Archives for posts with tag: childhood

motherhood-1901-1.jpg!Large
I Am Still Waiting for My Heart to Catch Up
by Cristina M.R. Norcross

After celebrating our youngest son’s
15th year on this earth,
I am still waiting for my heart
to catch up with the hurried footsteps
of time.

I am still waiting for my arms to realize
that my sons don’t need me to lift them
into a car seat anymore.
Our oldest can now drive
the car himself.
My prayerful thoughts
can still guide them,
willing them to arrive safely in our driveway.
My steadfast words
of faith in their gifts can uphold them,
like scaffolding offering support
at vital pressure points,
or the red training wheels from bikes
now gathering dust in the garage.

I am still waiting for my invisible shield
to go unnoticed,
but this will never be.
They see the candle of concern in my eyes.
They notice the way my attention hovers,
the laser-like focus of my mother brain,
as I listen to their needs
and remember those they never even thought of.

The time of stepping on Legos and wiping
tomato sauce from chins has ended,
but the tiny hands
that once held my finger in sleep
will know that reaching out
always results in finding me.

Like music from another room that lingers
and dances me into the next chapter,
I am still waiting for my heart
to catch up with time.
So I keep looking down at my watch,
then up at the sky,
where the robin’s egg blue of tomorrow
promises to cradle my sons’ hopes,
even when I can’t be there
to open the door.

PAINTING: Motherhood by Pablo Picasso (1901).

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: The blink of an eye that was 2020 caused time to race like a swift runner. Try not to close your eyes, I thought. You just might think we skipped a year and leapt into the next one. Time passes quickly enough for parents, while watching their children grow up. Our lives become busy, spinning wheels of school, activities, and chores. The pandemic caused time to both stand still and flow rapidly, like a river. Our teenaged sons grew by leaps and bounds this year, while we were looking out the window at the world, with longing. I hope that we can all slow down and take a breath. I am still waiting for my heart to catch up with time’s arrow.

PHOTO: The author’s sons in younger years.

norcross1

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Cristina M. R. Norcross is the author of eight poetry collections, and is the founding editor of Blue Heron Review (2013-2021). Her most recent book is Beauty in the Broken Places (Kelsay Books, 2019). Her forthcoming poetry collection, The Sound of a Collective Pulse, is due to be published by Kelsay Books in Fall 2021. Cristina’s poems have  been published in Visual VerseYour Daily PoemPoetry HallRight Hand PointingVerse-VirtualThe Ekphrastic Review, and Pirene’s Fountain, among others. Her work also appears in numerous print anthologies. She has helped organize community art and poetry projects, has led workshops, and has also hosted many open mic readings. She is the co-founder of Random Acts of Poetry and Art Day.  Visit her at cristinanorcross.com.

sugar jets
Sugar Jets
by Patrick T. Reardon

I was six and unclear on the concept.
The commercial, black and white, for Sugar Jets
told me, if I ate a bowl, I would be jet-propelled.

I could see the boy and girl eat Sugar Jets
and fly around the box, jet-propelled.
They were drawings. But a contract was offered,
I thought.

You can see where this is going.

I nagged my mother or maybe my father
— a scary proposition, either way —
to buy Sugar Jets, without saying why.

A box was bought.
I ate a bowl
and went to the back porch, two flights up
from the pavement and lawn below,
looked out over the yard and alley and blacktop,
a gray pavement playground.

At least I didn’t throw myself off.

Instead, I waited for whatever would happen
to jet-propel me
out into the air
and into freedom
and into wonder, maybe a rebirth of wonder.

I am still waiting.

IMAGE: Still from animated commercial for Sugar Jets cereal (mid-1950s).

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: True story.  Lucky I didn’t jump.

PTR mid-March 2020

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Patrick T. Reardon, a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee, is the author of nine books, including The Loop: The “L” Tracks That Shaped and Saved Chicago; the poetry collection Requiem for David and Faith Stripped to Its Essence, a literary-religious analysis of Shusaku Endo’s novel Silence. His poetry has appeared in Burningwood Literary Journal, Eclectica, Esthetic Apostle, Ground Fresh Thursday, Literary Orphans, Rhino, Spank the Carp, Main Street Rag, The Write Launch, Hey I’m Alive, Meat for Tea, Silver Birch Press, Tipton Poetry Journal, UCity Review, and Under a Warm Green Linden. Reardon, who worked as a Chicago Tribune reporter for 32 years, has published essays and book reviews widely in such publications as the Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times, Crain’s Chicago Business, National Catholic Reporter, and U.S. Catholic. His tenth and eleventh books are forthcoming: Puddin: The Autobiography of a Baby, a Memoir in Prose Poems (2021, Third World Press) and Darkness on the face of the water (2022, Kelsay Books)His Pump Don’t Work blog can be found at patricktreardon.com.

licensed sven bachstroem
How to Skip Stones
by Ed Meek

Do you remember keeping your eyes open
for flat, oval rocks to pocket
on walks to the pond?
Saving the best for last, you’d lean
to one side and flick your wrist
flinging the stones just off the water.

