Guess What Happens to My Food

A diversion from the poetry. Don't remember when I wrote this. It was inspired by my daughter Catherine when she was about five.

Little Catherine ran into the kitchen and poked at her mommy’s leg.
“Mommy, Mommy! Guess what happens to my food when I eat.”
Mommy looked down at Catherine. “Do tell.”
“Well, first you have to chew it real good with your teeth. And while you’re chewing it mixes with your spit.” Catherine giggled.
“That’s saliva, dear.”
“Yeah. And then when you swallow, it goes down your asparagus pipe.”
Mommy smiled. “I think you mean your esophagus.”
“Uh huh. And then it plops into your tummy and gets all mixed up with all the other food. I think that is so yucky. I like to eat my food one thing at a time.”
“That’s okay,” said Mommy. “You can’t taste it in your stomach.”
Catherine thought about that for a little bit and then said, “I know, but it’s still yucky.”
“Is that all that happens?” asked Mommy.
“No. Then it goes into your intestines where all the good stuff gets soaked into your blood. Did you know I’ve got a big intestine and a little intestine?”
“Yes dear, I knew that,” Mommy said with a wink and a grin.
“Then know what happens?” Catherine put her hand in front of her mouth to stop from laughing.
“No, what?” asked Mommy.
“You poop it out!” And Catherine fell on the floor laughing really hard.

Angel

April 30, 2009

Catherine, should you ever read this blog, I want you to know that this poem is as much for you as it is for the baby. Love you, Sweetie. Dad


Angel
(for my Little Angel and her Mom)

Fear not,
               my little angel.
Don't be afraid.
There is peace,
               my little angel.
Bring peace.

Fear not,
               my little angel.
Do not be scared.
Be strong,
               my little angel.
Have strength.

And though you are unexpected
               (as all angels are)
God has found a place for you,
               my little angel,
here within my heart.

So, fear not,
               my little angel.
Don't be afraid.
You are loved.

Mama’s Ragdoll (a photo-album for Jane, her mother, and her granddaughter)

(March 5, 2004)
My friend Jane and I were discussing the relationships she has with her mother and granddaughter, and the difficulty she was having translating that into sculpture. The more we talked the more the words formed the picture in my mind. Jane asked if I would put those pictures in writing. When I first presented the poem to her there were only the two major stanzas and the bridge. She told me it wasn't finished. She was right.


Stocking footed
standing on the back stoop,
tiny hands clutching
cotton stuffed cloth—
limp from nights of being slept and dreamt on;
red polka dotted dress stained
at picnics and tea parties under the trees;
blue embroidered eyes smiling,
while innocent eyes search the open sky
for Mother flying away to meet Father.

Sepia snapshots drift.
Black and white photos linger.
Full color images flash.

Knee highs and flats
sitting by the bedside,
older hands caressing
skin and bone—
limp from days of not sleeping, no longer dreaming;
pale rosy flesh drained
from dinners and cocktail parties under the stars;
fading gray eyes smiling
while mature eyes scour the open Sky,
Mama goes the way Daddy went.

Silver halides scan.
Shades of gray focus.
High resolutions dim.

Barefoot toes
pad across the floor,
chubby hands clasping
terry cloth covering—
limp from not napping, video dreams;
sunburned freckles gained
from snacks and games under the sun;
baby blue eyes smiling
while tender eyes ponder an open sky,
as Mom jets off with Dad.