poems between mother and daughter

In May of 1986 my mom found out she was about six weeks pregnant with me. She didn’t know much about me yet, but she decided to write a poem to me called “Precious”. It went something like this -

Precious

Precious little hands & feet
Growing now inside of me
Little fingers – little toes
My little baby

Precious little nose & eyes
To light your face,
Complete your smile

Precious little voice
To sing praises to our
Heavenly King

Precious little gift
From God, you’ll
be a special blessing

Precious even now
Unknown – except
by Your creator

She called me precious for most of my life. And she still talks about how much she loves my nose. Oh, moms.

Last October my mom’s birthday was just around the corner and my sister and I decided to try to throw her a surprise birthday party. We hadn’t had a birthday party for her in a few years (shame on us) and she’d never had a surprise party. Circumstances conspired and tried their hardest to prevent this party, too. We had sent out all sort of Facebook invites and made plans with family and friends from church. Close friends of ours let us use their house and all I had to do was make a cake.

However, the weekend of her birthday party she wasn’t feeling well. She’s a school teacher and any teacher’s kid can tell you that on the weekends most teachers seem a little under the weather (it’s a combination of exhaustion and working in basically a petri dish of diseases). But as the weekend progressed she got worse and worse. Finally, Sunday morning (the day of her party) she decided to go to the doctor. Her absence from church was highly unusual and many of our friends kept asking what our plans for the day were. I held out hope we’d still get to have the party. Her birthday is late in November and pretty much once we’ve hit her birthday it’s the downward slope to Christmas and there’s no time for anything. So, I told them we’d wait to see…

Turns out she had extremely high blood pressure and the doctor was shocked she was still capable of moving around. She rested some of the afternoon and Camille and I went off to get things ready under the pretense of a dinner with our friends that Mom and Dad were going to join us for. When the time rolled around for her to leave my mom wasn’t really feeling up to it but my dad convinced her to get in the car. She kept asking him to turn around and take her home but he told her just to hold on. When she walked in the door my young cousins accidentally popped out too early, but mom didn’t really notice. We kept the surprise from being too loud because we didn’t want to give her a heart attack and it took her a moment to realise that everyone was at the house for her. She couldn’t believe we’d pulled it off. I was shocked myself. And really happy she’d made it.

When it came time for gifts I handed her a card with a poem inside. I was proud of the poem. She only got halfway through reading it aloud before she started to cry. When Camille finished the poem there was hardly a dry eye in the room. My oldest sister actually smacked the back of my head for making her cry (a loving gesture for sure).

I thought of these poems when I realized I would be reviewing Amy Tan’s book this week. It’s all about mothers and daughters and the sort of unexpected connections they share. Twenty four years later I wrote a poem to my momma about all the things she’s been to me.

To my mother on her birthday –

A pinkbowl for cakes
Pinecones for counting
Fingers for holding
Laps for sitting
hearts beats for listening
This was my childhood

A guitar for strumming
Discussions at the table and
stories while driving
You watched as I puzzled
things out and taught me Truth
This was the middle

And now there are more discussions
Plans made and dreames gazed upon
Stories shared when inspiration struck
Music played, songs that moved us,
Movies watched and books read
And You walked alongside me, offered me advice
This is my young adulthood

You’ve been so many things for me
Playmate, Teacher, Pete,
Friend, Consoler, Guide
and always Momma
Ema Sheli, The mother of me.

Ema Sheli is Hebrew for My mother (at least in the very rudimentary level of Hebrew I know). That’s my momma, ya’ll and there’s so much more to her. And all the frustration and elation of being mother and daughter is hardly capable of being summed up. The day of her birthday party was a particularly unusual day for me. The reality of losing my parents was thrown into sharp relief. I made my parents promise to take care of themselves and each other. We’re far too young for there to be an end, yet. I know that is a slightly morbid set of thoughts. However, I really just wanted to take the opportunity to make a nod to my mom, our unique relationship and celebrate the differences between us and how we’ve grown together the past few years. One thing I found myself thinking a lot during TJLC was you never really know how long you have, so don’t leave anything hanging.