It isn’t easy to defy gravity
and make a stone skip like a tern
and skim weightless
soaring without wings,
touching down like a plane
while you count until it sinks
and heads to rest anonymous
on the bottom.

Maybe that’s what we’re after
as we try to stay afloat,
skimming on the surface,
defying the odds
for the fleeting feeling of flight.

Photo by Sven Bachstroem, used by permission.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: The idea for this poem came from my wife, who likes to skip stones at a pond that we walk to. It is one of those activities that brings you back to being young, especially when you are in the older crowd, as we both are.

Photo on 2-29-16 at 1.57 PM

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Ed Meek has had poems recently in What Rough Beast, The American Poetry Journal, Constellations,  and Poetry Superhighway. He has poems coming out in Iris Literary Review, Muddy River Poetry Review, and Your Daily Poem. His new book, High Tide, is available at Aubadepublishing.com an Amazon. Visit him at edmeek.net.

beautiful-world-1962(1).jpg!Large 1962
How to Be Invisible
by Lynne Kemen

Pretend to read a book,
but listen closely
as your parents forget
that you are close by
and can hear them
talk about the move
that they are
going to make
because your father
changed jobs and
is being transferred
to another state.
Where is Indiana?

When there is an argument,
stay very still and quiet.
Put on the invisibility cloak
while the drama swirls around.
Your parents are talking
about “avorce.”
What does that word mean?

Learn to feign sleep in the
the backseat of the car while
there is an interesting
conversation
about the checkbook
and who forgot
to write the last check
and what
will happen if the check bounces.
How can something flat bounce?

Part of learning to be invisible
Is to make sure that you don’t
let grownups know what you
have learned. Ever. If you do,
you lose the magic of being
invisible forever.

IMAGE: Beautiful World by René Magritte (1962).

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: With “How to Be Invisible,” I revisited being a child and wanting to find out why the adults were having such emotionally loaded conversations.

kemen copy1

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Lynne Kemen lives in the Western Catskills of New York. Five of her poems were featured in Seeing Things: An Anthology of Poetry, Edited by Robert Bensen (Woodland Arts Editions, 2020), and her chapbook, More Than A Handful  was published in 2020 by Woodland Arts Editions. Her work has also appeared in La Presa. Lynne is a Board Member of Bright Hill Literary Press, as well as several other nonprofit organizations.

untitled-bird-tree-mountain-1984
Boys! Build Your Own Time Machine!
by Oz Hardwick

time machine oz hardwick

IMAGE: Untitled (Bird, Tree & Mountain) by Jagdish Swaminathan (1984).

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: When I think of my childhood, I think of the smell of wood: the timber yard a few streets away that I’d explore while Dad bought whatever it was he needed for something around the house; the school floorboards that were polished like treacle under glass; the wet tree stumps in the park where my grandfather would collect leaf mould for his prize-winning flowers; pews in the new church; and burning wood in the open hearth. During the past year, with so much less traffic, the world has smelled different, and sometimes a scent will trip me down a wormhole into another time.

HARDWICK copy

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Oz Hardwick is a European poet, photographer, and self-deluding musician, whose work has been published and performed internationally. His chapbook Learning to Have Lost (Canberra: IPSI, 2018) won the 2019 Rubery International Book Award for poetry, and his most recent publication is the prose poetry sequence Wolf Planet (Clevedon: Hedgehog, 2020). He has also edited or co-edited several anthologies, including The Valley Press Anthology of Prose Poetry (Scarborough: Valley Press, 2019) with Anne Caldwell. Oz is Professor of English at Leeds Trinity University, where he leads the postgraduate Creative Writing programmes. Visit him at ozhardwick.co.uk.

National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum, Cooperstown, NY
Hall of Fame
by Steven Deutsch

We were not
a wayfaring
family.

My dad drove
a taxi nights
while mom worked days

at a discount store
downtown.
How is it

no one speaks
of the weariness
of the poor?

A six-block trip
to the local
chop suey joint

after a double
feature
was quite a night.

But the summer
I turned 12
dad announced

a vacation
to Cooperstown
at the Baseball Hall of Fame.

