Five Poems by Cleo Griffith

 

Come, Come

 

Come, come, this is no way to be,

all scrunched-up in a fur-robe

en-caved like some savage.

 

Come out, heart, silly old thing,

too old to be so touchy,

take youth’s offence.

 

It must be that a-fib stammer

that sent you into hiding,

you know better, at this age.

 

See, not even a bruise where it hit,

that word like stone,

man-up, chin up, pump up.

 

Show the world your brave-heart stance,

that-a-girl, it just takes a friend,

and that is me, that is me.

 

 

Each Time

 

each time

I plan to start

there is another chore to be done

another batch of clothes

to wash, dry, fold, put away

 

each time

I plan to start

there is another morning to awaken

another afternoon of story-telling clouds

 

each time

I start to plan my grief

over your betrayal

something else demands – demands!

my attention,

 

you must be put aside – again --

like the inconsequential part of life

you were.

 

 

Elizabeth



In the slant of evening sun your hair spirals,

frames your face as lovely as memory

of those years passed since you joined us,

brought unexpected nuances to the everyday.



Your brown eyes glow,

those brown eyes first seen as you,

four months old, raised your head

to look at us, immediate love.



Centrepiece between brothers

you extend understanding toward the older,

compassion toward the younger.



Clinging lightly to each of us

you still open your arms to the new,

permit expansion of our extended family

and in the gaze of all who see you

remain yourself, complex yet

simply the daughter we first met

on a life-changing day in a memorable May.

Hard-Headed Child

 

In their anxiety

that scientists and mathematicians

were destroying children’s

faith in them:

fairies and gremlins,

elves and trolls, pixies,

called upon Mother Earth

 

Shush shush she said

worry not of this.

Scientists and mathematicians

respect the need for us

will not trample our mushroom rings

or demand the firefly not light

 

Have you ever heard an astronaut

degrade the Irish elves

or deny the bigfoot stories?

There is no threat…

 

Remember ages ago, how you worried

that the rise of literacy would crush

the usual responses to our being?

just the opposite.

 

Keep well in your play-lands

do not despair for the hardheaded child.

his heart will find you

when he needs you.

 

You, Hovering

 

Something hovers over my hands,

hovers over my two hands which

press light fingers on the keyboard.

 

Because I do not know what to write,

because I DO know what to write,

but not how, not how much.

 

All my long life I have written.

All my long life is written into poems.

But this long death of yours challenges my words.

 

Fifty-three years of smiles you left behind, son.

So many anxious, scary days after which you smiled.

You always survived. You always smiled.

 

But this time, without life-support you lasted only 40 minutes.

Forty long minutes, the last of those 53 years.

We talked to you, sang to you, cried for you.

 

Something hovers over my hands,

hovers like a breath from a smile.

You stay with me. What I saw was only your body.

 

You hover,

            breathe and smile,

                        I cannot yet smile back.

 

Cleo Griffith has been on the Editorial Board of Song of the San Joaquin for twenty years. Widely-published, her poems have recently appeared in Wild Roof Journal, Monterey Poetry Review and The Poeming Pigeon. She lives in Salida, California with her guard-cat, Amber.