Original Works – So Bright

I found this original poem/litany/thing in the archives of my old LiveJournal. Looks like it was written in April of 2007. It doesn’t have a title and is one of my early, flimsy attempts at being poetical. 

why so bright a generation
lost in desperation
believing the lies
fed through the lines
that are supposed to connect us
we feel even more alone
purposeless
we’re defenseless
lost in self-pity and self-doubt
scared

is there hope
can we make a difference
if we’re all so stuck on the confusion
no affirmation
no clear direction

rudderless we float
in an abyss void of hope
we struggle and splash
hoping to last
knowing we’ll fade
wishing it wouldn’t go so fast
this life we’re wasting
seconds to minutes and hours fade
the years go by
and we’re left trying to keep the next
generation from failing like we did

futility
what’s it all for anyway?
my head and heart are heavy
crying out over the despair i read of in so many of my friends lives
i’m there, too.
failing, kicking and screaming in a silent facade
john, i don’t know where the bottom is, but i feel, like you, that i’m determined to reach it
sarah, i don’t know hwo i ended up waiting on things to make sense either, and now i’m scared i’ve screwed everything up
chels, your pain wrenches my soul, i wish i could heal it, but i know i can’t

sometimes i think healing and hope are the lie
my words are jammed up
i’ve forgotten how to praise, to be more than a conquerer
i want to stop being a shell of myself
and i wish the same for you

Original Works – Boys, pt. 2

Like I said, this is probably the longest piece I’ve written, so it’s going up in installments. You can read the first part here. This is the section where things start to get hinky. My original plan was to have the narration switch perspectives back and forth between Liam and Chad. My class was divided in their opinion regarding the switches. Now that I’ve read a few YA Lit books this summer I have a feeling that it’s a bit cliche to use that device. I haven’t made my mind up about it. This story, I’m sure will go through many revisions. But without further ado, let’s have the boys finish lunch, shall we?

 

Chad shook his head realizing he’d stared after Lindsey far too long for a guy that was supposed to be over her. “I really wish she’d stop hassling me,” Chad said, “I’m sick of that stoner deal. It’s all she wants to do anymore. I hate it.”

“Well, man, you could cut her out by driving off into the sunset with me. Scratch that. No sunset driving for us, they’ll think we’re flamers or something. But I think we should stop by the party tonight. You don’t have to toke up. I’ll keep Beaner away from you.”

“You want the rest of my sandwich? You didn’t eat anything.”

“Nah man, I’m cool. See you later.”

 

Liam pushed himself out of the booth and walked outside the lunchroom. His favorite thing about this high school in South Tampa was the open-air campus. Some of the other schools he’d visited looked like prison compound cast-offs. But even though it was a public school, this one looked like something out of one of those teen movies that came out every spring: brick building out front, shady oaks framing the building. The administration and school board hid the portables inside the limited school grounds so they weren’t visible from the road. Liam was glad he would finish high school here. It’d been rough up in Virginia, and transferring his sophomore year hadn’t been easy either. But his dad’s new post in Central Command at MacDill Air Force Base meant he was home more, even if it meant there was a war on.

Liam walked to the edge of the quad to check on his most prized possession. It wasn’t the fanciest car in the lot, the 1987 Jeep Wagoner was “made the same year he was” he always bragged. Though the eighteen years had been a bit rougher on the Wagoner. Its vibrant blue had faded to a dusty blue-grey. Liam worked two summers straight to buy the Jeep and after driving it two weeks named it Walter, Walt for short. He’d attached the rack on top himself and was fiercely proud of its towing capabilities. He babied the Wagoner, hoping it would last as long as he did. He had this plan to cover the back window with stickers from all the places he visited. There was one down in the corner already from the previous owner: a white oval with the letters “OBX” in plain black text. Liam had several road trips planned for Walter, and Chad if he would ever budge. But the Outer Banks would have to wait for a few years. California was calling this summer and Liam intended to answer.

 

Chad sat in his history class envious that Liam had early release for his job at Mike’s Pies. As he thought about their lunchtime conversation he couldn’t believe Liam thought that line about Columbus would be an effective argument. He was just glad Liam hadn’t seemed to remember Lewis and Clark. Though Liam’s reasons were getting more pathetic as the school year wound down, Chad had to admit his excuses were going down the same way.

