INVOCATION  
( for Mary Forde )

See the dead
bring in the hay.

Hear them call
all the cows by name

as the evening
ambles in.

Take the horse
out of her harness

whisper their thanks
to her.

Hands...rough hands
that mend a fence

fix a hedge
collect eggs...feed pigs.

The thousand tasks
of a farm dressed

in the glorious summer
of long lost ago.

Call them by their names
as you call them then

the child you were
reeling them in.

See them come
eagerly alive again.

Loving that you
have not forgotten them.

"Mikey...Seanie...Sonny...Granny...Nellie!"

Ghost voices
on the wind.

Fields fallow.
Home a ruin.

How time
crumbles away.

I gather you in.
Name you one by one.

Do not allow
time or death

to touch you.

Quatum Parker was a native American math **** . Born in the Blackboard Mountains of Oklahoma to Boris and Annika Schvartsberg who were pre-holocaust survivors who migrated to the U.S. prior to the infamous invasion of  fire ants in 1918 . At an early age Quantum
showed a proclivity at dealing with numbers which he picked up by watching Crows count in a mysterious beek and claw adaptation of the hood system of physically applied pressure points . Or as it is known today
as the fast break and dump system . Unfortunately Quantum had the misfortune one day of running into Little Bear legally coming down the mountain which so startled him he slipped and fell to his death . But we can all thank Quantum for leaving us a legacy of calculus of how many bounces it takes to **** a number .

Sometimes . . .
Such as a Who
. . . at Leeds ,
Or a dream unfullfilled
. . . in Alabama
Or the conflict
. . . daily in Dallas
or the absurd
. . . "Free at last ! Free at Last! Thank God free at last !

The more it changes
The less I recognize
. . . and there you elbow me
saying ,"It remains the same!"

Poetry is like underwear
It's wearable but not necessary
Comes in all shapes and sizes
Any color you would want
with printed statements of facts
Some wear well
Some have holes
Some rise to the occassion
Some barely make it waste deep

Love doesn’t rely only on the sentence
Love in my childhood home was said
A lot
And the kids meant it.
She was the only love we had
Or knew or wanted.
Her love was diluted,
Spent across many things.
Herself mostly,
Her wants, ideas, hobbies,
Her luxuries that we could enjoy…
Sometimes.
Maybe selfish or naive
We thought it was her devotion to us.
But we only watched Nickelodeon
To satiate her longing to watch tv rather than work,
Or raise us.
Or love us.

I learnt young that love isn’t just
The sentence.

But mourning a mother daughter relationship
Is a lifelong sentence.