Timekeepers

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Timekeepers

Tucked in a corner,
half-hidden by the family Bible,
the outstretched arms of
an ancient Timekeeper
reach toward the North,
announce twelve-oh-two,
as they have for a decade.

On the wall across the room,
voicing opposition, a nervous counterpart
ticks off the seconds,
sounds like skittering cockroaches.
Nine-sixteen the
hands extend in reply.

A chimera of light
bursts through the slats of
plantation shutters,
interrupts darkness,
exposes naked dust motes
dancing with fairies.

A cordless phone,
askew in its cradle,
has ceased to breathe.
Musty air,
heavy with mold,
hangs like an oppressive fog.

Generations stare at one another
from adjacent bookcases.
Great-great grandfather glares
at his kin
from atop the highest shelf.
Framed branches of the family tree
tangle,
disperse,
die out.

Edgar Allan Poe sits
propped against a lusty novel.
Irving Stone sidles up
to Nora Roberts.
Beside a blinking modem
a replica of a Rodin bronze
thinks.

On the bottom of a pile
tomes of large slick hardbacks
lie prone,
exhausted from years
of perusal.
The creamy white spines of
World Book Encyclopedias
measure the years
in gold serif print,
hurtle to an end in
nineteen sixty-nine.

Plastic flowers gather dust,
don’t die.

Unobserved,
down the hall,
an old man struggles for air.

I’m re-posting this poem for dVerse Poetics, hosted this week by very talented Charles Miller. The “Chazinator” asks us to fill in the gaps for the reader–that is, give a bit of background on what was happening in your life, expose the dynamics behind the poem.

I wrote this a few years ago during a visit to my Mom in Huntington Beach, CA. At the time, Mom was in early stages of dementia and totally denied what was happening. It was a period of frustration, and even depression for me. I get up early in the morning for some quiet time and when I visit her I close myself in her library/den–the room I describe in this poem. That morning I was in a total funk and couldn’t concentrate at all. So I decided to look around the room and just notice the details, which I ended up writing down in notes. A year or so later, those notes became this poem.

Mom grew up during the depression and was widowed in World War II when my father, a B-24 pilot, was killed. Left with a 3-month old baby (moi) and a small widow’s pension, she had her share of financial worries. When she remarried that became a non-issue, but she still holds on to everything…thus a room that is (as I see it, but I’m a minimalist) cluttered.

The last stanza is pure fiction. I write fiction, so I often fictionalize my poetry as well. However, a few months ago, I gave a copy of this to my mother, but changed the final lines. She does not like anything dark, to put it mildly. Here’s how I “sweetened” it for her:

Final Stanza–

Unobserved,

down the hall,

a woman fondles her memories.

Mom is still alive at 91, has accepted her cognitive limitations, and allows us to see that she get the help she needs. She does require 24-hour caregiving. I will visit the end of the month and see what’s been added to the library!