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LAST VISIT TO THE HOUSE I CALLED HOME, a Poem

July 10, 2021 by terrypetersen

Our past offers us two choices … live IN it or live FROM it.  (Brittany Burgunder)

One of our upstairs room has been a storeroom. For things. Too many things. For years. Oh why was I born with a creative mind instead of one made of neat everything-has-a-place compartments? With loving help the space is now a playroom. For grandkids. As I go through old photo albums, the next chore, I see pictures of my parents. In a side closet I find my wedding dress again, fifty years after I slipped it into its protective bag, closed the zipper and lived the unexpected life that followed.

I find a poem, written after exploring my father’s house after he died.

wedding dress

LAST VISIT TO THE HOUSE I CALLED HOME
           
Dust encases the old homestead.
Encyclopedias from 1963,
boxes of unused pencils,

skeins of yarn with faded fifty-cent
mark-down stickers,
a broken clock.

Most of the saved items are gone, 
Dumpster and shredder items wait.
Bags of cancelled checks

on Mom’s closed account.
She died years ago. 
Dad’s will to maintain dissolved, too.

In the back yard his loss leaked
into the naked, open space
leaving it flat, withered.

Before the property grew sullen, 
I planted seeds for annuals that sprouted into
a tiny-stemmed miniature garden.

They dwarfed next to tomato vines 
Dad tied to hand-cut posts.
Sunlight coaxed 

white blossoms into green and then red fruit.
Inside the house Mom made soups that 
took all day to blend the chicken 

with onions, carrots, celery
into a fragrance that filled every nook.
I try to recall an ancient, lingering scent

but it was taken for granted
too long ago. I find my wedding gown 
in an eaves closet,

zipped in plastic.
I had changed my name and moved on.
The yellowed department-store receipt

remains attached to the wire hanger.
I wipe off the grime and carry what-was-me 
into what-is-me now.

The door locks for the last time.
The sun leaves a sliver of itself 
on a pink horizon,

a visible color beyond reach,
like memories, both dark and light,
locked inside things left behind.

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A Final Conversation with My Dying Microwave

July 2, 2021 by terrypetersen

 

Life does exist. It’s the purpose that counts. (Toba Beta, My Ancestor Was an Ancient Astronaut)

Me: What is wrong with you? Ten minutes ago, you turned bacon into the crisp treat my granddaughter loves. Now you have the power of a second-hand toy microwave, the kind with parts that aren’t made anymore.

Microwave: You really want to know.

Me: Yes, I really want to know. STAT. I have guests for brunch.

Microwave: STAT. That stands for Some Time After Therapy. Extensive treatment. You warmed that coffee long enough to mimic molten lava. Did you really think that would coax me into action? If I suddenly rose from the dead, whose tongue were you trying to burn?

Me: Okay. Okay. I was desperate. Wait a minute. You are dead?

Microwave: Not completely. You need to pull my plug.

Me: Literally.

Microwave: Yes. I’m an appliance. You don’t pay for my healthcare. Electricity was all I needed. And an occasional cleaning. I can deal with a garbage-pickup burial. I wish you warm leftovers with no spillovers. May my replacement last as long as I have.

Me: Your timing stinks, you know.

Microwave: And you think you will be planning your demise?

Me: You’re mighty clever for an appliance. No. I don’t think I will jump into a casket on purpose.

Microwave: Well, your son has taken over the stove. Quite well. He’s not staring at a dying appliance for help. Time to face facts, human. You are mighty lucky to have something like me. Gratitude? Yeah. For what you have. For what you can do. Your son is calling you now. Your meal is ready. Celebrate. I’ll wave at you from the curb on pickup day. Well, I’ll wave metaphorically.

And by the way, nothing is wrong with me. Not in the larger scheme of things. You don’t blame a battery for wearing out. Or a day from turning into night. I did what I was meant to do.

Now, you do the same.

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After the Stroke, a Poem

June 27, 2021 by terrypetersen

illustration After the Stroke blog

AFTER THE STROKE

You were right. The garage-sale couch 
I bought when we were in grad school
faded against our apartment wall
like sky into sky.

I never minded your razzing.
Your pokes led to embraces
on that bland divan. Its springs broke years ago.
Like the now-disconnected side of my body.

My words dissolve before they touch 
my tongue. But our past replays scenes 
as you rotate old photos
to feed my memory, although I forget

the ice water you set inches from my good side.
Lifting it proves my earth-presence.
At the soirée displayed in the center of a yellowed album
your eagle-proud mother told me, "Forget champagne.

