She smelled of lilacs,
Baby Magic lotion,
and summer-misted air—
cool as the color
of her snow white hair.
we looked for miracles
and found them everywhere—
seed to bud to flower,
violets blooming purple.
Write hope on your heart
meine liebchen—she whispered
as we worked side by side—
write hope over fear.
Get lost in wonder.
—by Carla Jeanne Picklo Jordan
Today was my little mama’s 86th birthday. In the past we have celebrated Mother’s Day and her birthday all at one time. But this year, I felt like something different was in order.
So we had Mother’s Day dinner on Sunday, and today we picked up mama for cookout birthday dinner.
On the menu:
Southern potato salad
Corn on the cob
An old fashioned menu for one sweet old gal.
But the real star of the show were the cookies we ordered from Kelsey—gorgeous AND delicious.
Happy Birthday, Mama!
Leaning on my momma
used to be comforting
as slipping into a good story
and hers were the best.
Like the time she took a train
a wide eyed new bride
braving new worlds
shaking her fist at armed guards
who dared dump her suitcase;
changing a tire at 12,000 feet
even the Alps didn’t scare mama.
Now little mama leans on me—
her fragility a reckoning of age;
And so we measure this middle
in the luxury of not rushing
a season of priceless pause
washes over our time
and demands us to rest
in the beauty of now.
—a draft by Carla Jeanne Picklo Jordan
(National Poetry Writing Month)
Today’s prompt from the NaPoWriMo website is to write a poem about food–anything at all about it. As always, I began with one idea and the poem took on a life of its own. This poem is about my grandmother’s dining room table which I inherited and around which many happy meals were enjoyed. The photo below is a lovely Easter shared with a German student around this very table. ❤️❤️❤️
the magic of the mahogany table, relating
not so much to the nature of the grain, running
like streaking waves of darkness toward the light,
but to the explosion of connection, gathering
strength to weather whatever lay ahead. wondering
if the jagged crack near to the one end, weakened
any hope for repair.
when great grandma sat there
three months before her passing,
when she complained of not hearing the words,
should we have known?
when she bowed her head with focused chewing
and wanted her black coffee light with cream,
should we have pulled her back to earth, resisting
the angel of death hovering nearby?
or is death the true wonder of magic, pointing
toward the light, always toward the light?