The economy wasn’t great, but his parents were going to be able to cover whatever his scholarships didn’t. In fact, in one of the few conversations he’d had with his parents on the topic, they’d encouraged him to go along with Liam. His mom had apparently taken time out of her busy realtor schedule to notice that Chad “didn’t seem to have any fun anymore.” His dad echoed the same concern over a round of golf he’d dragged Chad along on to impress the senior partners of his firm. They even offered to let the boys take all their camping gear along to save money on hotel expenses. But Chad couldn’t shake the sense that going on the trip would be a very bad idea. As May approached he could feel the inevitable distance growing between him and his friends, even Liam. He wasn’t quite sure he wanted to stay close with any of them. He had this fear that three years after graduating he wouldn’t be much different than he was now, settling for mediocrity in Tampa, just like his big brother, the professional lifeguard and party sponsor for The SoHo Pub-Crawl Team. High school had been good for Chad, but he was ready to move on. He steeled himself for the party that night, promising it would be the last one. Thinking of Liam’s comment about cutting Lindsey out, Chad grimaced. He might have to cut Liam out as well.

Original Works – Boys

I took a Young Adult Fiction writing class last semester at USF. This is part of my final project. It’s the longest piece I’ve turned in so far, so you’ll be getting it in installments over the next couple weeks. Meet Chad and Liam - 

 

“You know the twelfth thing that would suck the most about going on a solo cross-country road trip? The uneven tan lines.”

Chad and Liam slid into a booth in their lunchroom, chucking their belongings to the side. Chad, a stocky five-foot-ten lightweight champion with dark brown hair was hardly ever seen without Liam his six-three counterpart with the sort of wavy blonde hair girls swooned over.

“Dude,” the Liam said as he flexed his left arm, “imagine I’m driving down I-10, all the way to Orange County, by myself, only my left arm will be tan. I’ll never get the chance to hang my right arm out the window and when we get to the beach all the chicks will think that I look like an ass.”

“You do look like an ass. So they won’t be far off.”

“Shut up, dude. Seriously, though, I’m gonna keep listing reasons you should come with me this summer. My name wouldn’t be Christopher Columbus if…”

“It isn’t,” Chad said, “It’s Liam. And you’re being an idiot.”

“No way man, you’re right. You are Christopher Columbus, or Chad Columbus. Imagine what would’ve happened if Chris’s best friend had given up on him. He probably wouldn’t have discovered The New World.” Liam sat back with a self-satisfied expression.

“Do you ever actually pay attention in history? No? Well, I don’t think that Columbus had a best friend that dragged him along to discover ‘The New World’, because then the story would be about that guy and not Columbus. And anyway, I’m not interested in this adventure you’re planning. I need to work this summer. College is going to be expensive. We’re not all as que sera as you are.”

Chad unpacked two peanut butter, honey, and banana sandwiches, an apple, caramel dipping sauce, cheese cubes and crackers, two waters, and a Cadbury egg and immediately started eating.

“Right, so do you want to get old and have to tell your kids the story about how your awesome best friend drove across the country and you were too lame to go along? Or do you want to be Christopher Columbus?” Liam leaned forward, “I mean you want your life to be interesting, right? Not just one endless string of summer lawn-mowing jobs bleeding into a bland college experience and then a mindless existence as a corporate drone?”

“Me not going with you this summer doesn’t mean I will become a mindless drone,” Chad rolled his eyes. “I’ll have plenty of time for adventure and crazy experiences. Just, you know, my parents can’t take care of everything for me. I’ve got to pitch in.”

“What’re you guys so serious about?” A trim blonde named Lindsey walked up to the table. She cocked one hip and placed a hand on it, tilted her head and looked at Chad’s half-eaten lunch.

“I’m just trying to convince Chad that a cross-country road trip is the best possible way he could spend his summer. What do you think, Lindsey?”

“I think you’re only interested in going to California for the girls you think you’ll meet.” Lindsey shifted her weight and flicked her hair back over her shoulder. “You going to the party at Tony’s house tonight? He said something about finishing off the beer leftover from Gasparilla and Beaner’s bringing some entertainment.”

Chad ducked his head down after a quick look at Liam. Liam shifted in the booth so that his leg took up the rest of the seat and he face Lindsey. “We might stop by. But don’t hold us to it.”

“Fine, I’ll tell Tony you’re being wet-blankets as usual. And Chad,” she waited for him to look up at her, “ you really should eat more vegetables, the green stuff is good for you.” Lindsey walked away with a mesmerizing, rhythmic swing to her hips.

 

Original Works – Distraction

I wrote this poem the week of Pt. 1′s release. Today will echo a similar countdown toward the premiere of Pt.2. In anticipation, I thought I’d share this little gem with you. Enjoy.

