A picture of your mother
dull colors of a bygone era
a polaroid born faded
a memory bestowed upon you by another
a hearsay tale long lost in time
more far than you can count on fingers
she smiles
a smile reserved for the unburdened
you wonder when this woman is
she looks happy

A finger painting of your mother
all colors watered down
a reminder that you must
prioritize
some things carry more meaning
other need meaning poured onto them
cupped like water in both hands
presented to a lip-cracked child
some water saturate the soul
while keeping others thirsty
some colors are skin deep

Your mother, wrapped in blankets
in an almost vacant bed
her paint, dry and life-bleached
you sit with her
through all these final hours
watching as the outer coating
peels off and settles to the floor
solemnly, you sweep the flakes
an acolyte on hallow ground
choosing the most beautiful
pasting to a piece of paper
crafting the image of a woman
that once could have been
your mom

The Messes We Leave
                                                             The Cats You Dump on My Door

There’s a black plastic bag sleeping in a tree
And an orange cat who treads beneath it,
Flinching at
The jack-o-lantern grins
That the coyotes give
As they prowl about at night.

                                                           Even after we take him inside,
                                                                             He’s often so scared
                                                                     Wide-eyed and meowing
                                        Like these new owners will leave him too.

There’s a whole litter
Gone in scattered bones
Except for one who watches from rooftops and trees.

                                                                  He never meows, that one,
                                             Never accepts the invitation to come in.

There’s a pregnant kitten
Barely more than skin,
And a white calico
Who stares at us with the same cunning eyes
That outwitted the wolves other pale cats did not.

             Those are the handful we tucked away behind these walls,
                                                                        The rest are not so lucky.
                                                     A pair of siblings who lost the third
                                          Two toms who yowl to each other at night,
                       Those are just the handful who survive still out there.
          Together, they are that small number out of countless dozens
                              Who disappeared under car tires and canine teeth.

When I was young I wrote of love
the ecstatic heights one may climb
to find a place above the world
then fall to depths none should have
verse existing in the extremes
polar natures were all I knew
put to page in an attempt
to express the perfect toil

that caress of life in pleasure’s realm
causing swoons that were defiled
by the pains that followed forth
whips applied to tender flesh
each had their time in my poems
put to page in couplets linked
by the rhymes that made it so
within the fantasy of my youth

high to low or hot to cold
the transitions denied the core
that average where the bulk
of survival sought to sustain
it’s in the median that most live
to deny this on the page
ignores a world I tried to see
in my penned eulogies

now in the time that’s transpired
from the past to present day
youth has stepped aside to relent
the poet grew to state much more
love still persists as do the heights
but the truth lays in the fall
the in between is now my grist
put to page as my witness.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20181215.