TheRealTamara

My mother-in-law, Frieda

She waits wearing her jacket with the fur collar,

Perfectly still, perfectly made up, her handbag on her lap,

If she is anxious it doesn’t show

She is as still as a statue, her snow white hair neat and combed

Her legs close together, her skirt pulled down,

Her gloves held loosely, rest on her […]
My mother-in-law, Frieda

Words

I listen not for meaning, 
I cannot understand but
Every sixth word, but for
The rhythm, the pitch, I
Feel the music pulsing in
The delicate delivery. It
Is deliberate, written with
Care, I know this from an
English rendition I heard
First, and that knowledge 
Has me listening, careful,
Listening deliberately, for
That sixth word I might 
Catch, as if my butterfly
Net is dense enough to
Keep foreign words from
Escaping into the ether
I listen for the pleasure 
Sound brings as words
Hit the air, reverberating
With sense or nonsense
I listen, not for meaning,
For the pleasing rhythms

Silhouettes

The perfect light spilling
Through the window, 
Splattering a path, a rug
At her feet, the light 
Scatters as she steps on
That silhouette swath,
Then reforms its shape
A shadow in reverse, 
The photo-negative made
Out of moonlight and
Window panes leads her
Across the room

Sunshine high

The sun, high and strong,
Does not mock your mood,
It does not taunt your truth,
The sun, strong and high,
Is impervious to what you
Feel. It did not notice you
Brooding or worrying, the
Sun is doing what it must,
Brings a fine day, whenever
It can. It's not about you.
The sun's indifferent! Don't 
Take that personally. The
Sun, strong and high. It's
Not about you.

Walking on clouds

Science tells me that
When fog envelops us
It's just low-lying clouds,
Clouds at waist-level, it's 
Cold, the vapor gathers
Into fog, thin clouds at
Street level

It’s clear

It's such a clear, such
A bright blue day, that
Every object I see in
The distance is clearer
And brighter, reveals 
Its own outlines with
Moral clarity and the
Strength of defiance.
That water tower is
Defined by its bulk 
And by the lines of its
Shape held high in the
Clear blue, traced by it.
There are, for instance
Also windows that shine
Today, looking out and
Inward, brightened by
The clarity, clarified by
The brightness.

Hope

The tumbles of childhood,
Boo boos, and cries, and
Pick yourself ups, give way
To missteps made by the
Young, then to the slips 
And falls of adulthood, and
The trips of the aging, each
Stage a level more serious,
Not always as dire as it 
Seems, worrying, but still
There's the pick yourself
Up, the start all over again,
The steps are harder but 
It's not all uphill or down

Here. Now.

In the abstract
I welcome death
In reality I will 
Hate it. Oblivion
Is not for those
Who seek 
Attention

Indifference

These are speeches I 
Did not mean to make
My tone dulled by apathy
Or desire, monotony in
Every note, despair is
Too strong a word when
It is merely disinterest
That drags my syllables 
Down, and quiets the 
Rhythms of my voice,
Killing the tempo that
Would sound like joy
If it were allowed its
Normal sonorous depth
Its mellifluous heights

Forgotten tongues

Language, lost or found, 
Some of it missing, much
Of it missed. I speak of
Mine, not his. I lost my 
Voice in the language of
My motherland, the one
Spoken by my mother, a
Loss I find inexplicable 
But troubling. How did I
Forget familiar sounds,
Making them foreign? I
Guess I should say once
Familiar. Now foreign.