from the podium
from the podium
Beethoven in floral garb
conducts ode to joy
* * *
Things that gladden and soften me, Read the rest of this entry »
Telling the Truth
connecting the dots of my life
Tag: Nature
March 20, 2014
March 13, 2014
moss-laden oaks loom
moss-laden oaks loom
magenta azaleas blaze
deep south path through woods
* * *
Late summer, 1950
It’s past midnight
I’m asleep with Sisters #2 and #3
Are we almost there?
Mother’s tired voice wakes me up
Nothing but darkness outside
and cobwebby stuff hanging from tree limbs
A log-cabin tavern fades into view
Neon beer ads flicker on parked cars, old trucks
Daddy reluctantly stops for directions
He goes into the tavern.
Are we lost?
No. We just aren’t there yet.
Daddy drives slowly
No street lights no signs
The old road is dark, narrow, mysterious
Mossy oaks loom overhead reflecting
weak rays of yellow light from car headlights
Weary shacks line the road
Unexpectedly we pass grand fenced-in wooded lots with driveways to nowhere
Then modest houses and a few larger houses
The road ends abruptly.
Daddy stops, gets out, peers at the giant mailbox
He turns into the driveway
We’re there.
Deep South
moss-laden oaks, no blazing azaleas
Just heavy humid air, wealth next door to poverty, fiercely guarded secrets
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 10 March 2014
Google image – Springtime in Savannah, Georgia
February 27, 2014
winter sun
winter sun pierces
my paralyzed heart waking
frozen grief at will
* * * * *
Buried deep, forgotten
Denied, minimized, ignored
Silenced, unexamined
Held at bay
‘It wasn’t that bad’
‘Others had it worse’
Ashamed of my own story
Just another privileged woman
Who doesn’t get it
Afraid to shine a light
On darkness that seems
To have overpowered me
You mean you’re this old and
You still haven’t gotten over it
Beyond it, done already?
Normal
We want normal
How much longer will this take. . . ?
Winter sun does its work
In the fullness of God’s time
Not one moment sooner
Haiku written 25 February 2014
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 26 February 2014
February 20, 2014
iced ground
iced ground wind-whipped snow
mother squirrel looks for scarce food
huddled nestlings wait
* * * * *
She’s sitting on the frigid deck rail outside my kitchen window.
I’m sitting at my kitchen table, eating hot breakfast.
Her nipples stand out—she has babies to feed.
Her coat is heavy, tangled, patchy, worn.
She watches me from her icy perch.
She seems anxious, haggard.
She doesn’t rest for long.
The babies are hungry.
So is she.
I can’t help thinking about Mother. Especially after we moved out of our communal Southwest home into our one-family Southeast home. Yes, it was quiet, less frenetic. Good for Mother’s health. But I wonder.
Being on our own as a family is a shock. Mother is still recovering from polio, finding ways to live life without bodily functions she can’t take for granted anymore. Yet no matter how she feels, we need to eat. Three times a day.
I think about our communal home. Here’s what Mother can’t count on anymore:
- Women who share cooking, cleaning, and other daily chores
- A large kitchen set up for daily cooking from scratch, with lots of workspace and storage space
- A cellar lined with shelves of home-canned fish, vegetables, fruits, applesauce, jams, jellies and sauerkraut, plus large batches of whole wheat flour, oatmeal, sugar, powdered milk, canned milk, and other non-perishable bulk items
- Citrus trees, berry bushes, and a large vegetable garden tended by some of the men and women
- Chickens that lay eggs regularly; other chickens that someone can butcher for dinner
- A dairy farm just across the highway where milk is abundant and cheap
- Shared resources, especially when it comes to food
- Someone to fill in for her or take care of us when she needs to rest or be away for physical therapy
Granted, it wasn’t paradise. People had to get along with each other. Some seemed to do more of their fair share than others. But we weren’t hungry, and Mother wasn’t responsible for getting it all on the table three times a day.
Haiku written 12 January 2014
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 16 February 2014
February 10, 2014
carolina wren
carolina wren
peers into old beer bottle –
empty still Read the rest of this entry »
January 23, 2014
liquid call
liquid call
soars above drenched grass
drink your teeeee….
I’m out on an early morning walk, trying to beat the sweltering heat and humidity
An overnight thunderstorm made things worse, not better
With each breath heavy damp air invades my lungs
I don’t see the towhee but I hear him
and burst out laughing
Thank you brother!
Smooth cool
iced tea
drops
•
•
•
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 18 January 2014
January 16, 2014
salty tide
salty tide
laps against dock
marsh hen clacks
It’s nineteen-fifty-something Read the rest of this entry »
January 9, 2014
man walking my way
11 July 2012
man walking my way
across deserted playground
trees inhale . . . . . . . . hold breath
Is he safe? It’s 6:30am. What’s he doing here at this time of day? Looks like he’s been sleeping in the park. Rumpled work clothes—not very clean or stylish. He’s watching me. Thank goodness I’m wearing sunglasses. Read the rest of this entry »
January 2, 2014
thick roots
thick roots tangled knots
barely hanging onto bank
drink deep waters
* * *
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 2 January 2014
Photo credit: DAFraser, October 2012
Hoyt Arboretum, Portland, Oregon
Telling the Truth 