The tree frogs sing their memories
when kids ran freely in the street,
rode their bike to the nearest tree,
climbed up as far as they could see,
and went to Boy Scout meetings.
There were no gangs or gunshot wounds,
where kids are running from police,
riding bikes to the nearest tree
to hide behind it, or to flee,
so they won’t go to jail.
The tree frogs sing their memories
for you and I to clearly see,
and create something better.
cfblack 5-21-2014
My Dutch grandma,
who I dearly loved,
had bow-legged-legs
that curved outward,
a giggly laughter
that filled our days,
a love for my grandpa
that never stopped,
and a fear of brown-skinned people.
When I was a little girl of 3,
while tightly holding onto me,
she spoke to a neighbor
in a whispered voice,
“Be careful who she sold the house to.”
The neighbor nodded, she understood,
Their biggest fear being
a brown-skinned family
moving onto their street,
because that would mean
we’re all the same,
and take away the little bit of gain
that a poor, working-class immigrant family had.
My Dutch grandma
served me 7-Up,
and cookies shaped like windmills,
My grandpa sipped coffee from the saucer,
which came from the pot that perked on the stove,
and put ketchup on his potatoes.
During the Depression,
he built sidewalks downtown,
while Grandma ripped out seams
of hand-me-downs,
put them together again
to make clothes anew,
and somehow they made it through.
After all those years,
they couldn’t bear to see
people move in next door
to bring them down again,
Sometimes those closest to one another
are the farthest of all apart,
Afraid to look in the mirror and see
the face of her neighbor,
a tapestry,
the interwoven stories and lives
of all humanity.
cfblack 05-12-14
I always want to write something
for Mother’s Day,
some anecdote, or memory,
a bit of wisdom
gleaned through many years
of trial and error,
that was our relationship,
and I remember your smile
and your welcoming ways,
and so many other
kinds of days,
so in the end,
it cannot be expressed
or explained,
but I am thankful again
for you.
Trains whistle in the night,
Creating a longing
to go somewhere,
to be traveling from here
to there,
to anywhere ~~
Their whistle announces
their going by,
leaving us to wonder where,
and why,
My grandfather
had a Railroad job,
The bookkeeper,
he was keeping track
of expenses and paychecks,
things like that,
His notes on paper, with pencil were kept,
before the days of computers,
Generations later, we hear the call,
A train goes by
from here to there,
from the magic land of history,
to a future yet to come.
cfblack 05-07-2014
The truth is,
no one is perfect.
If we dissected every piece
of anyone’s life,
there would be discrepancies,
things they are not so good at,
areas where they do not excel.
And in that same person
there are areas where
no one comes close to what they do,
These are the areas in which they shine,
where they are superior, to you.
and if we go about
exaggerating
those places where they are not their best,
then we shouldn’t be surprised
next time we turn around,
that someone
is doing that
to us.
cfblack 05-03-2014
I always expect the best from people,
but sometimes it doesn’t work out.
I expect that truth will be recognized,
but some folks enjoy telling lies.
Bad things happen to good people,
not just once, but a thousand times,
a million and one acts of service
go totally unrecognized,
People get on a roll with their ignorance,
Instead of stopping themselves, surge ahead,
Bent on proving they were right all along,
they miss the truth before their eyes,
But all we can do is keep going,
Giving our best to the world,
There is only One worth knowing,
only One voice above all the rest,
so I sing because I’m happy,
I sing because I’m free,
For His eye is on the sparrow,
And I know He watches me.
cfblack 04-28-2014
I have held very few jobs in my life, actually. Here is a short poem about the first one~~
Hat Check Girl on Roller Skates
I was hat check girl on roller skates,
at age 15, Philadelphia,
Winters were cold,
People came inside, to play.
I took their coats, gave them a number,
asked what size of shoes they wore.
I skated, forwards, backwards,
crossed one foot over another, to turn,
It was roller, not ice,
the floors glossy wood.
Minimum wage,
$1.60/hour,
My boyfriend wanted me to quit,
didn’t like the way men looked at me,
but I felt free and beautiful
at age 15, on rollerskates.
We gather ‘round the table
Covered in newspaper
Grandma adds a touch of vinegar
to the hot water and dye,
which dissolves into color
inside each cup.
“It makes the colors brighter,”
She says,
And we patiently
await our turn,
The eggs are counted out before us,
We make designs
Write secret messages on them with crayon,
Before they are dropped into
The red, green and blue.
I hold the dipper,
Balancing the egg,
Determined to get the stripes just right,
Our creations appear before our eyes,
My father puts one in his coffee cup,
Creating the tradition, “the coffee egg”,
Three generations
Continue the fun,
And it matters little
that this Pagan ritual
has nothing to with the holiday,
We could care less where the tradition started,
It’s a day for family and fun,
A family together,
Three generations,
and a memory that lasts
A lifetime.
Tree frogs sing under a full moon,
like a high-pitched purring cat,
Working late, windows open,
Ceiling fan spins above,
Mockingbirds add their song,
Pretending to be nightingales,
A dog barks,
An owl awakes,
Hooting in the dark.
cfblack 04-13-2014
You Must Believe
Sometimes,
I am afraid for night to come,
The darkness surrounds,
Envelops all,
Birds go silent
Until the dawn,
People go to bed,
I am left with thoughts
That leave me feeling
Unsettled, torn,
The mind plays tricks,
the doubts emerge,
One wonders,
Is this all there is?
And that is when
The Spirit calls,
And says, “I’ve been here all along,
You must believe,
You must go on,
Dawn comes again,
Tomorrow.”
cfblack 04-10-2014
Doctor Grandma 