Doctor Grandma

My husband makes me coffee,

He leaves at 3am,

When I get up it is cold.

              cfblack, for 4-04-15

Too tired for words

Close to end of semester,

Student lives

swim before my face,

The desperateness of some

haunt my nightly dreams,

as they hang on the brink

of their futures,

Someone once said,

he had a dream,

I want to tell them, Dream big! Think bigger!

There is more to the world

than this red clay state,

Venture out into it,

See something new,

Put yourself in the crossfire,

Do something outrageous,

Be all that you ever dream to be,

and do more than I did,

do more than me.

(This is a rough draft.)

cfblack   4-02-2015

A friend challenged others to write once a day for 30 days. I will write something, a paragraph, a poem, a thought, once a day for April 1-30.

This is a poem where I simultaneously become different ancestors, at different times, all at the same time……..

Who I am

I am Dutch, from the old country,

I am grandma’s laughing voice

Joking with Grandpa in their language,

Our love is strong,

We laugh often,

serve Dutch windmill cookies in our American kitchen.

I am picking tulips,

Farming in Friesland,

Dreaming of a new life, in America.

I am my great grandmother,

pregnant at 17,

In a new country, far from home,

get married in Chicago,

Migrate south to Indiana,

bear 11 children,

And life is hard.

The oldest, George,

Helps me whenever he can,

His wife gives birth to Martha, my mother.

I am an 8-yr-old boy

in Cincinnati,

I take my father’s first name, James.

He, or someone, I know not who,

Immigrates from Scotland,

Where we roamed the hills,

picked heather, and dreamt

Of life in America,

I immigrate to Pennsylvania,

Where others of my name have settled.

We migrate west

To escape the British once again,

And set up life in Ohio.

I join the Union army

At age 18,

travel down the Ohio river

To settle in New Albany,

just across the river from Louisville.

I am a young girl, who wonders about her ancestors,

struggles to solve their mysteries,

and tell their stories.

cfblack  04-01-2015

I am tired of the world of man.

I am tired of guns and the idiots who carry them,

Tired of defending their right to kill,

Tired of competition to win the game,

Tired of the weapons of war,

I am tired of being looked at as a partner for sex,

And judged that way, even when I am old.

I am tired of political speech

That speaks nonsense in filthy words,

For the purpose of attacking the enemy

In time for re-election,

I am tired of holding in tears,

tired of not sharing who we are,

tired of people building walls around them

thinking a fortress will keep them safe,

We are all, one and all, human beings

With nothing to offer but ourselves,

We are rich with caring, and nurturing,

And we are all connected.

This world tires of the age of man,

It is time to turn on the feminine,

The time to ripe to build coalitions,

It is time to change the rules,

Time to communicate with our words,

To build skills of collaboration,

Time to be loving, to walk hand-in-hand

Not caring who wins the race,

It is time to reach out to our neighbor,

And share with them our deepest fears,

Time to work more together

In a community of our peers.

cfblack          02-07-2015

This is the Time

This is the time

When all is well

When work is done

And time stands still

The night takes over

And thoughts take flight

Into worlds unknown

The dreams of midnight.

cfblack 11-17-2014

The Future

I wonder what

the future holds,

What will the news be tomorrow?

Will we hear the fateful decision

that spawns a riot across America?

It all seems so pointless, sometimes.

It all seems so very unreal.

Corruption riddles the system throughout,

There will be no redemption here.

All we can do is call upon God

and raise up our arms to each other,

Shield ourselves against the cold,

Walk through this night together.

Do we need to buy the book?

Will you post your power point?

Will you tell us all that we need to know?

Is learning to be tweeted

in small sound bites,

fed to us one phrase at a time,

Science as statuses

to be read daily.

Hit “like” or delete

and maybe reply.

I really wonder sometimes

what will happen

to thinking and pondering in solitude,

when new thoughts come in

and new ideas emerge

after reading an entire BOOK.

Too much information

is overload . . .

(I don’t need to know

what you had for dinner,

unless we are eating, face to face),

Too little information

is ignorance . . .

(of history, memory,

of culture, creativity).

Read for yourself, Decide what you think,

Who you agree with, or not,

Educate yourself,

then form an opinion,

Read all you can

and then more,

and then more.

New Job

What will the story be here?
Who will be my friends?
What are the secrets now unknown,
The truths to be revealed?
Who will resent my being here,
Who will work against me,
Who will trust and work with me,
Who will be my enemy?
I walk again a new path,
Face the fear of never been here,
Don’t know quite where I’m going
But I do know where I’ve been,
Put on that face of confidence,
The one you pull out for these times,
Let them not see the fragile heart
That steps carefully through broken glass,
Lift the head, and meet the gaze
Of all the faces, all the smiles,
Pretend you are walking comfortably,
Be hopeful, expect the best,
Give your doubts to another day,
Be Present, Be at rest.
cfblack 8-07-2014

Dutch windmills turn forever in my mind,
Like Don Quixote, I am lost,

Lost in the memory of my grandma’s kitchen
Where I had 7-up and Dutch windmill cookies,
Listened to my grandpa’s stories
As he sat in the corner chair,

He joked and chattered
Of the old days,
of WWI, and the day he returned,
found his family at a brother’s wedding,
which had already begun,

Soon after, he and Cena were wed,
They rode to Chicago on a train,
Pictures of her posed in her finery
A fox stole round her neck,

The two of them born in America,
Their parents were the immigrants,
Conversations only occasionally
betrayed the language of their ancestors,

“Cup e te ha?” my grandmother would say,
“Would you like a cup of tea?”
But more often than not, my grandpa drank
the coffee he perked on the stove.

…

We drive to the entrance of “Dutch Village,”
a tourist trap in Holland, Michigan,
I looked forward to seeing the wooden shoes,
Blue Delft dishes from their home,

They want $40.00 for our car
to drive into this little Mall,
Come in, buy products from the homeland,
and ride a ferris wheel,

I look at my husband, astonished,
As we turn and drive away,
A flood of sadness fills me,
I want to take my grandpa’s hand,

I feel his spirit with me
as we leave this traffic jam,
I think of Dutch windmill cookies,
and realize, just how Dutch
I really am.

cfblack 07-13-2014