Distraction, or How I spent the day waiting for Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Pt. 1

8:00 am, shut off alarm, 16 hours until it starts

brush teeth, make breakfast

10:00 am, homework, iTunes playlist, 14 hours

left to wait, contemplate what to wear, keep doing

homework

12:00, eating lunch, play with puppy, watch

two episodes of Conan, 12 hours, contemplate

details: books vs. movies, hope nothing disappoints

2:00 pm, avoiding homework, don’t like Faulkner,

distract with Twitter and Facebook and YouTube,

find music, download, throw sock at puppy, 10 hours

4:00 pm, proctor CPR test for Gina, discuss life,

college, weddings, and very important thing happening

in 8 hours… promise not to dress up like a dork

6:00 pm, showered, blow-dried hair, make-up,

jewelry, attention to tiny details, texting Pam, and Daniel, and Jenna,

prepare to drive to Tampa, 6 hours left

8:00 pm, dinner with mom, discuss friends’ wedding this

weekend, wonder what Shepherd’s pie is, keep texting and

checking Twitter, 4 hours seems so long

10:00 pm, sitting in the lobby, listening to mom talk about work,

call little sister, tease her about how she says “button”, sounds

like “bu’un”, 2 hours, someone brought a trivia card game

11:00 pm, move from queue to theatre, playing game on my

phone, answering movie trivia on screen, contemplating best

time to go buy a drink, never happens, 1 hour (and 2 minutes, apparently)

12:02 am, previews start, Harrison Ford is in a movie

called Cowboys and Aliens? giggle, stupid looking Nicolas

Cage movie, blah, blah, blah, and finally!

12:22 am, beginning of the end, 10 years of reading books

and seeing movies, a generation’s imagination captured by

a story of witches and wizards, this movie is beautiful

2:38 am, mind blown

Original Works – In the Kitchen

 Do you ever have those moments when you see a scene in your mind so clearly it’s as if it writes itself? This poem came to me that way. I consider it a “could have been” poem carried over from some remnants of a previous relationship. It’s brand new, not written for a workshop or anything, so feedback from you guys would be awesome. (Unless you hate it…)

 

In the Kitchen

I followed you from the bedroom to the kitchen

We’d been sleeping but you wanted some milk

I watched you in the faint light from the fridge

“This is my life,” I thought, “I can’t believe it.

Married.”

The truth is I still don’t know how to love you.

I’m selfish, mean, childish.

You put the carton back.

You turned, surprised to see me,

You said you loved me.

I said, “I’ll try.”

Original Works – Bohemians! O, Bohemians!

This was an assigned imitation poem. I chose “Pioneers! O, Pioneers!” as my inspiration. Which if you have not listened to or read you should do that right now. Stop reading this, google it, and then come back and read mine. That’s an order.

What’s coolest about this poem is that back in March I was with my sister Camille Dupree at the Will Mclean Festival. She was performing at a couple of the smaller tents, mostly covers. She had one original song under her belt (Ocean’s Daughter, you can download it here). We hammered this one out in a couple hours.

Writing Bohemians for Will Fest

It’s beautiful transferred over to music. If you want to hear it you’ll have to come see her play live. For now, enjoy the original (due to the great computer crash of 2011) imitation poem.

Bohemians! O Bohemians!
by Noel Russell
after Pioneers! O Pioneers! by Walt Whitman

Come my pale faced, skinny hipsters,
Create your own way in this phony world.
Have you your headphones? Have you your sharp-edged tongues?
Bohemians! O bohemians!

We must not loiter here.
We must not avoid forward movement, or growing up and facing duties.
We the youthful sinewy races, yet not on us can they depend.
Bohemians! O bohemians!

O we youths, we ironic youths,
so, entitled, full of angst, full of confusion and complaint.
I have known you, ironic youths, seen you complaining about the World,
Bohemians! O bohemians!

Have you noticed,
the failure of criticizing to transmute the world around us?
The task left to us is more than superficial,
Bohemians! O bohemians!

We must shed the past behind us,
set out to make an actual difference, a more reasonable world.
The task that is set is not easy. A task full of sweat and of toil,
Bohemians! O bohemians!

Work, yes, work.
Not the jaded observation of a younger generation.
Not either the immature evasion, but pain, and sweat, and earning.
Bohemians! O bohemians!

We the youth with no limitations,
We with resources all available, water, wind, and electric,
We with skyscrapers and cars with largest engines,
Bohemians! O bohemians!

Responsibility is ours.
This blue globe, our wondrous planet, Mother Earth, our home,
Will only last if we can change fast,
Bohemians! O bohemians!

