A Patchwork of Women’s Lives, Part I

By: aromaproductions on 11:44 AM

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Women washing clothes in Haiti

These poems represent a patchwork of women’s lives quilted into the human story. Settings, circumstances, interaction, beliefs, hopes, dreams, laughter, tears, birth and death are connecting threads, are dictators of patterns depicting the big picture of daily living. In the big quilt of life, we are part of the mystery that is constantly revealing itself.

Painting by Nicole Jean-Louis

Wash Day

The sun sears.

Sweat-drenched women

at the riverside

secure rocks to sit on

and unload clothes

to be blue-soaped,

lathered,  kneaded,

squished between knuckles,

lashed and beaten against boulders

around which the water flows.

Stained whites are spread out

under the searing sun

that gladly sends its glaring rays

to strip them of stubborn stains.

While they wait,

women strip and dip

in the slow swirling flow;

others braid hair and sing,

bare souls to “sisters-friends”

.

Those already done,

amble away, straight-backed,

washing stacked on heads

like oversized crowns.

Wind’s hot breath

brushes their faces,

follows them to village homes.

© 2004, Althea Romeo-Mark,

Wilting Rose

They get so much attention.

First thing in the morning,

Jared seeks them out,

makes sure they have enough to drink,

cleans them like precious silver.

He strokes the leaves and petals

of each assortment with a damp cloth—

there should be no dust,

the green must shine,

red, orange and purple

must glow in the shaded space.

Signs of blight birth a contorted face

molded by anticipated death.

Rose hasn’t heard him

speak or whisper to them.

Does he do that secretly

in the night?

She is certain he knows

their individual names,

whether Latin or Greek.

Rose feels she is wilting

and plans to purchase

a lacy, red dress,

that would remind Jared

of roses.

There are a few that he dotes on,

each a different color and size.

There must be a subtle fragrance.

She must wake early and dress,

beat him to the garden windows

where plants bloom all season.

Then she will twirl around,

red dress swirling,

perfume hypnotizing,

and recapture his admiration,

Rose tells herself.

©  2017, Althea Romeo-Mark

artwork by Pawan Kumar

Mother Seeks Child/Child seeks Mother

(Inspired by ITV Long Lost Families)

I.               Mother Seeks Son

A mother walks between two daughters,

Their arms hooked in arms,

her weakening feet is steady.

She talks about the first one,

the boy she gave away at sixteen

at a time when giving birth

without the church’s and

community’s blessing,

was said to cause God to shudder.

Banishment to a distant relative,

in a faraway town, was a solution

for a child born in sin, at a time

when families had to feed

one mouth too many,

when there was no money,

and the next best thing an orphanage,

where the small pink babe was smuggled away

to be placed out of sight and memory.

She thinks about him night and day

and carries the burden, the tiny face, tiny hands

branded in memory.

And daughters listen to her lamentations,

join her in the search for completeness—

Her face is a portrait waiting for its final touch.

Mother seeking son.

II.            Son Seeks Mother

The son has parents who love him

but there is a missing link.

Something he knew before he was old enough to be told,

knew he was different—the blond one

in a black haired family,

the one that wasn’t good at football,

the one brilliant at mathematics.

He wonders why a mother

would give a child away.

He now has his own,

he understands the ties of parenthood.

He wants to meet his birth mother

to ask her why, what were the circumstances,

why did she give him up?

The need for answered questions

is a stone he carries on his head.

He wants to put it down,

it’s time to put it down

and seek answers to this lifelong puzzle.

He wonders what she looks like.

Does she have his fair hair,

his long thin fingers,

are there siblings waiting to embrace him?

Does a collision course begin?

© 2017, Althea Mark-Romeo

  

Gwenny

She was pole-thin,

her head large and round,

a walking streetlamp.

Gwenn barely had hips

to hang the rest of her on.

She was cross-eyed,

sassy and loud.

“Damn” we muttered

when we first set eyes on her.

“Damn” we uttered

when we first heard her.

When her stomach began to swell,

her narrow body pushing forward,

we wondered where it would expand to.

And we whispered “damn

Gwenny has found a man.”

Now, a stuffed, fat sausage in her thirties,

Gwenny sings the praises

of her handsome son,

his father still a mystery.

And some of us, still childless,

and not “tight” with the Holy Ghost,

shake our heads at Gwenny

And grumble “Damn.”

© 2005, Althea Romeo-Mark

Linocut print of an African woman and child.

Daisy Valborg Romeo, my mom 1921-1992

Daisy's Eyes

I.

Grandma Daisy was on constant alert for misbehavior.

Her piercing, don’t- cross- me, eyes

provoked verbal collisions with her grandchildren.

Her stern stare was so menacing,

her grandson threatened to shoot her

with his plastic gun.

And Cecelia, at six, said, “Grandma pushed me,”

when all grandma did was squint those slanted eyes

and saved her from falling.

II.

Yet, her dark eyes did not always

signal displeasure or warned of imminent peril.

She had survived World War II,

teenage motherhood, single parenthood

a life with many bruises.

I wish I had been a soothsayer,

to read her eyes like open palms

and unravel the mystery behind them.

I would have garnered her thoughts

to see what they predicted.

In the sunset of her life

Papa said her eyes, shone brightly

despite battering illness.

But her eyes had given nothing away,

stared right back at us,

gave no sign of her leaving.

© 17.01.2014 Althea Romeo-Mark

Kalahari Quilts - Connecting the generations BOTSWANA SOUVENIRS and AFRICAN ARTOur designs are inspired by images of Botswana 

How is your life-quilting going?  I hope it will be one that you worked hard at and one that teaches life lessons.

Althea Romeo-Mark