Monday Poem

Here's another poem I'm considering sending out there into the wild world. Comments and suggestions are welcome. And, yes, I know I need to move beyond the "considering."

First Failed Swim Lesson

Chlorine stings your nostrils
as you open the double doors.
The top of the water is motion in stillness
like wavy colonial glass.
You want to slip under the silk surface,
cold at first them warmer
as you wear it.
You want to glide aimlessly, effortlessly
or float on your back studying
stark naked rafters. You want
to be a child again—splashing,
cannonballing, dipping, and diving with ease.

But you are not a child.
You’re the mother of the one
who won’t put his head underwater even
as his peers splash and their parents snicker
because at the end of the night
they will go on and he will have to repeat
this level. You can’t swim for him
and you can’t convince him to trust you.
No, you are forced to watch
his apprehension and reluctance
to be where you yearn to be.

And if you know my pediatrician, please reassure her that, yes, we're going to keep trying swim lessons until we get it right.

Another Poem....Don't Worry I Don't Have Many More!

Okay, ya'll. I didn't get any comments on my bad poetry last time, so I'm going to assume that the ghazal about potty training is a no go. Take a look at this one, and let me know what you think.

Is this one ready to submit to journals? Does it still need polish? Should I promise not to quit my day job?

The Gospel Truth

The smoke detector in the garage squeaks,
An intermittent plea for a new battery.
I vow to ignore it and have almost succeeded
when I hear mama, mama, mama, mama—
my second reminder this is the Lord’s Day
and I need to rejoice in it. Instead, I grumble and
retrieve my alarm clock, the cuddly doe-eyed one,
ensconce her beneath the comforter
where she, too, succumbs to drowsy warmth.
Just as I drift off, closing my eyes to the
clock that declares it time to shower,
my oldest wake-up call, my trustiest alarm,
Belly-flops on the bed to hug and tickle
his sister whose squeal reminds me of
the smoke detector, still beeping patiently.
Defeated, I leave the invaded sanctity
of the bed to fix breakfast, but it is too
late to go to church, impossible to herd two
unwilling children and their equally unwilling
father into stiff Sunday clothes and stiffer pews.
Later, when all are fed and sassy, I turn on cartoons
and drink my coffee while reading the paper, wincing
at each piece of evidence that all is not right with
the world. But then it’s time for Sunday
lunch, and my only course of action is
to pray and wash away my sins
in the cathedral of my shower.

Submit or Trash

I'm getting ready to submit some poems--because I need help. So here's my infamous ghazal. Do you think I should submit it? Is it edgy or just silly?


The Humble Request of the Mother of a Preschooler

I wheedle, I cajole, I plead
Wanting you to use the potty.

Princess dress, pony, lollypop
All yours when you learn to go potty.

Money, jewels, liberal kisses to feet
I would give if someone else would teach you to potty.

No pails, no pull-ups, no heavy bags
Just as soon as you learn to potty.

No accidents, no spills, no stains
Once it all finds the potty.

If only your will wasn’t your own
And I could mold you like putty.

But independence, spirit, and babyish charm
Will be lost if I make you go potty.