A common large-beaked crow hides inside your 
black bargain dress. Perch on a lower shelf, dear."
As she lay dying, I wiped her chin and behind.
She never changed her mind about me.

I lift a freshened glass of water.
My arms could be made of paper straws.
Books cover one wall. We’ve read them all
I long for the ability to tell you to open

any book to the blank page in the back,
the space that announces words have ended.
Close the cover. Say good-bye.
Water dribbles down my numb chin.

I’m as hidden as our old blue sofa.
Lock your eyes into mine.
Let me see you as you were on that worn
linen eyesore. Enter a space that joins

everything it touches. Come.
Sit with me. Embrace your common crow.
One more time.
The chores will wait. This moment may not.

The above poem is fiction. I am old enough to be aware of difficult possibilities. I am seeing a lot of them. For now, I celebrate this moment, and celebrate the quote I chose for today:

 

illustration made from public domain photo, pastel, colored pencil, and colored papers

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Sonnet by a Mature Woman, a Poem

June 21, 2021 by terrypetersen

new beautician

Happiness is when what you say, what you think, and what you do are in harmony. (Mahatma Ghandi)

No, I don’t wear makeup. It doesn’t hide anything that isn’t superficial. During play, my granddaughter acted as my new beautician. Since the mascara was probably bought sometime during the Reagan era, I washed my face as soon as possible and then discarded the contents of the old makeup bag.

However, I saved this poem, written and published in Dream Weaver Magazine in January of 1998.

Sonnet by a Mature Woman

New wrinkle creams entice from glossy ads
with svelte, young anorexics smiling out
at both my chins, at skin too old for fads.
Bold claims portrayed in color, dull my doubt.
 
Be young. Be free. Deny the lines of time.
The agony of blemish, breasts that sag
must never mar a body fit to climb
perfection’s route, nor risk cosmetic snag.
 
And yet my husband sees each bulge and flaw
with eyes that know the gain and loss of years
we’ve shared: the new and old, the fresh and raw
of yesterdays with struggles, joys, and fears.
 
We see within each other love held deep.
Compared to banal wisdom, beauty’s cheap.

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Wisdom, Perfectly Imperfect

June 13, 2021 by terrypetersen

There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.  (Albert Einstein) 

A technician from our security alarm company will be arriving this morning. Soon. Grandchildren have been through the house. The living room looks as if it hasn’t been cleaned since the turn of the century. I have a good imagination; I vacuumed two days ago. 

Paul H. arrives with his toolbox. He doesn’t look at anything except our misbehaving security box. I don’t notice much about him until he has almost finished with repairs. One of his eyes doesn’t align with the other. Nevertheless, he knows what he is doing and answers questions with ease. 

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” my husband asks. “Sure,” he answers. I add a little milk per his request and the three of us talk. About travels. About life. 

“I fell off a ladder,” he says. “Thirty-three feet.”

 I gasp. 

“Multiple injuries. Broken bones. Surgeries. More surgeries. Funny how kids stare and say exactly what they think. No holding back. They say I have a crazy eye. I just tell them it is artificial. I can’t see out of it. At all.” He turns toward me. “I’m a miracle.” 

I think about my earlier petty concerns and smile. This man chose to see us with the vision he has left. Not a marble under the TV or a crayon on the couch. A little shared coffee sounds great. I add warmth to my cooled mug and warmth to my spirit. 

Time to sign on the dotted line. Job completed. Thanks, Paul. May the story of your miracle help others see through their own times of darkness. 

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Goosely Translated, a Poem

June 5, 2021 by terrypetersen

flying geese

It ain’t what they call you, it’s what you answer to. W.C. Fields


GOOSELY TRANSLATED

Two Canada geese
settle into an angled parking space
in a Wal-Mart lot.

They take turns 
sharing shreds of bun
left in a torn red McDonald’s box.

One goose eats.
The other stands and watches.
They protect one another.

A car honks.
The blast interrupts their feast.
Harsh and threatening 
human voices call to the birds
as they flee.

The geese answer
from their aerial perspective.
I interpret their comeback
into English.

Excellent volume.
Lacks style.


Illustration created from a clipart drawing, pastels, and colored paper

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Myopic, a Poem

May 29, 2021 by terrypetersen

drops

Tis but a part we see and not a whole. (Alexander Pope)

Slices of green leaf hold drops of water,
while my camera crops the rest 
of the plant from my yard.

My window seat opens a square 
of flight into midday sky. Into
finespun white and gray clouds.
 
Blue twists through nature’s 
continuous artwork, 
intangible yet visible.

