the pattyo

I wonder if my daughter has a blog
I thought she did but maybe I am wrog
She hasn’t written for a bit of time
It must be that the error is all mine.

I’d bother her but I’m a nicer mom
I only write bad poems—not too long—
that hardly rhyme and make so little sense
that folks around me think I’m rather dense.

See how badly one can rhyme if one tries? :-)

Of course I could write free verse …

empty
silence lingers
hollow space
and hurting
hearts

the blog that isn’t
written

HI KELSEY!

I’m just having a bit ‘o fun with you. :-)
—–

mouse

too small to offer
up my coat
i’ll give the baby
quiet

from a lamb’s point of view

i heard those angels singing
and i saw my master leaving
to see the Child

i cannot help but wonder
if this little One
this Savior of the people
will save my life as well

The Cow

His mother feeds him;
my milk is not needed.

Only my stench
Exists for them.

But I will low
and sing a song—

a moo-ing lullaby
for my Creator’s new ears.

-Patricia Emerson Mitchell
—–

I’m not from Minnesota, but I’ve not seen a “California Thanksgiving” poem. So this Minnesota one will have to do for now:

Minnesota Thanksgiving

For that free Grace bringing us past great risks
& thro’ great griefs surviving to this feast
sober & still, with the children unborn and born,
among brave friends, Lord, we stand again in debt
and find ourselves in the glad position: Gratitude.

We praise our ancestors who delivered us here
within warm walls all safe, aware of music,
likely toward ample & attractive meat
with whatever accompaniment
Kate in her kind ingenuity has seen fit to devise,

and we hope – across the most strange year to come –
continually to do them and You not sufficient honour
but such as we become able to devise
out of decent or joyful conscience & thanksgiving.
Yippee!

Bless then, as Thou wilt, this wilderness board.

-John Berryman

—–

The mirror tells a story even I
cannot deny. When seeing eye to eye
with who I am and what I have become
I wonder at the time, and sometimes run
from truth. I know the glass won’t lie—but how
I wish it would!—a part of me thinks now,
yes even at a this half a century
of age, I somehow might, quite easily,
disguise myself and come across a good
bit younger than I am. Of course this would
be folly! Here I am: I stand between
a zero and one hundred. I am queen
of middle age! So bow, salute, or give
me moderate applause. I’m glad to live!

Patricia Emerson Mitchell©
Written November 1, 2006 for this very day.
—–

I have a new do.
Do you?
—–

I thought, therefore I was,
but I stopped that thought because
it’s simply just to hot
so I thought “I’d rather not.”
But to think “I’ll stop that thought”
means I’m thinking still … oh rot!

Sorry. I just couldn’t resist. It’s been a while since I’ve written a rhyme.

It was time.

—–

by George Herbert

Lord, Who createdst man in wealth and store,

        Though foolishly he lost the same,

              Decaying more and more,

                      Till he became

                        Most poore:



                        With Thee

                      O let me rise,

              As larks, harmoniously,

        And sing this day Thy victories:

Then shall the fall further the flight in me.



My tender age in sorrow did beginne;

  And still with sicknesses and shame

        Thou didst so punish sinne,

                  That I became

                   Most thinne.



                    With Thee

                Let me combine,

      And feel this day Thy victorie;

    For, if I imp my wing on Thine,

Affliction shall advance the flight in me.

—–

“I think not!” he said.
How true.
I wish he’d think just once—
don’t you?
—–

(based on Men at Forty
by Donald Justice)

Women at forty
still wear pigtails
and use roller skates.
They are just unseen.

When they rise early
to prepare the breakfasts
and bag multiple lunches
they pretend to be old.

In the middle of the night,
when small feet flutter into the room
and little bodies crawl into their arms,
they act unafraid.

They often play dress-up,
step into uncomfortably high heels,
paint on smiles and younger faces,
perform on private stages.

Sometimes, but only rarely,
they remember to call home,
and crawl into the arms
of their mothers’ voices.