In honor of my Mother who was born on November 4, 1918 I am posting some art for her. My daughter-in-law Vicki Gilbert created these lovely collages for me as a gift a few years back and I love them. I wrote the poem about my grandmother's house but it's really a poem about my mother.

I hear that it still stands on the corner of Filmore Street,

across from the railroad tracks--

and I imagine walking through the cool, dark underpass

and seeing it there.

A white house surrounded by  peonies and gladiolas.

Inside, in spite of cobwebs and cracked linoleum,

I’m positive the rooms—the nooks and crannies,

 still echo with stories.

I don’t remember if it was my mother or

me who woke from a nap with the measles

and vowed never to nap again.

It couldn’t have been me, my measles came after the war.

But, I remember trudging up those same narrow stairs

wishing I had the courage to never nap again.

It may have been a cousin or an aunt or an uncle

who had that experience—a story that I

wondered about while studying the wall paper that was

bordered with scallops and roses,

willing myself to stay awake.

But I believe it was my mother who crawled

behind the huge black wood stove to sleep

only to be pulled out with the mumps.

My stories, her stories, mixing it up

in my grandmother’s house.

My mother and I attended the same elementary school

where I was teacher’s pet because—

Mrs. Bonham remembered that my mother was an artist.

I called her Mrs. Bottom in my first grade ignorance

and I was allowed to draw in place of math.

My mother was great at math—I fell behind.

We had our annual Christmas program

in the gym of my mother’s old high school.

First-graders wore pajamas, carried pillows,

and sang “Up on a Housetop”—while we

anxiously scanned the elevated indoor track

for our mother’s faces.

I wonder, if she thought of me or looked down to the gym

to memories of her glory days when she was a star

and was voted ‘best girl athlete of the year.’

She insisted that I call her Mother,

not mommy, just as all the grown-ups

called my grandmother, “Mother Brand.”

My grandmother’s house was filled with people and conversation,

but I didn’t think about my mother as a girl

while I watched and listened at the kitchen table.

I still remember my own stories --

about the rhubarb, the pear trees, and the chili peppers.

but sometimes our stories merge and I can’t tell hers from mine.

She would never have acknowledged that—she was

the golden girl; the one who read the whole Trigonometry

book in one night and aced the final. The girl who could go

one on one hunting with her brothers—

splitting a playing card on edge with one shot,

and nailing a squirrel through the eye.

I, on the other hand, went through life imagining

and day-dreaming,

she wondered how ideas ‘like that’ got into my head.

In a house full of her sisters, these were the stories I learned

during the war.

But life moved on and storytelling ended, leaving her stories

unfinished at the kitchen table, in my Grandmother’s house.

Sharon L. Gilbert, Mesa, Arizona

This year I will celebrate my son Mark's birthday by posting  the poem I wrote for him years ago. He has grown to glow in the sun, with warmth and humility and I love thinking of him.

 Lina Elizabeth
Today is a very special celebration of the first birthday of my great-granddaughter Lina. When she was born almost 4 months early in September, I felt the compulsion to somehow connect over the miles from AZ to MD. I sat on my patio every morning and imagined myself holding her and rocking and I wrote her a lullaby, trying to make it similar to the folk lullabies I sang to my children.

A Lullaby for Lina,

September 2016

By Nana Nana, Sharon Smith Gilbert

REFRAIN

Lu lu que lu lu

Nana Nana sings to you,

of butterfly kisses that fly, fly, fly

over the land, across the sky.

Lu lu que lu lu

Nana Nana sings to you,

of butterfly kisses that fly, fly, fly

over the land, across the sky.

1.

Nana sings of her home to you,

where the little grey dove says, coo, coo, coo,

where the sun shines hot,

where the cactus grow,

and the bougainvillea petals blow.

REFRAIN

Lu lu que lu lu

Nana Nana sings to you,

of butterfly kisses that fly, fly, fly

over the land, across the sky.

2.

Sweetly dream of your farm today,

where soon two sisters will run and play.

Where the barn stands tall,

and the kittens meow,

and the doggies run in the meadows now.

REFRAIN

Lu lu que lu lu

Nana Nana sings to you,

of butterfly kisses that fly, fly, fly

over the land, across the sky.

3.On the farm a sparkling stream

Where fishies swim as in a dream

And the water is clear

And the pebbles shine bright

And Stars reflect here when soft comes the night

REFRAIN

Lu lu que lu lu

Nana Nana sings to you,

of butterfly kisses that fly, fly, fly

over the land, across the sky.

Trying to revive my blog today. Four years after I began. I mentioned in my very first blog that I would be posting poetry by other poets and possibly some by me. After a series of successful color parties with my great grandchildren I decided to write some poetry based on color and this is a group of the poems I wrote for RED.

 A collage made on red day by my granddaughter Marissa Adams

RED IS:

Miss Scarlet in a children’s game

Can you guess the mystery?

I wonder if it was

Her crimson hair

That caused all the ruckus,

Or her splendid ruby gown

That swept across the floor

And left a trail of sequins.

Lantana with its brilliant colors,

Intriguing tiny blossoms

Gathered into miniature bouquets,

Blooms in shades of red, ruby, and scarlet,

Gold and orange.

Hot chili peppers!

Shiny, red and beautiful,

Hiding a painful surprise,

One taste numbs your tongue

And your lips.

Watch out! Don’t touch your eyes!

A cherry summer Popsicle,

Cold on the tongue and teeth,

Sticky redness on your arms and hands,

Sweetness melting as fast as you can lick!

©Sharon Gilbert 09/25/2015