Diamonds on the Lawn

DIAMONDS ON THE LAWN
Dew lingers long
In the Autumn sun
Diamonds still sparkle
At noon on the lawn

I sit with my book
Distracted
Delighted
By magnified droplets
Peeking out of the grass
Like brilliant eyes of some hidden insect
Or the flicker of jewels dancing on blades

Bright sun in October
Drew me out of the shade
To warm from crisp breezes

Then offered the magic
Of gems tossed profusely
All over the yard.

                                    -JoMae

When I'm an Old Woman

WHEN I’M AN OLD WOMAN

I shall sit in this chair in my sweatshirt and jeans
With my books and my papers all scattered again
I shall think with my pencil
And spout off with my pen

I shall read at my books
Talk back as I please
And say it my way
Til the moon turns to cheese

My granddaughters will greet me
Not seeing themselves in the face they caress
Nor that once it was me
In that pretty red dress

My daughters will gradually dawn on the fact
That their little girls look much as they did
And gadzooks and upheaval
THEY look like I did!

It’s cute to have daughters
Resembling you
But look like my Mother?
Oh what shall I do!

When I’m an old woman
- Trekked every stage -
From gently loved granddaughter
To wiry old sage

I’ll look back with glee at the lessons I’ve learned
And watch those behind me step into their turn

-JoMae
                      4/27/10                  

After Every Darkness

~ AFTER EVERY DARKNESS ~

After every darkness comes the morning

beyond every loss arises something new

every fear holds strength to overcome it

in every seed a new beginning blooms

and at that deepest hour

just before the dawn when

we in desperation may forget

remind us once again please God

that You are in and all around us

that we are swaddled 

in Your Love

     -JoMae

     Written January 21, 2007

Geronimo

GERONIMO

We'd climb atop the bunk bed

To the farthest cozy corner

And snuggle little bodies

Into the giant frame of father

Where stories flowed like raindrops

From his head into our hearts

Of the little boy he once knew

Of adventures and lost arts

Sometimes we'd hang suspended

Like an aimless flake of snow

We couldn't hear the ending yet

(Even daddy didn't know)

He wove his tales of wonder

We hung on every word

The little boy our envy

Our dad our royal lord

                                 -JoMae

In the 1940s, during the war, the 'little boy' and his friends would sail from the garage roof with an umbrella yelling GERONIMO.   How often I stood just outside the door and out of sight eavesdropping.  The kids were enthralled by John's 'little boy' stories and I loved every minute of that frequent bedtime ritual.  

Geronimo (exclamation) - Wikipedia

A Photo of Me

A Photo of Me

My Daughter at twenty

My eightyish Mother

Engrossed in discussion

Across from each other

As I look at the photo

I observe in the air

An invisible spirit

Uniting the pair

My Self hovers there!

Old photos would prove a resemblance uncanny

There is my clone - I doubt that she sees it

Would she cringe at the thought?

Does any girl dream of looking like Mother?

My Mother is aging and frail and petite

I won't be as short or as skinny at eighty

Yet just as I see my own youth in my Daughter

I know the old woman will one day be me!

So I keep that photo on a shelf with my books

And while I'm not in it when anyone looks

I'm there in their smiles

In their youth - in their age

I'm there in the air like the words on a page

Expressed in the bookends that anchor my being

My Mother - My Daughter

My Self at each stage

-JoMae-

Mom's Hands

MOM AND ME - 1938

She held the whole world in her hands, my mother. As have the mothers of countless small children across the generations. She was my whole world at first - sprinkled soon with siblings and that other set of hands joined in holding us together. Four loving hands shaped my life. One pair cradled me to her soft breast and nursed me, the other later tossed me high above his head or wrestled most ferociously his laughing girl.

Two hands clasped mine tightly and swung me up over the puddles as we trudged through this forest called life. Mother's hand on one side; Father's on the other. Together teaching me about the One who truly holds the whole world in loving hands. Their hands fed me and provided, touched my heart and sometimes spanked. Their parental fingers prodded and molded and folded in prayer for me. I can almost feel my mother's palm resting on my head as I learned "Now I lay me down to sleep." (Or is it my palm and my child kneeling there?)

Mother hands. Father hands. Strong gentle hands. Each in their own way. Familiar on my face was their goodnight caress before I fell asleep. Each touch distinct. Each half of a whole that together taught me of God's parental love. In my experience, however, the most frequent touches came from my mother. As she measured a new dress or brushed my hair or washed my face or held my hand to cross the street. Father's impression was a bit more removed. He worked every day to provide for us. Mom worked every day WITH us. Both modeled God's love and provision, with Mom modeling God's nearness in a very immediate way.

Yet sadly, in my church and many like it, parental may only be spelled paternal. God's love to us is spoken of only as a father's love. We have been taught to know God solely as Father. It is forbidden to address God as Mother. As if the mother side of God's parental love does not exist, it remains invisible. So while I now recognize God's Mother love as surely as I know my mother's hand upon my cheek, I never, save in the privacy of my own soul, give voice to her. For our language portrays God as Father. He. Male.

I love being God's child. God's heir. I treasure Christ's love for me. Yet for years I only understood God as my Heavenly Father. What joy to know God is my Heavenly Mother too! How long, I wonder, until the unique touches of a mother are used to illustrate the lessons of God's love for us. How long before we see the One who holds the whole world carefully in hand as neither He nor She, but as our Mother/Father God. Our complete and perfect heavenly Parent.

JoMae
1/15/99

Mom

Mom at 27
~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 ~ MOM at 93 ~
Sitting in her wheelchair in her small half of the room

lovely in her soft trim blouse and fresh hair do

thanks to daughter Angie’s care

Looking out her window at the feeder Ange keeps filled

at the small garden space with benches buried deep
in snow - and of course the hungry birds

 -

A book lover, she can't read much anymore

does not read even large print books

yet reads her tiny watch with ease

Do the lines dance together?

Is it that she can't put meaning to the words?

she can when we talk it seems

Mom has difficulty remembering her children's names

she thanks me for explaining them

from photos in her room

One afternoon I returned visiting with her in the morning

Mom asked, "Did you just get in? Is John with you?"

I flew alone this time and had explained

Later I looked at some photos on her desk

Mom asked me what they were saying

I told her I wasn’t talking to anyone

“I know,” she said

“I thought the girls in the picture

were talking to you.”

Mom reads the snow covered shrubs, benches and other
garden mounds the way she showed us animals
in clouds when we were small

"Looks just like a deer

turning its head to glance at me," she smiles

She knows it's not a deer.

-JoMae
Written in 2003