My Mother's Purse
I feel a kind of shame
I shouldn’t speak out loud
In the face of horrors I’ve heard of
This shouldn’t be allowed
She spread the paper on her knee
Read the misspelled words
A smile lit her blithe blue eyes
Like Shelley’s skybound birds
“How beautiful your words are!
They fly! They dance They soar!”
Then she handed me new white paper
And urged, “Oh! Write some more!”
My poem would go inside her purse
And I knew just what that meant
She would take it out and read it
Every where she went
“Listen to this!” she would say
As she’d unfold it once again
“Can you believe the composition?
And the child’s not even ten . . .”
And I, with a white piece of paper
And thoughts of a thousand hues
Happily climbed the stairs again
To the arms of my waiting muse
Now she is nearly ninety
Her eyes still blue as birds
And still she is the greatest fan
Of my misspelled, wandering words
Would I weave them with such joy now
If she had sighed, “just go and play . . .”
If she had ever been too busy . . .
If she’d thrown my words away?
As it is, beware of saying
That you are interested in verse
Or you’ll see my mother smiling
As she opens up her purse . . .
©Edwina Peterson Cross
I shouldn’t speak out loud
In the face of horrors I’ve heard of
This shouldn’t be allowed
She spread the paper on her knee
Read the misspelled words
A smile lit her blithe blue eyes
Like Shelley’s skybound birds
“How beautiful your words are!
They fly! They dance They soar!”
Then she handed me new white paper
And urged, “Oh! Write some more!”
My poem would go inside her purse
And I knew just what that meant
She would take it out and read it
Every where she went
“Listen to this!” she would say
As she’d unfold it once again
“Can you believe the composition?
And the child’s not even ten . . .”
And I, with a white piece of paper
And thoughts of a thousand hues
Happily climbed the stairs again
To the arms of my waiting muse
Now she is nearly ninety
Her eyes still blue as birds
And still she is the greatest fan
Of my misspelled, wandering words
Would I weave them with such joy now
If she had sighed, “just go and play . . .”
If she had ever been too busy . . .
If she’d thrown my words away?
As it is, beware of saying
That you are interested in verse
Or you’ll see my mother smiling
As she opens up her purse . . .
©Edwina Peterson Cross
posted by Unknown @ 1:25 AM
2 comments
2 Comments:
For goodness sake make sure to give your mother a CD disc of your work Winnie darling or she will have to carry a bag that is bigger than her.
Your mother's undying enthusiasm about your words can only be matched by the pride in my mother's eyes when she talks about my work.
Thank you all. Angel, you have made my day (and it needed it!) We have to keep being reminded what we already know as parents. I'm sure your son is one of the lucky ones.
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