Having pretty much no money at the moment, I am, like most cheap bastards, reduced to sending people third-rate poetry on various memorials. I sent this to my Mom for her birthday. Being at heart and brain an unabashed elitist, I freely admit I have all the skill with verse that one would expect from an amateur, and cannot compare to the learned studiers of an art, e.g., Scoplaw.
Poem on Her Birthday
Memory is the universe’s way of filing its mistakes.
I give you the case of the eldest of three sons
Who wandered some underground path while the world above bloomed and withered two dozen times
And now could recite back, if you ask, one black backstab upon another,
But probably would miss the mother who loved him each time
With the enviable perfection of a stock character.
So it goes.
But maybe it’s to God’s benefit: why remember the things He got right on the first try?
Still, it’s not cosmic tragedy. I can hear the way she held me and, if I focus, I know still how she called those days asking if I was ok.
The deepness of this life is that it is because of you it is the life it is.
The rich and royal heart is the heart you gave, and
The—however fragile—conclusion that even the storm is beautiful after its fashion, is of course, premised on a clue you gave.
The one crystal fact for all wonder is that I was loved.
Mom, I’m glad I got your hair. I hope I get to keep it.