A 70th Birthday Poem
My mother had a series of rules
by which we lived
And by which I think I still do
For instance,
to keep my brothers and I from fighting
fighting to cause star-shaped pain,
two-dimensional and primary colored, like on Batman
fighting to cause welts from
rising like tectonic plates heralding the end of Pangaea
fighting to bring forth blood
red blood
red blood
burgundy and green and iridescent blood
she said,
“As long as you’re laughing when you hit them,
it doesn’t count,”
and it became true
as the forced, adrenaline-driven guffaws
tumbled up and over one another
like rocks shattering one another
into pebbles exfoliating one another
into sand
white and soft and meandering
seaside to tomorrow and forever.
Know what I mean?
My mother had a series of rules
by which we lived
And by which I think I still do
For instance,
to keep from clashing
in a fashionable/unfashionable dissonance,
it’s important to remember:
“Just because two things are red,
doesn’t mean they’re the same,”
or blue or white or black
that when held together like paint swatches
each holds a different value,
and the painter tries to make the best choice
because a purple shirt can be pretty,
but . . .
“Nobody wants to live in a purple house.”
Right?
My mother had a series of rules
by which we lived
And by which I think I still do
For instance,
housecleaning should be done to a polka,
or not at all
joyfully or begrudgingly
as best suits the cleaner
and the polka,
because . . .
“Doesn’t a little accordian make everything better?”
Well, doesn’t it?
My mother had a series of rules
by which we lived
And by which I think I still do
For instance,
today is the 31st anniversary
of her 39th birthday
just as it will soon be
the 15th anniversary
of my 29th birthday
Of *course, it is.