East coast, west coast, and the mainland between,
Spanning the globe, the mountains, valleys
Lakes and rivers, cities, suburbs, malls and places filled with coffee beans,
Bohemians! O bohemians!

O resistless restless race!
O beloved race in all! O my breast aches with tender love for all!
O I mourn and yet exult, I am rapt with love for all,
Bohemians! O bohemians!

This is our chance, we cannot miss this!
We must change, not to miss this, we are lost if we miss this,
(raise your hands all),
Raise your hands and help us change this, pain, disease, the loss that is this,
Bohemians! O bohemians!

See, my peers, my absent self-absorbed peers,
Evil swarms the earth, crosses man-made borders,
Oppresses the weak and helpless, the millions crying for a change,
Bohemians! O bohemians!

On and on they are overtaken,
all their graves quickly filled by pestilence, disease, famine,
warlords, drug-lords, rulers, and dictators.
Bohemians! O bohemians!

All the pulses of the world
Attempt to sync, to find consistent rhythm, yet division and ignorance abide.
We the rootless, restless souls can help them. Go out to meet them in stride.
Bohemians! O bohemians!

Give them our excess,
Train our selves to use less. Use abstinence from the mainstream
to reinforce simplicity, to end the war for oil, and learn living green.
Bohemians! O bohemians!

Forgo the superficial renunciation.
Shake off the chains of culture that distract us with who said what
on this or that social networking site. Live beyond the ironic window of the web,
Bohemians! O bohemians!

All the hapless silent lovers,
All the prisoners in the prisons, all the righteous and the wicked,
All the joyous, all the sorrowing, all the living, all the dying,
Bohemians! O bohemians!

I too have felt the disdain, as well the burden.
They’ve left me wandering, staggering, wondering,
with a few trite answers, and passionate pontifications,
Bohemians! O bohemians!

We are small specks in a grand scheme,
time stretches out on either side of our existence,
planets all around with us spin, it’s easy to pretend,
Bohemians! O bohemians!

that we have a futile existence,
are not much more than the Borg, focus on mismatched clothing
is the only way to escape the boredom, until we’re surrounded by pine boards.
Bohemians! O bohemians!

O we children of the West!
Our privilege, our wealth, and waste condemn us!
Even in our pretense of humility, we are more the damned!
Bohemians! O bohemians!

Singers, artists, and believers,
(cannot rest, their voices the only truth in this land),
call to us, challenge our complacent inactivity, infiltrate and command us,
Bohemians! O bohemians!

Not to wait ,
nor depend on someone else to lead us, someone else to teach us.
Not to waste this precious time we have, no longer feed our own egos!
Bohemians! O bohemians!

The days ahead will be lean.
We, pretentious, faking outcasts, will discover the true meaning,
of empty bellies, and painful cots, no choice in clothes or when to rest.
Bohemians! O bohemians!

One day I hope they marvel
at how we’ve changed, and what we’ve changed.
Blessing the earth with our reduced impact instead of hurting.
Bohemians! O bohemians!

The day will come, with a redefinition of quo for status,
and with good habits built for hard work we’ll continue the pattern,
passing on hope for future generations, re-christening the mainstream.
Bohemians! O bohemians!

Copycat works – The Death of Robert Walters

The final assignment for my Introduction to Fiction class was to read “The Death of Ivan Ilyich” by Tolstoy. Don’t worry, it’s much shorter. And a bit sad. But everything by the Modernists was… and we’ve yet to really break the trend. I’m currently reading more Tolstoy (Anna Karenina) and I can’t wait to a)finish this giant hunk of literature and b)tell you what I’ve learned in the process.

“The Death of Robert Walters”

The office of Managing Accountant, Robert Walters, was conspicuously empty despite being half past eight in the morning. His secretary, Miss Flynn, was not initially alarmed thinking Mr. Walters had arrived early and was about his usual, quiet business. When he did not appear at nine a.m. for his usual coffee request, she became concerned, and upon opening the door was distressed to see no sign of Mr. Walters.

Walters had never attempted seizure of any position higher than respectably mid-range. His career trajectory had landed him a generous position as Managing Accountant for Sink, Apellard, & Ducheyne, a respectably mid-range accounting firm in Kansas City. Mrs. Walters had often hoped her husband could work toward a partnership, if not his own firm, but Mr. Walters did not consider himself an adventurous enough man to endeavor such.

