Dust and Dreams-A Journey
Mother (Family)
MOTHER
The house needs to be painted.
It reminds one of an old, forgotten actress, withering toward her public,
yet humiliated having to face it at all.
Yet she endures, like a legend at a famous roast.
Though her beauty is hidden and aged, there is a piece of her,
that holds undeniable character.
She stands like a proud mother,
not caring if she is misunderstood.
She houses her own, and,
like all mothers, loves unconditionally.
Jack would remain convinced.
He occupies apartment one, though none of the others
would question his whereabouts. Jack is a transient,
coming home to his city mother every several months.
At first Amy in #3 questioned his absences, but no more.
The shades on his side of the house are frayed, and might remind one
of a mother's wrinkles-they are non-threatening in that way.
Kevin is a DJ, and is merely happy to have a pillow for his weary head in
#5.
He shakes his mother's walls with his base-heavy mixes, like a teenager
rebelling.
She forgives him this. She waits for his wee hour
return like a patient parent each Saturday.
Bebej in #2 is an alcoholic.,
His many visitors are met with a passive knowing.
His 2 am philosophies are accepted. Mother is the only one who hears
his silent cries, late into the night.
I love the way mother's stairs creak when I climb them each morning to
shower.
I often wonder what this hallway looked like when mother
held her heyday. The mahogany wood is dark with layers of worn shellac.
The surrounding walls have holes exposing the fibrous plaster beneath.
Yet mother wears her flaws as proudly as war wounds; well earned.
Mother's mailboxes are all mismatched and peeling, like scars that no make-
up will conceal.
Yet she stares back at the disgusted expression of the passersby, demanding
her respect.
The traffic is like mother's lullaby. That and the bells of St. Williams,
act as a testament that her life is purposeful. She has seen the passing
of spirits
through many funeral services at Murphy's home.
Mother is a tender one, crying all these years for strangers in black
Lincolns.
Her door is withered and flimsy, very slight shelter from the outside
world.
It has been kicked down, like a kick to mother's stomach, with a foot that
felt it needed some drugs
from one of mother's former children, grown now and adult-like.
She simply stood like a placid statue, understanding it was nothing
personal,
only similar to a child saying they hate you.
It wasn't meant to be taken to heart.
The front windows have had their panes broken, and they
have not replaced her eyes with glass ones.
Mother's front eyes are Plexiglas, and durable. They have seen all.
There remain tiny, almost imperceptible fragments of her original eyes,
well hidden from human sight, within the comforting confines
of mother's original floorboards, which serve as her enduring skeleton.
The original linoleum is atop this, scarred, worn in places,
but housing mother's skeleton daintily, like a gentle skin.
Mother's basement is her secret place, holding unspoken characteristics
and emotions and forgotten items. There are discarded
pieces of furniture, with their broken legs and rotting cushions.
There are also toys, old and unwanted, sitting
in mother's welcome lap with belonging. Even the few mice, seeking winter
refuge,
are welcome here, to sit upon mother's knee,
to be one of her children.
They have divided her body, those people that
bought her like a forgotten prostitute. They have separated her
into pieces. Mother once was all of herself.
Now she is in an identity crisis,
broken up into nine units.
The front porch lights are not working,
their globes grayish and dusty.
But this is alright, for mother is embarrassed by her failing health,
and would not want to burden the sidewalk walkers
with the sight of her in bright lights. It would be too painful, you see.
She has always cringed from attention, instead
She is all gray now, with paint peeling in places,
cracked like liver spots. Her widow's peak is leaning slightly,
like the arthritic spine of an old woman. Yet mother greets the sun each
morning,
with only her wisdom and love.
Copyright 2002
Cristine M. DiMario
This poem was also published in Summer, 2002, at www.creativenue.com. All copyrights are retained by the author.
The house needs to be painted.
It reminds one of an old, forgotten actress, withering toward her public,
yet humiliated having to face it at all.
Yet she endures, like a legend at a famous roast.
Though her beauty is hidden and aged, there is a piece of her,
that holds undeniable character.
She stands like a proud mother,
not caring if she is misunderstood.
She houses her own, and,
like all mothers, loves unconditionally.
Jack would remain convinced.
He occupies apartment one, though none of the others
would question his whereabouts. Jack is a transient,
coming home to his city mother every several months.
At first Amy in #3 questioned his absences, but no more.
The shades on his side of the house are frayed, and might remind one
of a mother's wrinkles-they are non-threatening in that way.
Kevin is a DJ, and is merely happy to have a pillow for his weary head in
#5.
He shakes his mother's walls with his base-heavy mixes, like a teenager
rebelling.
She forgives him this. She waits for his wee hour
return like a patient parent each Saturday.
Bebej in #2 is an alcoholic.,
His many visitors are met with a passive knowing.
His 2 am philosophies are accepted. Mother is the only one who hears
his silent cries, late into the night.
I love the way mother's stairs creak when I climb them each morning to
shower.
I often wonder what this hallway looked like when mother
held her heyday. The mahogany wood is dark with layers of worn shellac.
The surrounding walls have holes exposing the fibrous plaster beneath.
Yet mother wears her flaws as proudly as war wounds; well earned.
Mother's mailboxes are all mismatched and peeling, like scars that no make-
up will conceal.
Yet she stares back at the disgusted expression of the passersby, demanding
her respect.
The traffic is like mother's lullaby. That and the bells of St. Williams,
act as a testament that her life is purposeful. She has seen the passing
of spirits
through many funeral services at Murphy's home.
Mother is a tender one, crying all these years for strangers in black
Lincolns.
Her door is withered and flimsy, very slight shelter from the outside
world.
It has been kicked down, like a kick to mother's stomach, with a foot that
felt it needed some drugs
from one of mother's former children, grown now and adult-like.
She simply stood like a placid statue, understanding it was nothing
personal,
only similar to a child saying they hate you.
It wasn't meant to be taken to heart.
The front windows have had their panes broken, and they
have not replaced her eyes with glass ones.
Mother's front eyes are Plexiglas, and durable. They have seen all.
There remain tiny, almost imperceptible fragments of her original eyes,
well hidden from human sight, within the comforting confines
of mother's original floorboards, which serve as her enduring skeleton.
The original linoleum is atop this, scarred, worn in places,
but housing mother's skeleton daintily, like a gentle skin.
Mother's basement is her secret place, holding unspoken characteristics
and emotions and forgotten items. There are discarded
pieces of furniture, with their broken legs and rotting cushions.
There are also toys, old and unwanted, sitting
in mother's welcome lap with belonging. Even the few mice, seeking winter
refuge,
are welcome here, to sit upon mother's knee,
to be one of her children.
They have divided her body, those people that
bought her like a forgotten prostitute. They have separated her
into pieces. Mother once was all of herself.
Now she is in an identity crisis,
broken up into nine units.
The front porch lights are not working,
their globes grayish and dusty.
But this is alright, for mother is embarrassed by her failing health,
and would not want to burden the sidewalk walkers
with the sight of her in bright lights. It would be too painful, you see.
She has always cringed from attention, instead
She is all gray now, with paint peeling in places,
cracked like liver spots. Her widow's peak is leaning slightly,
like the arthritic spine of an old woman. Yet mother greets the sun each
morning,
with only her wisdom and love.
Copyright 2002
Cristine M. DiMario
This poem was also published in Summer, 2002, at www.creativenue.com. All copyrights are retained by the author.