There was not
a boy in all
of Brownsville

that didn’t envy
me that trip.
And, yes I milked it.

The three of us made
a week of it.
meandering through

the back roads
of New England—
admiring all that green,

while my dad
spoke of Ty
and Babe—

Honus and Christy
and Walter as if
speaking of old friends

and my mom
told me of my grandfather—
a man I never got to meet.

And the Museum?
Well that was
wonderful too.

PHOTO: National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum, Cooperstown, New York by Kenneth C. Zirkel, used by permission.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: When I read the prompt, I thought immediately of our trip to Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York.  I hope the poem captures the essence of that trip and of my parents. The details of the poem are not historically accurate—they never are in my work.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: After a glamorous childhood in Brownsville, Brooklyn, New York, Steve (and his wife, Karen) settled in State College, Pennsylvania. They have one son—the guitarist for the avant-garde group, Gang Gang Dance. Over the last two years, his work has appeared in more than two dozen print and on-line journals. He was twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He is the current poetry editor for Centered Magazine. His chapbook, Perhaps You Can, was published by Kelsay Press in 2019. His full length poetry book, The Persistence of Memory, has just been published by Kelsay.

deutsch 1
The Lone Ranger
by Steven Deutsch

For his tenth birthday,
my brother got

two cap pistols
a good guy hat

and the Ranger’s
famous black mask.

At six
I was convinced

that my masked brother
was beyond recognition.

I was happy
to be cast as Tonto.

I wore a single chicken feather
held fast by a salvaged hatband,

and carried a tomahawk
made of a hammer handle

and an empty can
of Campbell’s soup,

I said sidekick things.
“Him say horses need water,”

and called my brother
“Kimosabe”
.
But, how I wanted
that mask.

I’d tie it on
and visit the mom and pop

shops up and down Hopkinson Avenue
preserving the peace

to a chorus of
“Who was that masked man?”

And when my brother
discovered baseball in June

I buckled on
his six-shooters

and climbed up
on my magnificent white horse.

What a glorious
summer.

To this day
I can’t watch

the sun go down
without belting out

“Hi Ho Silver
Away.”

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I often write about my brother, though only rarely truthfully.  I had the idea for this poem early on. The original ending was much darker, but I couldn’t get it. This ending popped up instead. I’m happy with less darkness.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Over the past two years, Steve Deutsch’s work has appeared in more than two dozen journals. He was nominated for Pushcart Prizes in 2017 and 2018. His chapbook, Perhaps You Can, was published in 2019 by Kelsay Press. His full-length book, Persistence of Memory, will be published in September 2020, again by Kelsay Press. He takes full responsibility for the blog stevieslaw.com.

girl red hair
Being Blank
by Leslie Sittner

I was born bald. Mother’s joy was chipped. My blue-green eyes and cherubic face would have to do. I was adored anyway. When carroty downy fuzz began to cover my head, then proper baby hair in waves made shampooing and styling necessary, Mother’s joy mended; her plate was full.

Father and Grandmother owned red hair; dark, thick, with frizzy curls. Plus dark red eyebrows. I wore the more common redhead characteristics of pale skin, freckles, white-haired eyebrows and eyelashes. Mother worried throughout my childhood when this didn’t change; my face was blank. Puberty tested Mother’s patience; eyebrows and eyelashes had to match the hair, define my face. She instructed me to mascara the brows with the tiny Maybelline brush; never use an eyebrow pencil on the skin―it looks fake. Spit in the mascara cake, scrub the brush into the pasty color, apply gently, accurately, to the hair only. The eyelashes were easier. My face no longer blank; I did look defined, complete, almost pretty.

Over time the daily process became easier with mascara wands, more natural color choices, waterproof for water wear. I’ve done this for 65 years. It’s second nature. It’s automatic. I never leave home blank-faced. Recently, while wearing the required protective COVID mask in public, it occurred to me that I’ve been wearing a vanity mask since I was 10 years old. Revelation! At first I continued to color the brows and lashes, because after all, that’s what you see above the mask. Yesterday, sweaty, grungy, and tired from gardening in the afternoon sun, I said “what the heck” and walked the dog in public with the mask over my blank face. Neighbors knew me. No one made a “what the?” face or snarky comment.

I may finally be free of one of my masks.

PAINTING: “Young Girl Reading”  by Federico Zandomeneghi (1841-1917).

