Blue.

Blue is the color of the glacier ice in New Zealand

Blue is the color-
Of the glacier ice in New Zealand. 
It’s pure water, old rain sealed in coldness
For eons. Slowly melting like the years
Of my life into the icy river below.


Blue is the color-
Of the rolling waves at Bin Tan, Indonesia.
I watch as a lazy black monitor lizard
Floats tail up in the blue water. 
He darts here and there looking for fish or he is
Searching for me. I could be the bait in the blue bathing suit!


Blue is the color-
Of my new Log Cabin quilt made by my 
94 year old grandma. I could make my own,
I learned how from her long ago,
But it wouldn’t be special-a moment between us,
A cord of blue linking us as kin. 
Hope I can sew blue at that age.


Blue is the color-
Of the sapphire bracelet my husband bought me
In Cambodia on a dark blue night. 
“You should wear more jewelry,” he said.
I use to have a blue velvet dress he liked 
That I wore at Christmas. Soft as snow. 
Blue becomes me.


Blue is the color-
The doctor announced and prescribed anti-depressants.
Low thyroid, then no thyroid. Menopause. 
Metabolism B. Fibromyalgia.
It’s hard being blue, so cut me open and let the blue drain from my soul.
Color me orange instead.

Packing

Assignment from poetry workshop: write a scene involving packing.

The Packing

"No warnings, Sam?"

Her red plaid suitcase lay open on the bed. He watched her pack, sitting on the side of the bed. She opened and slammed drawers, tossing her last items in the bag. She was leaving on a week-long business trip to England.

"No warnings, Sam? No grim tidings or is that second sight of yours on the blink? Isn't this the time when you tell me not to get on the plane because you have a bad feeling about it?"

Sam shook his head. "You'd just laugh at me," he said. "I guess my latest predictions haven't panned out."

She laughed, perhaps a little too loud. Sam frowned but said nothing. "Well, you really missed the ball with that stock market tip that came to you in a dream. And what about that million-dollar lottery ticket you promised me?" she asked him.

Sam smiled faintly. "Someday. Send me an email when you get there so I know you're safe."

"Sure." Outside a taxi horn was blaring. She zipped the case shut, and he carried it to the car. They kissed goodbye and he waved as she disappeared around the corner.

Same came in and sat quietly on the couch for awhile. He pictured her standing in the long line at the counter to drop off her bag. Then he saw her pushing her way through the long security line, getting her shoes and coat x-rayed. Finally he imagined her settled in her first class seat with her ear phones plugged in, the dinner menu selected, and the blanket pulled comfortably over her knees.

That's all he could bring himself to think about. As a distraction he turned on the Sunday football game. Then came the announcement at the bottom of the program and Sam sat up stiffly. Flight 792 to England had crashed into the Atlantic Ocean shortly after take off. All four passengers and crew were dead.

Sam took the news calmly. He wasn't one to say I told you so. Instead, he reached into his wallet and pulled out the million-dollar lottery ticket he had purchased last week and laid it on the coffee table next to the million-dollar life insurance policy he had gotten some time ago on his wife. Somewhere a phone was ringing. He took his time answering.

Dedicated.

This blog, Mother Fiction, is dedicated to my mother's stories and poems. While I loved posting them on my own blog, I feel that they deserve their own space. I hope you agree. 

Please feel free to leave comments as I know she would love feedback and criticism. 

And now...

A Deserted Island

But we are all deserted islands...

If I gave up my busy life

And decided to get away,

I’d retreat to my deserted island

Where’s there’s only sunny days.

I would take with me a Bible

Because they always say

In it are the correct answers

To all life’s Malays.

But how would I feel compassion

For the world’s despair

Sitting on that white sandy beach,

The sun bleaching white my hair?

I could take a photo album

Of my family and friends.

You know, the ones who never call

Or write letters of amends.

But I wouldn’t have to see them

On that endless shore,

Wouldn’t be concerned with emailing

Or texting anymore.

My memories would fade

Like their pictures in the heat.

I would have my new family to think of-

Sea gulls and geckos, and crabs that I meet.

Perhaps I would take a case of wine

And just one crystal glass

To sip under a rock at dusk

When a lazy day is passed.

Or when contemplating life beneath the silver moon

With a bottle cooling placidly in the blue lagoon.

And when I was done  

With those empty soldiers of brew

I could send out messages of hope

To make friendships anew.

But we are all deserted islands

Why take anything on the trip?

We are born alone, we die alone,

All of us touched by death’s grip.

It’s what we do in between

That marks where real life abounds.

Interacting with strangers

Loving those we have found.

You can visit other deserted islands

To touch other self-centered hearts.

Stick your finger in the waters of caring

And watch the ripple grow from your start.