. Bottles
of false blood, elastic gore, plastic wounds
from vampires, zombies, maybe Nazis
line shelves. Make-believe fatal wounds.
Look bloody, look repulsive, look dead, I thought.
Lie very still, hide in plain sight.
First appeared in Coal City Review
What a lovely group of poems!
ReplyDelete