His life was not without some success. Walters had recently purchased a beige, yet distinguished, Certified Pre-Owned, Lexus Sedan. He was quite proud of his purchase, considering it just the sort of acceptable car a man in his position should drive. He knew driving a sports car, something of a flashy variety, might endorse his virility, yet just as likely cause concern for his stability. Walters wanted to avoid even the rumor of a possible “mid-life crisis.” Unfortunately, Walters had become a bit of a nonentity to his co-workers; Sink, Apellard, and Ducheyne only remembered he still worked for them when the list for employee Christmas cards found its way to their desks.

By nine-fifteen it occurred to Miss Flynn to phone Mrs. Walters. Unable to find contact information for Mrs. Walters or even their home phone number Miss Flynn sat, rather deject, at her desk and contemplated where Mr. Walters might have gotten off to.

Two blocks away, on a frozen park bench looking over a wintery pond absent of ducks sat a man in an overcoat slightly too big for him with a grey flannel hat pulled down over his ears. The man had been sitting there since sunrise, unmoving. The few businesspeople that passed through the park on their way to work barely registered his presence. Just after lunchtime, a hot dog vendor, who knew most of the bums that stayed in the park, decided to check on this unrecognized, still man. As he approached the bench he realized there was something quite wrong with this unremarkable man.

By the time the office buildings were emptying and people were heading home through the park, a crowd had developed around what was earlier an unnoticeable park bench. The coroner, called to the scene by several baffled police officers, determined he had died of a heart attack sometime that morning. The man’s clothes had become crusted with a light layer of frost in the time elapsed. The officers, looking for clues to the man’s identity found a business card in his front left pocket. It read, “Robert Walters, ventriloquist.”

His funeral was politely attended by family and co-workers. During the eulogy Miss Flynn mused that it seemed his greatest accomplishment had been buying a car with a rather high resale value.

 

Make sure to stop by tomorrow for the second half of All the Sad Young Literary Men or why writing about mediocrity is a trend in popular fiction.

Original Work – Troglodyte

This is another sonnet written for my British Lit from 1000-1616 class. We were studying John Donne. My professor is an expert on John Donne. And though I modeled this off of a Shakespearean sonnet, she commented that it was Donne-esque in nature and quite humorous. Pam teased me about liking dumb, burly men. But I mean, a lumberjack is every woman’s ideal candidate for a mate, right? 

Troglodyte, a Sonnet
after Shakespeare’s Sonnet 130

My lover’s words are nothing like The Bard’s;
McGonogall is more articulate than he;
If wit is prized, why then his brains are lard;
If puns be height, he has no knowledge of comedy;
I have heard poets make declaration,
But no such romance hear I from his lips;
And in some hip-hop is there fairer elocution,
Than in those words from his mouth drip.
I love to hear his thoughts, yet well I know
That Plato hath a far more stretching thought;
I grant his strengths are more in show
My lover’s muscles are firm and taught.
     His brawn with my brain makes a lovelier pair
     Than any Sir Cupid could combine upon dare.

Make sure to stop by tomorrow for the first half of my review of All the Sad Young Literary Men by Keith Gessen. 

Original Work – Seder

This was the first poem I officially wrote for academic purposes. It’s a villanelle, which is probably my most favorite form of poetry. It’s lyrical and just as you get used to a pattern it switches on you. I’ve written a couple since then. This one is based on an experience I had celebrating a Passover Seder the summer of 2007. It was presided over by a Messianic Rabbi. The whole thing, taught through the perspective of Christ fulfilling the prophecy was beautiful to me. And I can still feel the sting of the horseradish when I remember it. 

 

Seder

 

The first time I tasted hope

I sensed a trick in the early sweetness. I was

Confronted with a shocking new view of scope.

 

It was an ancient dinner, today, now more a trope.

Illusions to a higher being, dust clad and present

the first time I tasted hope.

 

The weary celebration, reminder of the time they coped

The burn of water laced with salt, inhaled, poured out;

confronted with a new understanding of scope.

 

Matza and horseradish, a Lamb bone

tied with rope, the bitter herb and salt water,

tie me to the story of the first time I tasted hope.

 

The crack and sick-sweet smell

of the bread we broke, I cried, for now I

understood… confronted, the old understanding of the scope.

 

My heart gave chase, tried to capture,

to hold close, the bitter honey, the old story of love,

the first time I tasted hope and suddenly was

confronted with a broader view of scope.

 

Make sure to stop by tomorrow for The Handmaid’s Tale Pt. 2. In which I discuss what I learned from Ms. Atwood’s writing prowess.