My husband's poetry

Category: childhood

  • Up early

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    by

    cfblack
    in , , ,

    4 am, up early, I have things to do before I drive a friend to breakfast, help him get in an out of his wheelchair so he may see old friends, visit old haunts and see the waitresses he used to flirt with and who flirted back. I wish I could do more; I wish…

  • Voices

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    by

    cfblack
    in , ,

    When I was a child my conscience would talk in my father’s voice I didn’t recognize self-hate as my own Now I argue with the voices, take ownership and try to change 4-15-25

  • The morning chex-press

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    by

    cfblack
    in ,

    I remember mornings before school Eating Chex Cereal – rice, corn or wheat Milk with three teaspoons of sugar (four, if mom’s not looking) My sisters around the table Reading The Morning Chex-Press Good news only on the back of a cereal box I would construct a three flavored fort around my bowl Until mom…

  • Locked knees

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    by

    cfblack
    in , ,

    When our father died Masonic members of the Scottish Rite came and performed final rites at his viewing. They marched to and fro in their regalia, spoke sacred vows before his open casket. The next morning, before his last ride, his preacher preached a sermon. A military detail came to the gravesite, performed a twenty-one…

  • Confessions of a feral poet

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    by

    cfblack
    in , , ,

    Mother did not want feral seeds to parachute into our yard and take root. She used to send me across the street to cut down milkweed that grew wild in the ditch. It was only later I learned monarch butterflies need feral milkweed to feed and breed and to lay their eggs upon. Now I…

  • Laundry day

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    by

    cfblack
    in ,

    because I hated folding clothes growing up, I don’t everything is hung on a hanger except my underwear and socks those I throw in a basket in the closet all my dark socks are the same and I’m not an underwear model so who cares about wrinkles if they fit 4-4-25

  • Freedom ain’t free

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    by

    cfblack
    in , ,

    The house I grew up in was not the house I was born in so I have no lullaby memories, just themes songs of Romper Room, Howdy Doody, Captain Kangaroo and Sunday morning hymns in four part harmony. I weeded momma’s garden, took care of siblings, snuck out at night to run the neighborhood and…

  • hope

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    by

    cfblack
    in , ,

    yesterday, unable to wash the dirt of my youth from my skin I put on cologne and clean clothes and hope no one remembers who I was today, I do not recognize the face in the mirror or the voice that mumbles morning prayers I undress, step into the shower, towel off, put on cologne…

  • Childhood memories

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    by

    cfblack
    in ,

    They say a pruned tree bears more fruit. Did the tree ask to be more fruitful? Did it willingly submit? I have been pruned severely, whole limbs lobbed off, abandoned on a orchard floor. Some of my own choosing, some not. If I come for you with my pruning hook, tell me to shut up…

  • Mungo Jerry

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    by

    cfblack
    in ,

    When tree leaves grow as big as your hand and tomaters appear on the vine, when cicadas are in full voice and bull frogs bellow dusk to dawn, when squirrels rest in the shadows and you glisten while sitting under a tree, when birds refuse to sing, and ice cream drips before you’re done, when…