Rae: Four Generations of Words

January

Your face is cheerless like a lonely man's
Who longs for word from his distant son.
Your feet follow frozen, tiresome paths;
Harsh winds leave your arms stiff and numb.
You yearn for warmth of September lovers
Who planted springtime's promise, sleeping
Beneath protective patchwork covers
While first month's steel dawn came creeping.
Thawing winds squeeze tears from your eyes
To wear away winter's cape, all frozen,
And you shall hand me white hyacinths
Like a longed-for letter, newly opened.

By Beverly A. Hawkes


March

Your feet are muddy like a little boy's.
You get no more than dry--then you're half drowned.
You love to buff and swagger with your noise,
Then whine and tease, or sulk without a sound.
At first you're frozen numb, then you're half thawed.
You scuff your feet, filling your eyes with sand.
You run away, then serenely homeward plod
Bringing pussy willows in your hand.
Spring's door is closed, your childish hand unlocks it,
Bringing piping frogs in every pocket.

By Hortense Spencer Andersen (Gma Hawkes' mother)
Published in the March Improvement Era, 1943


Portrait of a Flower

One yellow dandelion
Quietly asserts herself
In a green congregation.
Vivid petals burst out bravely in an
Uncelebrated bouquet of self.

A weed of certain stem
With settled roots,
Green palms stretched wide
To collect the sun.

By Rebecca Martin



Birds can flutter.
When they fly low
It makes me shudder.
Oops! It flew into the window.

By Curt Martin
(the poem is a quatrain)