I Was Weary, You Understand

I know you must be crumbling 

like a day-old pan dulce.

After all, this is your mother you’re looking at

Painted and powdered like an old diva 

In a jeweled music box.

You must be shocked looking down on

My hands, laced with black beads

Which you know I recited over and over

All through my last days.

Afraid, yes, I was, but you know, son,
There wasn't much else I could do.

I could not care for my orchids

Nor even my own hair. 

It’s impossible to look your best

When you can’t stand up

By yourself.

And honestly it shocked me

To see your hair so white. 

And you know I complained

The room always seemed too bright.

I was so weary, you understand.

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

On the Way to the Game

Dominic and his friend sit side by side
in the back of my van.

In a surge of elation he shrieks,
leans over the seat and 
nibbles on his friend's ear

as he's done often
since they were 3.

Now they're 11.  

Now his friend jerks free.
Yuuuuuuuuuuuck! 

Why do you do that?

My son's smile does a flip.

Because I love you, ya big idiot!

They turn to their windows, one left, the other right.
Only I see their smiles in the glass.

The boys too busy reliving what they just nearly lost:

A little more time on this well-marked road to the game.  

How to become the person you want to be

Dominic

When he was 12 and changed

schools, my son decided 

to change his image, too,

from class clown to

something more strapping.

Surprized he knew how

at such a tender age,

to make such a bold transition

I asked for his formula.

Here's what he said:

Mom, it's easy.

First decide who you want to be.

Then start acting like that person.

People will treat you like that person.

Then you will be that person.


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

Who's The Best?

Dominic now 20

When my son was 8 I asked:

Who's the best soccer player in

your school?

His answer: Steven Miller!

Who's the best baseball player?

Steven Miller!

Well, who's the best joke teller?

Steven Miller!

And the best singer?

Steven Miller!

Finally, I sighed.

Honey, surely you're the best

at something.

I am!

I'm Steven Miller's best friend!


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

Time Flies

He tied big birds and bucks 

to the roof of our station wagon.

Left catfish gasping in the kitchen sink

And fired up the grill.

Jammed our garage with firearms, golf clubs

fishing poles, bowling balls.

Grew sunflowers taller than the house.

Bred a hunting dog in the back.

Built a brewery in the basement.

Soldiered in Europe and Korea

Kept his medals polished in a drawer

And nine to fived every day.

Don't waste time, daddy warned

as I swung in my swing, wasting time.

It's all gonna be over before you know it.

Before you know it doesn't begin to describe

The way time took flight 

like a falcon’s hunting dive,

As I swung in that swing, smiling

Daddy’s just trying to scare me.  

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

The Morning After Sue Died

Judging from their calm repose

these roses on my deck 

have yet to learn the crushing news 

that Sue is gone.

And to my deepening dismay,
the sun shines just as bright today 

as yesterday,
not knowing, I suppose,
that Sue, our beloved Sue,
passed on last night.

And woe, these palm trees sway 

as gently as they did before,
as if nothing’s changed at all
though Sue, lovely Sue,
took her last breath that day. 

But to her friends--sisters--
(Sue made us all feel kindred), 

her sudden most hated death last night 

split our world in two: 

those kinder Yesterdays
when there was Sue 

and these harsh Todays
when there is not.


Sue died September 20, 2011


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

For a Young Woman Who Died of Addiction

View of Mount Diablo, San Leandro, CA

When your mother spoke of you, she said Lilly

A name that brings to mind timeless light and beauty

And don’t we often speak of love through flowers?

Most especially one so enduring?

She set aside the sunniest spot for you

Bathed and pruned your pedals

Tried to shade your roots from burn

So you’d be ready to flower 

In time for Easter

Who knew how hard it is for lilies to adjust

To a garden environment

Or how stubborn they could be

Not docile like the rose or daffodil

No, lily of the pond, of the valley

You wild, wild flower of Heaven,

Whose nature requires constant priming

Under the most optimum conditions,

Must be protected at all times

Therefore only God can grow a perfect lily

Only He tenders optimum conditions

Only He can force this bud to bloom

In time for Easter

And so one thinks God himself

Chose the lily

Over all others in creation

To serve as His flower of resurrection

Let’s think of Lilly now, abloom

In the everlasting garden

Among countless departed blossoms of every hue

All today in chorus, they are singing:

Oh Lilly, Tis heavenly to be here with you!

Tis Easter every day now with you!


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

The Ant and I

Above Half Moon Bay

On this rotting trail

I let an ant transverse.

And note she crosses 

Without a care

of the fast death 

she’s just been spared

beneath my boot.

I revel in my generosity

and feelings of supremacy

tho I know like me

this ant’s returning home

only if her luck holds out.

We are equals, this ant and I

in our respective fates.

Under some plain boot

We both will fall.

And neither knows the dates.

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

What A Heavy Suitcase, Childhood

What a heavy suitcase 

childhood is.

Packed for us by others 

Far too casually

For such a chancy expedition.

Crammed between the fantasies,

So many cumbersome conceits,

Obsessions, qualms that

Weigh down every choice,

Every wish, every day.

When can we unpack those

Early selves, fold

Them neatly in a drawer

And walk away? 




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

Amazing Grace

I stop stirring the pot


or sweeping the floor


or watching TV

and hasten to the porch.

A brilliant copper torch

blazes in the window 


on the hill above.

As if the sun in its descent 

came crashing through the glass

and set that house on fire.

It happens most every night. 


And most every night

I hasten to the porch

or I think about it

and tonight

write a poem about it.

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

Forever Doesn't Scare Me Anymore

How do you like eternity, mother?

Is it like we talked about, hoped it’d be?

Or did you flee this forsaken rock

To vanish

With countless blazing galaxies

Into oblivion?

You who were so brave, so lavish

Are now, what?

A nameless bit of dust

Meandering

Through the cosmic tomb?

A newborn sun

Scattering light

Across the dark, soundless chasm?

Do my prayers have any power?

If so, you’re heaven’s seraph,

Secure in everlasting fellowship.

I’m listening for an answer.

But only utter stillness

Stands between us, as if forever.

And yet, forever dosn’t 

Scare me anymore,

Now that you’re there.

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

Want to Put Your Head in My Bucket?

Want to put your head in my bucket, Oma?

Nope.

Because you're old?

Yup.

Will you always be old?

Yup.

Do you want to be old?

Nope.

Then put your head in my bucket!

Not only Human, Not Only Earth (Published Spring 2013, www.hippocketpress.org/canary

This giant redwood tree we stumbled on

is old, so old it was a sapling when

Rome fell and Aztec still was spoken

in these woods

where we stood, my friend

and I, staring skyward,

she in quiet prayer and I musing

whether life's sundry forms 

prove it must be sprouting out there 

in countless starry gulches 

of the Milky Way and far beyond

in ways an earthly brain can’t fathom.

We know Earth shimmers with a beauty 

that’s finely tuned to human sensibility, 

but not only human, and surely 

not only Earth

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

The Connor Boy

He wasn't four long


before this bench


overlooking the lake


was dedicated in


loving memory


with a copper plaque


that won't last either.



We have to let go of everything.

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

Our Lucky Dogs

What she hears, she just hears.

What she smells, she just smells.

Knowing only this moment,

only simple things --

pain but not evil,

joy but not conceit.

Being without effort.

In one world at a time.

In this world, not a past,

not a future,

not another,

not the next.



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

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.

Staying Together

Before Great-Grandma Ampie died, and lay in hospice care, my grandson and I had conversations about death, such as this one.


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 and everything.

And when she dies, 

where will she be?

Back to star dust again.

Oh! I love star dust!