Alzheimer's Kiss
Yesterday my mother kissed me.
Her soft, dry lips
Pressed against my cheek tenderly.
I couldn't recall her last kiss.
I must have been
A child, aged maybe five or six.
She's now the child who needs care.
Sitting alone
In that nursing home's big green chair.
From a strong family matriarch
She's fallen to
Alzheimer's, a mind in the dark.
And amid all her confusion
I hope she knew
It was me, not some illusion,
Who helped her walk, who held her hand,
Who listened while
She struggled so to understand.
Yesterday my mother kissed me.
I think she knew
The person she was kissing was me.
Cussin' Men
There we were, a circle of women
Discussing and cussing men.
It happens like that so easily
We one-up each other very readily.
Talking down the men in our lives,
Whining like a bunch of old fishwives.
Sharing our nasty little tales of woe
About John, Doug, Steve and Joe.
Left up toilet seats and left out dirty socks,
A lack of romance and not enough talks.
Too much sex the younger women exclaim!
Not enough sex the older ones complain.
He ignores me, he doesn't care.
He controls me, or he's never there.
I admit I get caught up in the flow
Sharing my own stories, blow by blow.
But on this particular day I finally heard
Just what I had been saying, each and
every word.
You know, I said to all those gathered,
We need to realize what really matters.
We are each not without our own list of flaws
And we need to take a moment to pause
To talk about the good instead of the bad.
There's surely happy mixed with the sad.
I, for one, love my husband very dearly
He has enriched my life most sincerely.
I love his laughter, his warmth, his touch
The way he gives of himself to others
so much.
But more than all this, he is my soul mate
and helpmeet
And he would be perfect if he could just
lower that damned toilet seat!
Garden's Resurrection
On my knees before my God
I plant the tender seeds
Their lovely summer blooms
Will sweetly fill my needs.
When my prayer is ended
With water, soil and sun
I rejoice in celebration
Of another job well done.
The seasons come and go
Teaching their lessons well
Of life, death and rebirth
More of heaven, less of hell.
They sing God's holy scriptures
My soul fills with belief
I feel his holy presence
In every bloom and leaf.
My garden is my chapel
Insects and birds, my choir
I am resurrected by the peace
I find there by the hour.
Playing God
I remember feeling so alone.
Surrounded by people, I stood solitary
In the midst of the storm you created.
A swirling abyss of loneliness
Threatened to deluge my soul
with paralyzing fear
As I fought to regain my sense of self.
Gut clenching pain would overtake me
With every chance public encounter
we shared.
Outside I smiled, forcing my public face.
Years later you dare to confront me,
With your rewritten version of our history;
Declaring I had chosen to be alone.
You had no apologies, no tears.
You were guiltless and I was the
uncaring woman
Who had turned her back and walked
out on you.
Yet I see the regret on your face;
The loneliness in your voice echoes in my ears.
I feel pity for what you have become.
You, lover, are now solitary.
Surrounded by family and friends, you are alone.
In the midst of the storm you created.
Isn't it lonely playing God?
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Matthew's Song
Tiny hands hide tiny surprises:
A squashed flower
A sticky lifesaver
A downy feather.
His smile holds even more:
A sweet soul
Filled with orneriness
And amazing compassion.
Precious curls crown
His little head
Atop a tiny, sturdy body.
This is Matthew
Grandson extraordinaire
He has taught us much
About the wonders
And about the cruelties
People can inspire.
He fills our hearts
And empties our bank account.
Handprints on the mirror,
Scribbles on the wall,
Blocks left on the stair,
Sloppy, wet kisses
Worth more than gold.
This is Matthew
Grandson extraordinaire
Mixed heritage:
German, Scottish, Norwegian
On his mother's side,
African American
On his father's side,
But 100% boy.
Pockets of rocks and cars,
Milk moustaches
And dirty fingernails.
Tumbling, sing song words
In his two-year old jargon.
This is Matthew
Grandson extraordinaire
Words alone cannot
Express the feelings
Of love, joy, amazement,
Coupled with exasperation
And exhaustion,
He brings to our lives.
