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Poetry

November–my oxymoranic month…

I REALIZE YOU CAN’T like THIS POEM- PER SAY–
But I MADE A PROMISE TO MYSELF AND TO HER TO HONOUR MY MOTHER every November 1st —AND HER LIFE AND UNTIMELY DEATH when she was only 49–me 29–IN words–as a writer and poet….
I know my siblings feel the same..
ALL I CAN ADD IS THIS..
WE DON’T Always get along with our moms..but—
we must never take the lady who birthed us for granted..
or disregard her–
or fail to love and cherish her..
For we never know how or when she will leave our lives forever…

~~~November –The Trickster
Oh, November. You are back.
The month of oxymoron and counterfeit happiness.
Oh, yes I well remember the giddiness of it all
when I was a kid; all pig-tailed, naive excitement.
Childish dreams painted pictures in my fertile mind then,
those decades ago.
Dreams of the MOST
fabulous gift ever in THIS birthday..
for FABULOUS was my word of the month
when I was, say
nine on this day.
November 1st.
My middle-brother and I share this month, birthday-wise.
But he was and is such a giving soul
That he always let me be singular in my cake selection.
Momma used to make me a fancy, coconut covered bunny
with quarters and dimes and nickels
stealthily wrapped in
waxed paper so the searchers for treasure
didn’t bite down and chip our teeth.
And we never did!
OHHH, I shiver as I remember the glorious mystery!!
Who would get the QUARTER?!
And ME? I was beside myself.
So dramatic I was back then
and yet so appreciative of what she would choose THIS year.
It was always PERFECT! Exactly what I needed for that moment
on the anniversary of my birth. Our most important battle together
my Momma and I..
Yes, the gift was ALWAYS perfect.
Giddy I was.
Then the robber of happiness came along.
WE all remember that day, me and my siblings.
The day we learned never to assume that the right things in life
don’t necessarily stay right.
I had just celebrated my 29th. No bunny cake but sweet memories of them.
We had laughed about that memory when my mother called on my birthday, she and I.
The rest of her family, her blood joined us in incredulity that day
when blood coursed outside her body in violence and homicide.
Not inside where it belonged.
Birthdays?
First week.
My bro-retired now. On the 2nd.
Second week.
Me. Retired now, an author. The 6th.
Third week.
Her taking . The 18th.
But that was a death day.
A most horrific new-made anniversary.
The rest of November, 1978?
Who knows?
For I do not remember
the eleven-month.
The 30Day month.
The Scorpio, chrysanthemum and topaz month
of ’78.
Our mothers.
The ONLY being in every human condition
who we alllll have to be taken away from us.
Or we would not exist to
miss her.
November 1st, 2015

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