While the land below blends
into solid colors. Squares. 
An illusion of sameness.

When I hear angry people, I assume 
motives. Yet, what has been cropped 
from this old man’s life? 
Or young child’s future?

How long has this girl been searching 
through fragile clouds of the past 
for what can’t be found in the present?

I belong to the whole. 
The path opens wider,
yet never gives all.

Slices of green leaf hold drops of water
while my camera crops the rest
of the plant from the scene. 

I study what I see
while the whole holds all.

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The Blue Bike, a Poem

May 21, 2021 by terrypetersen

blue bike illustration

(simple, childlike bicycle drawing)

Friendships in childhood are usually a matter of chance, whereas in adolescence they are most often a matter of choice. (David Elkind)

One 1950’s variety blue, 
second-hand bicycle, no features
peddle-power only.
Balance, I’d mastered it.

A classmate begged to ride.
She sped down the hill,
made a squealing brake, 
and met the concrete with her nose.

“It’s the bike’s fault,” she claimed.
Tears fell into the blood on her face
while she stared me down. 
My parents said nothing.

Alone, I stepped into new shades of balance. 
My peer seemed to choose a 
shift-the-blame ploy. As a reticent child, 
inaction was my norm. I hadn’t yet learned

when to be silent, when to speak.
I was mute out of fear. Balance
and courage took me years to develop.
To move from fragile ego into integrity.

A new goal reaches into my horizon, to focus
less on blame than on pain. How can I help you?
To be aware of both ploy and hurt. Neither
accepting nor giving censure. Not easy.

Balance includes more than gravity. To
maintain real-life love without being a jerk,
without giving more than I have.
One old lady moving forward, into peace.

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Birthday Number 75 and Still a Student

May 14, 2021 by terrypetersen

Bass Harbor signed

If we have not quiet in our minds, outward comfort will do no more for us than a golden slipper on a gouty foot. (John Bunyan)

“What do you want to do for you birthday?” my husband asks.

I have a few days to think about it. Not many. Age 75 is approaching with hurricane swiftness. No good options for avoiding the fact.

My unspoken answer is, appreciate. A goldfinch and cardinal appear at our bird-feeder. Their bright colors move against a cobalt blue sky. I am learning to paint. Acrylic layers take time. Each stroke crosses the canvas and dries. My work is imperfect. At this advanced age I am a student of both art and of life. The above painting of Bass Harbor in Maine was a recent gift for my husband.

What do I want? I want to be. Having is overrated. I’d like to turn off the news when I can no longer help. I’d like to recognize wrongfulness yet never allow hate to take over. I’d like to work without letting work be my master.

I will celebrate my entry into the world in a small way. And grab the beauty in the moment, even if it is hidden under a mountain of rocks.

Today I pick up a pencil and begin another drawing on canvas. A single graphite path. A short-sighted vision. Enough for now. Each stroke is only an imitation of the real anyway. What-I-do is what matters.

Peace. May it extend beyond an image or a moment.

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Like Ocean Waves

May 7, 2021 by terrypetersen

Enlightenment is when a wave realizes it is the ocean. (Thich Nhat Hanh)

My mind travels in unplanned directions as I drive familiar routes. My car goes where it needs to go. And my imagination moves forward and backward. I am en route to the grocery.

On the right side of the road an elderly couple walk along the sidewalk. The gentleman uses a walker. Her arm reaches around his shoulder.

I feel the reality of universal emotion as if it were a new notion. When I was a child we didn’t talk about emotional experience in my family. I believed adults were innately different than children. Taller creatures knew the rules and never knelt backward on a pew in church to see behind them. Stoic was an unspoken virtue.

Grownups laughed at jokes and never explain unfamiliar phrases. At family events kids sat at a smaller table on chairs that tipped easier. We dropped more and were ready for dessert sooner.

Yet, these were the superficial differences. Constant separations told me we were disparate creatures. I was told what to think and how to be. Feelings came up only when they didn’t fit what Mommy wanted.

A strange form of enlightenment came later. A fluid one. Like water. It didn’t arrive at a place I can find again and describe. Understanding, truth, and empathy are not static. Surface waves. Tidal waves. Some moments almost unbearable, others healing. And all belonged to a whole larger than I am. A vast ocean of tested and untested experience.

I arrive in the same parking-lot I’ve seen uncountable times. The sky leaks a few raindrops.

“Good afternoon,” I call to a woman returning her cart. I am lucky. She returns the greeting.

This moment will move into the next. Will I give to the whole as I travel, or not? I will if I am aware that I am the ocean.

 ocean side

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