Back in the Day (30 November 2017)

Brewer: For today’s prompt, write a “back in the day” poem. You might also
call this a “good old days” poem or a “bad old days” poem. To me, back in
the day is synonymous with history–but a kind of personal history (even if
shared among a community).

gold field…harvest time
footprints and downed stalks trail us
our shortcut home

— Elizabeth Bennefeld, Copyright © 2017-11-30.

In childhood, we wandered throughout the neighboring pastures and fields, afternoons and early evenings and weekend days. We swam in the creeks and marshes, rivers and shallow pond, often coming home soaked to the skin and coated with mud. When we arrived home in answer to Mother’s call, she often made us strip at the back door and sprayed us down with the garden hose until we were clean enough to come into the house, put on clean clothes, and help set the table for supper.

 

Season Transformation April 2013

Photographs from an earlier, very “weathery” year

tall snowdrifts in front of the garden shed door on 15 April 2013

15 April 2013 Blizzard

aftermath of freezing rain, gale-force winds, and subsequent snow as the temperature plummeted

20 April 2013 Wind-Driven Ice

brisk arctic winds
spring clouds from the south
wind sculpted ice

see-through teeth hang from branches
threatening spring tulips

Copyright © 2017-11-22, by Lizl Bennefeld.

Tulips in a Sheltered Spot
20 April 2013

WP Weekly Photo Challenge: Transformation

And so forth

standing at the door
to the beginning, hand raised…
still, the second thoughts

I have stayed up too late, tonight, deciding which poems, written during the past three years, I want to share on these pages. I also wonder about what will happen to them when I’ve gone away.

At the moment, I am making WP pages for the poems, while thinking that I want to make regular HTML pages also, as I have planned to do with the Hallowe’en poetry recordings and photo art pieces.

I have, however, added pages under “Favorites” that display four of the poems I like the best of those recently written.

I am so very tired. And I keep seeing Mother and Father, in my mind’s eye, not dead but still at home, living out their days and wondering why I do not write or call. It was difficult in the last year particularly, because my mother’s sight and hearing were failing and my father was nearly deaf (which improved when he had the doctor clean the wax out of his ears during the last appointment with him, after Mother had died).

My mother had forgotten who I was, for the most part, and would not talk to me when I phoned. Now that they both can see and hear, again, I hesitate to write, not knowing how to forward the letters, and I do not know if either, unlike my mother’s mother, would care to listen and respond.