Patricia May Thomson
August 31, 1939 – May 7, 2026
Mom and Me in White rock, B.C.
I will always miss my mom and hear the sound of her laugh. She had a few different kinds; the laugh that said she didn’t believe a word you said, a laugh that found someone’s audacity ridiculous, then there was the real joyful laugh that was two notes with a lingering smile. My mom was the youngest and prettiest of all the moms. When she took her first grandchild to the mall, everyone thought it was her baby. She loved to sing along to George jones and there was ONE song she played on repeat until one of my siblings secretly hid the record. This Poem is for my mom:
A Poem for My Mother
Her hands held
Soft, newborn heads
Five of them.
Her young heart
Full of Joie de vivre
Was hardly prepared
For her burdened knee.
Shoulders bent to tasks
Meant for one much older
She lived true
To her bewildering sacrifice
Until she was no longer.
A laugh, a cry--what's the difference
within one's life?
While the moon and sun continue to rise
Photo by Kevin Mueller on Unsplash
Although
I want to write
About rainbows and birds
Pretty flowers perched
And gazing from their stems
But all that appears
Are ravens and storms
Black clouds
Stir my soul
Although I'm the first
To point to colours in the sky
It's black ink
Crows and clouds
That get me by
`Nora M. Parker
The truth is in his name.
A trick,
A lucky card.
He warned you himself
With his crimes and coercion
But you ignored it all.
You wanted so badly to believe
His campaign promises.
That is his power; to deceive.
His entitlement an understatement,
Overt greed his contagion.
For didn’t you want everything he represents?
So you voted your sacred power away
and now you awaken chained and starved.
Only to look in the mirror
And see his face.
A demented twist of fate.
When will you learn the price of siding with evil?
Now your bible is meaningless
Since you’ve learned nothing from it.
And you cannot pray yourself out of a cage.
-LTW
art Henri Matisse
He rushed past the threshold
With barely a glance back
No concern for his son’s lost shoe
Or his daughter’s missing “my little pony”
It’s woman’s work
And he need not bother
He works hard, he explained
But went to great pains
To catch a game
He was important, you know
Above menial chores
But he would soon learn
The cost of his absence
Could not be repaid,
Ever, amen
And the perpetual woman’s work
Came to an end, left undone
When the love dried up
Only a fool assumes she will forgive
Without appreciation for the little things she did
Like a kettle overboiled scalding his heart
The scar will remain long after she departs
Memory of her holding their son,
Or kissing a boo-boo,
Vivid and clear
Woman's work endeared
Many years later
The lonely man advises the younger,
"As you pass the threshold
Remember to glance back
For you never know
Which day will be your last"
You are an unfinished poem Stuck in my heart, Appearing on the horizon Like an unanswered question Simple as one-two-three, Further from reality But as real as flesh on bone The lively echo of your smile Keeps me thinking, What's left incomplete Is sometimes just as sweet As the holy "amen" At the end of a silent prayer -LTW-
I had a dream.
You treated me to a tattoo
For my birthday surprise.
I could not decide on the design
So many choices!
It’s funny, because
I realized
How hard this must be.
For you loathe tattoos
But want me to be
Happy just the same.
It was so clean and
The needle pain-free.
The final poke brought
me into a club–The Tattoo Club.
My forearm was the extremity of choice
(but never would be in real life).
Ink so bold and yet I felt the same.
I awoke before it bled,
Then I laughed as I watched you sleep beside me.
You had no idea what you had just done.
LTW.
Are you in the tattoo club?
image source: Photo by Natalie Rhea on Unsplash
I’m thinking there are two types of people in this world: those who mend and those who discard. Actually let me add a third type; those who want to mend but cannot. They take their mending to have it done by a pro (smart folks).
I used to be in the second and third category but as I’ve gotten a bit older, I mend more often. Since I was a child, I have almost ‘enjoyed’ sewing by hand. Almost. My grandma taught me how to thread the needle and how to make a few stitches. I used to watch her ‘darning’ my father’s socks when she came to stay with us. She was pretty good with a sewing needle. She did not have a sewing machine.
Today, I am cautiously introducing to you, Nora M. Parker, my night time poet pseudonym or perhaps my muse, and alter ego.
Although I have only published one of her poems here—something she reminds me often—I plan to include more of her night poems here in the near future.
I will warn you that she has a bit of an attitude. Without further ado, welcome Nora M. Parker to the blog…
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