Stuff It Momma

Lordy, lordy, good day Miz Glory
The sun’s a shinin, a rainbow of color
Momma’s in the kitchen fryin chicken
Cornbread’s a bakin in the oven
Poppa’s snoozin in the corner
Grandpa’s down by the water shed makin liquor
Grandma’s hips are twitchin
Down the garden path, chasin chickens
Pickin string beans and collard greens
Polk Salad Annie comin to supper
Parson Jethro two steps behind
Stir that bubbling black kettle
One more time
Stuff it Momma!

Spring 1996

Letting Go

I.
Kat and I sit inside her home
The air conditioner buzzes softly
It keeps us cool from the sweltering heat
Outside our sons race through the sprinklers
Their young laughter fills the air
We sip burgundy wine and compare notes on the price of food
The telephone rings, Kat drops her glass

II.
I wrote you a letter today
It was mom’s idea that I share my news
I do this before Kat drops the glass
In two months time, my life will take a turn
Motherhood lurks around the bend
I’m all alone in Houston

III.
Mom was on the line, call your father
Cheer him up, he’s in the hospital
A veteran of one war, two conflicts, I sense panic
We got the number to the hospital
Kat used her I’m Captain Richardson’s wife voice to inquire

IV.
I’ve waited for a response
It’s just like you to ignore me and my thoughts
Years of frustration need to be addressed
Do you remember, telling your cronies
Girls aren’t worth shit, why

V.
One-sided conversation, the doctor answers
You were improving, you had gone to the john
Back in bed, you began to read the paper,
A huge jack-hammer struck your chest
They tried to resuscitate you
Fifteen minutes later you were gone

VI.
Did you have any reaction to my letter
Or did you treat it like an ad from the newspaper
I don’t give a shit anymore

VII.
Dew blanketed the grass at night
We pulled up to the house in the early morn
Mom was at the breakfast bar, drinking lukewarm coffee
Kat and I console her for all our loss

VIII.
My son is nine months old
I’m coming home, back to my old job
I hope you will meet us at the airport

IX.
Your friends drop by to pay their respects
A crony from World War II spoke with me
‘He was proud of you girl, you always landed on your feet’
I stroked your chilled cheek, thinking back
When I was daddy’s little girl.

6 June 1998

Godmother

Time has passed, like the millennium
Farewells not to be spoken between us
Fifteen plus years, face to face
Just frequent calls


Memories often fade
A little girl remembers
Sunday church, country drives
Trips to the ice cream parlor, days gone by


Baths in a wooden tub
On top of the kitchen table
Watching the cows come down the hill
Spitting watermelon seeds on the grass
Fresh corn right off the cob
Fried with young tomatoes


A journey to Alameda to see my Dad disembark
A young soldier just back from Korea
Reunited with his young family whom you held safe


I still can picture you
Your red can of chewing tobacco
A piece to place inside your mouth
A virtual habit of days past


Hanging on to my comforter and pillow
Stored lovingly among your treasures
Singing the praises of the Lord for his creations
Now you rest in his loving arms
No more pain, no more suffering
Someday we will meet again, and I can say
I love you once, once again

30 January 1996

Last Visit

Stark, white walls in a antiseptic room

Computerized monitors of life, their silent beeping tones

It was the last time I saw, your black pain riddled body

You were not my grandmother, just a hallucinatory spirit, curled in a fetal posture

Anticipating father time

I gazed into a face lined with rough living

The cotton fields of Little Rock

To the hospital corridors of Wilmington, as a domestic

I stroked your callused hand, an angel in white

Administered medication, which you promptly spit out

Eyes closed, all the while, you, ready to die

With a smile

Four days later, in your shallow sleep, you passed away

Buried, to the hymn, of Amazing Grace.

4 April 1994

Blue & Pink Rollers Atop My Head

I.

Saturday, somewhere, around 6:30 a.m.

A voice, familiar yet far away

Drifts into my slumber.

II.

Question, ‘where is’ begin

My uniform, batting gloves

Hat and mitt

The pitch is made, swing

Strike one, I pace

Strike two, I pace some more.

III.

Did you see my jock strap

(protects, the whisper of manhood)

Can we have breakfast at Garlands?

The batter steps out of the box

Takes a couple of deep breaths

Back in the box one last time.

IV.

Groaning, I roll over, whispering

‘My only day to sleep in’

Small hands shake my work weary body

Detonating blue and pink rollers from atop my head

The pitch is made, the batter swings

The ball whistles through the air

Between center and left field

V.

Shutters open, I ease out of bed

Resigned to Saturday fate, I shower

Thinking, how can a small person be so zealous

Runners fly around the bases, two runs scored

A runner on third, one at second

A spectators’ voice cries…’YES’.

VI.

I dress with a shadow hovering

Prodding me to make haste

Don’t want to be late

Mighty Mite…well he’s in the car!

June 1994