For those of you who have mothers to celebrate, be they birth, step, grand, baby momma, or other (is there an other? Tell me about it in the comments!), we will keep it brief. Three short poems to prime you for the big day.
THREE POEMS FOR MOTHER’S DAY by Ron Tobey 1. every poet says “I remember” (it’s an archetype a pie shell for a pie you like) mother or grandmother picks summer berries and cherries juice stains their long fingers dropping the ripe sweets into a cloth lined basket painting the linen colors never washed completely out raspberries and blackberries faint as faded Kodachrome she cleans your infant nub in the tin sink bathtub soft and pink memories you forget later lovers will uncover 2. what is the illustration mother points to find Peter in the garden water can a child’s fable but Peter doesn’t go away all my life the rabbit cries in the voice of a strangled child a conscience in a can 3. in the Spring wind trees bend over me angrily top branches shake as mother waggles her finger father saws them down mills make paper sheets for book pages no matter how obediently I tried at that age I couldn’t read but I could weep
Meet the author:
Ron Tobey grew up in north New Hampshire, USA, and attended the University of New Hampshire, Durham. He farms in West Virginia. He is an imagist poet, expressing experiences and moods in concrete descriptions in haiku, free verse storytelling, recorded poetry, and in filmic interpretation. X @Turin54024117
More like this:
Poetry for spring and Easter
Never fear, Undersidians (Undersidites? Undersidish?)! It’s true—April 1st, aka fool’s day, has come and gone, and no jokes from me. I can’t try to convince you that I’m joining up with Harper’s or publishing a collection of Underside Stories or closing down Underside to join the circus. For that, I am deeply sorry!
The Offertory
In which we explore the soft, subdued underbelly of life and regain some of our calm. The Offertory We always do our laundry together on Sunday morning around ten. It’s a religion, perhaps cultish, but more than just tradition. Very few words are spoken, yet it’s more than a library silence. We observe the allotted time for ea…
Isle of Skye (and other poems)
It’s the week of Thanksgiving in the USofA, a time marked by turkey, football, and Squanto. This post has nothing to do with any of that. While I still wait for the Next Big Underside Story (or Poem) to present itself in my inbox, please enjoy this hold music in the way of three poems. They may or may not change your life. Leaning toward not, but “may” …