Mother's Bedroom [a poem]-Babies

In my mother's bedroom:
Thin bottles for perfume,
Powder on the little desk,
Colorerful ribbons on her bed,
Snow-white curtains,
A pink nightgown,
Indian moccasins with colorful beads.
The wooden-varnished floor
Has a rustic neatness.

The ceiling light is bright,
A white glass shade:
Still it harbors some insects.
You can see the bible
Resting along side her bed,
Its warped in brown covered leather
Flyleaf's hanging out.

#1375 6/24/2006

Note: certain things trigger certain things, my mother's bedroom, rather plain compared to some I suppose, had its peculiarity, it's own personality, or was it my mother's personality in that setup in her bedroom. But when I think of her, and the bedroom, which I had to cross through to get upstairs to the attic bedroom—my brother and I slept in—it is hard not to remember her personality intertwined into that house, that bedroom. Autobiographical sketches in poetry can be hard at times to depict, especially in poems, which call for them to be condensed, thus, one must create the imagery and construction, and insure the mood is nostalgic; with my mother's death being three years come July 1, it is nostalgic indeed to write this new poem: to tell as much about the state of our exchangeable lives as I can.

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