Hello Bluebell readers,

I hope you had a lovely spring weekend..

For many of us in the western continent, there is a media generated celebration called "Mothers Day" most kids love their moms everyday (or not as the case may be) but you gotta love the ingenuity of Hallmark for pushing this day to the forefront and making billions from it.

For the rest of us...

we  struggle.

I happened across this poem and loved the dream sequence feel of it.

I thought some of you might like it also.


Portraits
by Ted Kooser

Mother came to visit today.
We hadn't seen each other in years.
Why didn't you call? I asked.
Your windows are filthy, she said.
I know,
I know.
It's from the dust and rain.
She stood outside.
I stood in, and we cleaned each one that way, staring into each other's eyes,
rubbing the white towel over our faces,
 rubbing away hours, years.
This is what it was like
when you were inside me, she said.
 What? I asked,
though I understood.
 Afterwards, indoors, she smelled like snow
melting.
Holding hands we stood by the picture window,
gazing into the December sun,
 watching the pines in flame.



My Review

Seldom do you come across a poem that so craftily weaves incestuous fantasy and window cleaning in to an artful expression of ones love.

No seriously, this poem at times had me a bit confused but overall it was enjoyable. 

 I liked  the honesty and awkwardness expressed by the mother and son. However, the scattered writing left me unsure which emotion to  connect to which person. They renewed their relationship not because any one did something wrong but because life gets in the way 

and through the cleaning of windows (eyes) and the literal picture window, a mother and son reconnect in a way that they had once before when her son was still an unborn child.

While I would not necessarily share this with my mother nor hope my son shared it with me, I could see how this poem of a mother and son "cleaning" their relationship could be just the thing to bring closeness on a special day. 

Till next time dear readers!

Indie

what does It Mean To Say "Happy mother's Day" By Raul David Jaco

 Google.com

"Happy Mothers Day"

"Happy Mother's Day" means more
Than have a happy day.
Within those words lie lots of things
We never get to say.
It means I love you first of all,
Then thanks for all you do.
It means you mean a lot to me,
And that I honor you.

But most of all, I guess it means
That I am thinking of
Your happiness on this, your day,
With pleasure and with love

 

Peace: not war by Maria Stein Taylor

Each heart is thriving for peace
Peace!
That every soul seeks
Peace!
That each mind needs

A war torn world with peace nowhere
Crying and mourning everywhere
Poverty spread all over
Sadness in every corner
No love, no peace to bond
But warriors falling to the ground
No time to see someone in peace
No time to be in peace

Let peace prevail everywhere
With love, unity and care
Let peace take war's place and
Make blue days to happy days
Peace and contentment will soar in our hearts
No wars on creed, race or caste because,
Love and peace will fill our hearts.

Google.com

Hello fellow poetry lovers!

Welcome to another Monday poetry review here at Bluebell.

Toady's poem is intense and gritty and "of the earth". A perfect compliment to the time of year when many of us are digging around in a garden or perhaps a pot or two of flowers.

The title is:   Wildwood Flower by Kathryn Stripling Byer

  Byer was raised on a farm in Southwest Georgia, where the material for much of her first poetry originated. She graduated from Wesleyan College, Macon, Georgia, with a degree in English literature,

She lives in the mountains of western North Carolina and served for five years as North Carolina's first woman poet laureate.

Ever wondered what exactly is a poet laureate?

First, lets take a look at that curious word "laureate" 

In ancient time Bay laurel was used to fashion the laurel wreath of ancient Greece, a symbol of highest status. A wreath of bay laurels was given as the prize at the Pythian Games because the games were in honor of Apollo and the laurel was one of his symbols.

It is also the source of the words baccalaureate and poet laureate, as well as the expressions "assume the laurel" and "resting on one's laurels".

So, a  poet laureate is a poet officially appointed by a government or conferring institution, who is often expected to compose poems for special events and occasions. 

I learned something new, how about you?

So without further ado,

Wildwood Flower

by Kathryn Stripling Byer 

I hoe thawed ground

with a vengeance. Winter has left

my house empty of dried beans

and meat. I am hungry

and now that a few buds appear

on the sycamore, I watch the road

winding down this dark mountain

not even the mule can climb

without a struggle. Long daylight

and nobody comes while my husband

traps rabbits, chops firewood, or 

walks away into the thicket. Abandoned

to hoot owls and copperheads,

I begin to fear sickness. I wait

for pneumonia and lockjaw. Each month

I brew squaw tea for pain.

In the stream where I scrub my own blood

from rags, I see all things flow

down from me into the valley.

Once I climbed the ridge

to the place 

where the sky

comes. Beyond me the mountains continued

like God. Is there no place to hide

from His silence? A woman must work

else she thinks too much. I hoe

this earth until I think of nothing

but the beans I will string,

the sweet corn I will grind into meal.

We must eat. I will learn

to be grateful for whatever comes to me.

-

If you enjoy this poets work you will want to check out her latest book of poetry.

See you next time here at Bluebell.

Till then, keep reading and writing beautiful poetry!

Indie