Let Me Write a Poem For You

 “Poets are simply those who have made a profession and a lifestyle of being in touch with their bliss.” (Joseph Campbell)

Deborah and I with Mom - June 2021

This is an entry I should've written a long time ago. 

It's been sitting around in the back of my mind like an old winter sweater; shoved to the back of the closet as the cold gray skies start to clear, and the warmth of spring starts to sneak out again. Something I've been meaning to do - but hadn't. Other sneaky sprites always whisper "You've got something better to do. You can do that some day". But now before the moment passes - and again I say "Some day" to the idea - I need to act. And so I scribble away.

This entry is in honor of my mother Mary Ann. She is 87 years old this year, and still one of the strongest, most loving, kindest, and most genuine individuals that I've ever known. I know she would dismiss each of those adjectives, but they are true. She is also a poet: a skilled observer of the world around her who, in the words of the American poet Allen Ginsberg "...sees with the eyes of angels". She's published 3 small books of poems she's written over the last 40 years. They are treasures for the personal glimpses they give into the world she's lived in...and into her heart. 

Whenever Mom writes me a letter (and she still does regularly), she includes one of her poems. Even though I have all of her poetry books, I still enjoy these little gifts from her. They always make me smile. So I want to share some of her poems in this entry to honor her. I'm likely to write more entries like this. It's too hard to pick just a few of her poems as my favorites. But here are a few. 

"God Play" (by Mary Ann Schnorenberg)

I am a god of creation
as I stand above my molten world.
I move my hand 
and golden rivers flow.
Shores of empty seas
begin to dry and bleach 
from the searing heat.
My wand moves
and yellow mountains heave
high and higher
Peaks tumble into valleys
and matter breaks and melds
Now! I make a smooth lake.
Now! Boulders form, protean shoulders of the world.
Alas!
I must end this god-play
and serve the scrambled eggs. 

Isn't that just an incredible piece of imagination!! Such imagery! And I've never been able to cook Sunday brunch without remembering this poem and enjoying my own "god-play".  Here's the next poem:

Mom - Featured in a local newspaper for her poetry, not sure when

"Busy Work" (by Mary Ann Schnorenberg)

I sit idly on the deck
with nothing to do -
But that's not true.
Someone needs to watch and check:

• And number the leaves that fall from the trees.
• And God bless the bees in case they sneeze
• And slow down the breeze that likes to tease the dark-eyed anemones waving so free.

Just reading that makes me laugh! Such a tumble of happy words! Busy work, indeed! I would volunteer for those kinds of "chores" every day!

And here's the final poem I'll share today. It was the one that inspired this whole entry. 

Mom and the 8 Siblings - 2019

"Let Me Write a Poem for You" (by Mary Ann Schnorenberg)

Let me write a poem for you

before the dark enfolds me

and other worlds call me home

and I do not know you

and cannot say your name.

Let me write a poem for you

when you were young and I watched

your sweet innocence

and knew you as my child,

and loved you beyond telling.

I have the poem on my desk. I read it almost every day, and am always touched. Sometimes it makes me sad. I know its message about the inevitability of death and being "called home" is a fact that draws nearer for all of us each day. So the poem reminds me to be grateful for the love and gifts given me right now. And to not take time for granted. I will not have "another day" to say and feel and love very soon. Don't fritter them away. Write that poem. Give those flowers. Say "I love you" now. Don't wait. 

Deborah and I with Mom - 2017

And then this poem also makes me smile lovingly. I have been given no greater gift than to be loved by my mother and now by Deborah. I was the first born of 8 kids. I don't know if children ever fully know the depth of the love parents have for them. I know I hadn't. But I have a deeper appreciation each time I read the 2nd stanza of this poem. 

Dad and I - Maybe 1959?

Mom and her "Pioneer" - 6 mos. old

Thank you for that Pearl, Mom. I too struggle to find the words to tell you how much you are loved. They fall short. But Love finds its way to the heart. For it is Love that has the eyes of angels.