The Molders of Me

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The Molders of Me: Poems in honor of my parents

But I Too Must Move On

(for Daisy Valborg Marsh-Romeo January 23, 1922-September 24, 1993,  mom, whom I missed very much when I lived in Liberia and still miss)

Wish you would

live forever

that no links,

our touch,

our voices,

be broken

between generations.

Wish I had not

gotten old enough

to notice you

getting older,

and get annoyed with you

for not remaining young.

Wish you would

stay around

to be great grandma

and great, great grandma,

to witness your roots

expand across oceans

and continents.

Wish I could

capture our adventures

in a camera’s flash

freezing us in time

like characters

on a Grecian urn.

But I, too,

must move on.

I, too, must

share my wisdom,

carved out of

my agonies

and ecstasies,

become weathered

by it all

not wanting

to live forever.

© Althea Romeo-Mark, published in Writers’ Works’ Berne Anthology 2000,

Berne, Switzerland

Holding Up

Mama’s dying.

Tangled in a web

of mortal thoughts,

heart in a tug-of-war

between mama and my children,

I jet across the Atlantic.

I hope for a quick death

or a miracle.

I buy a black dress,

feel like Judas.

There is good news

in between

but death comes.

Mama should wake,

see this gathering.

She had been praying

her daughters

with nomadic blood

would come home.

I pray not to pull

my hair out,

flail about on the ground

and bellow.

But we’re holding up

‘cause mama

looks like a China doll

in her best white dress,

white hat, eye lashes curled,

lips painted gaudy red.

A lingering brush

against her hand

sends a shudder—

it is air-conditioned cold,

statue hard.

Sanky songs tear our calm,

but there is no flailing

on the ground

no hair-pulling

no bellowing.

The coffin is pushed

into a vault,

the entrance sealed

and plastered.

The dust to dust

finality is allayed.

Holding up?

Spontaneous floods

at intervals

when memory of

that final touch

surfaces.

© 1992

Sour-sop Dreams

(for dad and my sister Ianthe, who provided the sour-sap leaves)

Dried sour-sap leaves

stuff his pillow.

He sinks into the scent,

loses himself in its soothing balm.

Distant voices grumbling

about the restlessness

of too much time,

of living too long,

of wearing a painful cloak

are swept away in sour-sap smells

that waft like incense

in a holy place.

Swept up in the cloudy haze,

his worries take wings.

© 2012

Becoming Gilberto

The nonagenarian once feared

for his sternness walks unsteadily,

each step directed by faith,

each fragile limb aware

that time has been generous.

The old man, brown-faced

from his days of wrestling with the sun,

looks thinner than in snapshots

of younger years.

The dye that veiled his age, abandoned,

a white crown celebrates longevity.

Photos of his wizened sagging face

are no longer clear images.

On the front-room walls

black and white prints

bear witness to the farmer,

doorman, store manager,

husband that he was and

great-grandfather that he is.

His siblings, ripe with illness and age,

have already fallen.

His firmly rooted family tree

has borne a fourth generation.

This family patriarch knows

his time is rationed,

has renounced his wild days,

has given way to reason and asks

that his children get closer to God.

He prays for their souls

utters words long restrained.

But the loving words

they have hungered for

jolt when they are heard.

And they, loath to disappoint,

carry his wishes in their hearts,

feel wisdom seeping into their veins,

feel prudence reining in the

recklessness of youth,

slowly become Gilberto.

From, If Only The Dust Would Settle, Author House Lt. Uk. 2009

Reunion

(for Gilbert Elliot Romeo 12.09.1914 – 17.04.2009)

Death brought us here.

Papa’s traveling home set off

the talking drums that reached

ears near and far.

We come together in this place of sanctity,

wear solemn faces, lower voices

as not to offend God and papa

who rest temporarily in his Father’s abode.

At the entrance,

we carry out death rituals,

hand out gray armbands

and pin purple ribbons

on those come to say their last goodbye.

Faces long not seen appear.

Hands outstretched, we kiss and hug

and embrace loved ones and friends.

A chorus of joy banishes sorrow.

We feel papa’s memories,

hear his voice of hope

speaking to our hearts.

We sing him home,

send him off to a better place

at this gathering in his honor.

© Althea Romeo-Mark  30.04.2009