Saturday, December 5, 2009

Poetry for a Pink Saturday Memory ...

I had completed my Pink Saturday memory, complete with photos to illustrate the adventure. All of a sudden - either Comcast - or BlogSpot - or my iMac - hiccuped and everything went away into the ether that is the internet. I'm sure somewhere out there it's floating around, waiting to be read, but I'll be darned if I can find it! However, at just the right moment, Jon said he had finished a poem he was working on this morning. So, though it's not pink - and it's not about Christmas - it is about a childhood memory. I hope you enjoy it ... and then visit all the others (who, no doubt, have posted proper Pink Saturday posts!) at Beverly's Pink Saturday!



Liver

In olden times

American mothers powdered and rouged their warts

and with their red-red lipstick smiles

they pretended there was no secret cauldron of nightmares

as neon as the full moon

and served something for dinner called liver.

It stared up from the plate

like an island that never heard of ice cream,

so brown as mud it was green,

like a Martian that can’t help itself.

It tasted like hatred giving off a bad smell.

It was the Anti-Heart of mothers

no one talks about,

as if dinner itself was a sneer.

The world is not kind, the liver seemed to shout.

People will despise you, and this is what bullies

will taste like in your mouth.


At least eat half, at least swallow one bite,

the mothers would screech, harpies wearing curlers

self-satisfied that all love in the universe had been electrocuted.

But even the smallest child was no dummy.

Like POWs, we all knew

that if we gave in on this, there would be nothing left at all.

We would turn into granite. We would turn into the plastic dolls

our mothers wanted us to be all along.

Why do we have to have liver? we would ask, and the answer was

Because.


Today, children eat pepperoni pizza all the way to Venus.

Angels of love sprinkle them with money.

They have never even heard of liver.

But in olden times

children were sent to bed

to drown in the shadows, no TV, no Eskimo Pies,

no anything.

Scraping the uneaten slab of liver into the garbage heap

of dead coffee grinds and broken eggs,

the mothers would consider all the children

still starving in Europe,

and be strangely pleased.


Copyright 2009 by Jon P. Bloch


Whether today you are shopping or cleaning or baking or playing with the kids or watching great old movies or decorating for Christmas, remember to take time to make something beautiful!


♥´¨)
¸.•´¸.•*´¨) ¸.•*´¨)
(¸.•´ (¸.•´♥ Tristan

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