Funeral Hymn

Don’t sing to yourselves, my loves,

turn your eyes, your lips

to me, to my sleeping ears,

to my still growing hair.

Sing to me in my grave,

where I still dream, 
still work my needles,
knitting our shadows
together.

So sing loud, 
sing often, my loves.

Wake me 
from this long sleep

if only in your hearts.

 Copyright (c) 2012 Ellen McCarthy. All rights reserved.

Lets stay together

The other grandma lay in hospice when

my grandson looks up at me.

I want us to always 

          stay together, Oma.

Me too, I say.

If I get eaten by a shark,
        I want you
to be eaten by a shark.

Me too, I say.




Copyright (c) 2012 Ellen McCarthy. All rights reserved.

Permanence

A breeze light as breath

warms my crouching child

shaping sand into symbols

of intelligence, unaware

an ocean’s frothy lips 

are parting at his heels

to lap up his careful
engineering.

Earth, sun and moon

so flaunt their might 

and mock our dream

for permanence.


Copyright (c) 2012 Ellen McCarthy. All rights reserved.

Star Dust

My mother-in-law passed away quietly today just short of her 93rd birthday. When she entered hospice care a few weeks ago, my 5-year-old grandson had conversations about life and death. Here is one.

Where was grandma before she grew 

in her mother's stomach?

In seeds in her parents' bodies,

waiting to be planted, I say.

Where was she before the seeds?

In star dust. 

Like you and me, like everything.

And when she dies, where will she be?

Back to star dust again.

Oh! I love star dust!

Happy birthday to me!

Candles on the cake

My grandson asked,

Can I blow out the candles on your cake?

If you say yes, Oma, 

you can blow out the candles on my cake!

I'll have 5, he said. 

But you have more. 

You have alot! 

You have 20. 

More, I said. 

Many, many more. 

Oma, you are soooo lucky!

Copyright (c) 2012 Ellen McCarthy. All rights reserved.

Loaves and Loves

Now I notice breads

the way I once

noticed men

and the breads I favor

are much like the men

I used to love:

Large robust loaves

with crusty exteriors

and warm fluffy insides

that fill me up.


Copyright (c) 2012 Ellen McCarthy. All rights reserved.

The Last Time I Saw My Mother

0.  

A beautiful confusion of

voices float off the stage.

What marvelous dancers, too.

Phantoms in shocking shades,

gold and red like blood and urine.

How much more beautiful 
is the night than the day

when such gaiety lights the dark
more than the sun can ever do.

Suddenly 
the noisy joy on stage

stops dead.

The lights go on, a voice above:

“Technical problems.”

I look around. 

Oh my God!

Sitting next to me
my mother

in a black lacey dress

with matching gloves.

How strange she looks 

without her wig.

With every strand of snowy hair in disarray.

A funny cap precariously ontop.

Her eyes stare straight ahead, 

They frighten me, so still,

completely transfixed,

transformed--once brown like nut

now the color of cloud.

I lean forward into her face.

Does she know me? 

Not one blink.

Dare I tell her? 

I do.

We thought you died! 

I wrote a poem about it.

Shall I show you now?

She stares and stares.

Whose ashes did we lay to rest?

If that’s a dream, this is not.

A month before she fell,

(Who knew her bones were crumbling?)

we sat outside the nursing home

and smoked. 

I won’t live much longer.

Her voice matter of fact.

Oh that's her. A soldier’s grit.

Is how she always met her fate.

I speak again. 

Mother?  

Blank eyes stay blank.

It was a simple funeral.

I wanted to hold her little body

with its missing leg and no teeth, 

and kiss her face, though kissing

was never our style. 

Do it quickly, I coax myself. 

Kiss her now.

Before the music starts again.

Before motherlessness.

Copyright (c) 2012 Ellen McCarthy. All rights reserved.