Sittner_1

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: As I’ve aged, I’ve managed to fracture all the rules I said I’d never break when I retired. Never wear sweat pants in public. Never grocery shop during lunch hour because seniors prefer that time and take forever, preventing getting back to work on time. Always wear earrings and eye make-up, etc., etc. Sadly, sweatpants (or worse), midday shopping, and, now, blankface are normal. Earrings are annoying to wear with a face mask…

Sittner_2

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Leslie Sittner’s print works are available in The Apple Tree by Third Age Press (2016 -17-18-19-21), Adirondack Life Magazine, BraVa anthology, and read on NPR. Online poems and prose reside at unearthed, Silver Birch Press, 101Words, 50 Word Challenge, 50 Word Stories, Epic Protest Poems, and Adirondack Center for Writing. A collection of essays about European travels with her ex-husband in the late 1960s awaits publishing. Leslie is currently editing the memoir written by her ancient dog and compiling her own book of haiku with photographs.

barbie-1986_warhol
Princess Barbie
by Lindsey Martin-Bowen

Yes, that’s me, masquerading
once more as Barbie.
Running fingers over a velvet,
cobalt-blue bodice, I’m the Prom
Queen I never was in high school.
My mask appears invisible—
not silk or cotton—yet it covers
skin less than creamy,
blushed & smooth.

I arch my back & balance a tiara
on thick, blonde hair, complements
of Clairol. Revlon & Estee Lauder
now masque my face & make mirrors
reflect Barbie. They send my mind
to Au Petit Marché, where I bite
into a Napoleon, sip café au lait.

Sometimes, I wear Ralph Lauren,
fly first class, and imagine
I’m some undiscovered celeb.
Shedding pain that slides away
like scales, I’m free to wander
along a French shoreline
& watch a fading red sun glide
across a calm sea.

PAINTING: “Barbie” by Andy Warhol (1986). Prints available at allposters.com.

Lindsey as Princess Barbi Oct 2013 Neon Gallery copy

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:  For the “Wearing a Mask” Series, I first tried to write about my struggles finding a mask that allowed me to breathe. (Allergies forced me to use a variety of scarves.) Yet the editor’s suggestion about the various masks we don urged me to write about one of my metaphysical (ontology) masks: Barbie. As young girls, we bought and sewed wardrobes for this fashion model whose figure (were she a live human) would likely cause her to fall on her face. Nevertheless, Barbie’s large blue eyes and broad smile haunted me as an image of beauty during my early years — and indeed, influenced my makeup mask. This is a photo of me as Princess Barbie, when I gave a poetry reading at Kansas City’s Neon Gallery on Halloween.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Lindsey Martin-Bowen’s fourth poetry collection, Where Water Meets the Rock (39 West Press 2017), contains a poem named an Honorable Mention in Writer’s Digest’s 85th Contest. Her third, CROSSING KANSAS with Jim Morrison, won Kansas Authors Club’s 2017 “Looks Like a Million” Contest, and was a finalist in the QuillsEdge Press 2015-2016 Contest. Her Inside Virgil’s Garage (Chatter House) was a runner-up in the 2015 Nelson Poetry Book Award. McClatchy Newspapers named her Standing on the Edge of the World  (Woodley Press) one of Ten Top Poetry Books of 2008. Her poems have appeared in New LettersI-70 ReviewThorny LocustFlint Hills ReviewSilver Birch Press, Amethyst ArsenicCoal City ReviewPhantom DriftEkphrastic Review (Egyptian Challenge), The Same, Tittynope ZineBare Root Review Rockhurst Review, 12 anthologies, and other lit zines. Three of her seven novels have been published. Poetry is her way of singing. She taught writing and literature at UMKC for 18 years, MCC-Longview, and teaches Criminal Law, Criminal Procedure, and other criminal justice classes for Blue Mountain Community College, Pendleton, Oregon. Visit her on Facebook.

glasses Joe1958-59
Mask of Glass
by Joe Cottonwood

I wore a mask of glass
bottle bottoms
at age eleven,
clear not black
but feeling disguised,
akin to Lone Ranger.
Later, protective
safety plastic
darkening in sunlight
always separating
out there
from in here.

Sometimes briefly
the mask I strip
for a delicious
skinny-dip,
naked eye blinking fresh
in a murky river of air
where voices vibrate
from vague faces.

Without the mask
me you see.
You I don’t.

PHOTO: The author at age 11.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I still remember the first word out of my mouth after putting on my first pair of prescription eyeglasses: “Wow!” Suddenly the world was sharply defined. Sadly, though, I soon felt strangely hidden behind that same glass.

Joe shades hat

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Joe Cottonwood has built or repaired hundreds of houses as carpenter/ contractor in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California. His latest book is Foggy Dog. Visit him at joecottonwood.com.