No room for prejudice
In hearts filled
By this childlike sprite.
He raises the bar;
We must soar with him.
This is Matthew
Grandson extraordinaire
Morning Miracle
The morning sunlight slips through the blinds,
casting lines of light across his face.
One leg lays sprawled atop the sheets while
the other hides, tucked close to his body.
I watch as he sleeps.
I feel my heart slip into the rhythm of his
rising chest as
I slowly move next to him, breathing in his
sleepy smell,
Reveling in his warmth.
He shifts without waking, opening to me.
I lay my head
on his shoulder once more,as I have done
for uncountable mornings.
And yet I am awed again at the wonder
of this moment.
He turns to his side and pulls me close,
surrounding me with his warmth,
his strength.
I close my eyes against the dawn
secure in the safety of his love.
Choices
I had been clicking through my phone's ID calls
Expecting nothing exciting or grand.
Suddenly I couldn't breathe.
It had been over 20 years since last we spoke.
Now here was his name,
bright green in my hand.
My pulse quickened and my knees went weak;
A flush covered my face as I struggled for air.
Was it mere coincidence
That my marriage was in trouble, suffering?
Did he simply call to talk, totally unaware?
All through the night I wrestled with the choice
Feeling excitement, then guilt, then excitement
once more.
Should I call? Did I dare?
I was torn, conflicted, terribly unsure,
But I dialed his number, I opened that door.
His voice was the same, it took me back
To college days when young love
was the fashion.
But we talked as old friends,
Catching up the years, dancing around.
each other.
But we talked as old friends,
Both afraid to discuss our former passion.
He was on his second marriage, three kids.
I was still married with two girls, two boys
Finally the words I feared were said,
"I've often wondered what if ..."
I couldn't reply.The phone filled with
background noise.
I stood on the precipice that day
Everything important in my life on the line
Once again I couldn't breathe
As I searched my heart for the truest response
The only answer that would my life define.
"There's no sense in wondering what might
have been.
While our love is a tender memory for me
I took a vow many years ago
To honor my husband, through good and bad
He is my life, not just now but eternally."
We all face choices on a daily basis
Often times not appreciating their worth
Until the moment is irretrievably gone
The lesson we must learn is simply
Our choices define us during our life on earth.
Ode to a Summer Romance
He rolled into my life
on a warm Oklahoma afternoon.
His car gleaming black
reflecting the dusty sun of late June.
Back and forth we talked,
playing teenage courtship games,
Trading smiles and winks
sharing laughs, small touches and names.
A ride? he offered with an opened door.
Yes! I replied, hoping for much more.
Leather seats gave cool comfort
against bare legs and sandaled feet.
The thump of the stereo eight track
was a replay of my nervous heartbeat.
From summer afternoon into twilight we rode
talking of past wins and losses,
the sad and the sweet.
The flat Oklahoma landscape flew by unnoticed;
farmers toiling late in fields of corn,
maize and wheat.
Stop? he questioned, his face lit by the
dashboard glow.
Yes! I answered, my young voice soft and low.
The smooth hood of the car warmed our legs,
as we leaned back on the cooling
windshield glass.
Holding hands silently, listening to the night;
June bugs buzzing, crickets singing
in the grass.
And just before beginning the ride home,
he leaned over to share that first kiss.
Soft, gentle lips pressed against mine
tendering summer plans full of promise.
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Leysa Robertson has been writing short stories and poetry for over 30 years.
She spent six years on the staff of the Guymon Daily Herald in Guymon,
Oklahoma, writing feature stories and editorials. Writing became a hobby
for her after she left the newspaper to pursue other career opportunities.
As a mother of four children and grandmother of one, she draws much of her
inspiration from her family. Currently residing in Hot Springs, Arkansas,
Leysa works for the Hot Springs Convention and Visitors Bureau. "Writing
became my private passion," she explains. "At age 45 I decided to explore
sharing my poetry and prose with others." Her poems are available online at