Poem: Rocking Chair (Audio)

It’s always an experiment—sharing form poetry via Blogger. I sure hope this one turns out. I realize it may be different for each device, so I apologize in advance if the form doesn’t make any sense. For clarity’s sake, the first stanza is supposed to resemble a rocking chair, the second an hourglass, and the third a scattered mess.

This particular piece is inspired off a piece of furniture from my living room. Doesn’t sound very inspiring? Maybe not. But take into consideration the things in your life that hold meaning and that bring up old memories.

The other night, I was sitting in our antique rocking chair by the fireplace, listening to the popping of sap bubbles and feeling warm for a few moments in this dreadful winter. I just so happened to be reading another book (surprise, surprise), and when I got up, the rocking chair groaned, as it always does whichever way it moves. It irritates my sister to all degrees when we’re reading the Bible aloud, and I so much as lean forward or, I don’t know, rock. Heaven forbid I should rock in a rocking chair. How dare I!

That being said, this poor piece of furniture has seen a lot. It’s been with my family from Washington State to Germany to Hawaii to Kansas and more. It’s felt packing tape on the wood where it shouldn’t have been, and it’s been recovered and cleaned at least once.

To you, it may be just a chair. But to me, it’s a piece that’s shared my memories.

Rocking Chair

In memoriam of the siblings I never knew

She   creaks

like   an

old woman,

pressure

shifting on

her antique bones

as she stoops forward

                        sits back

and rises on her legs,

joints      popping.

Would that I may be so loved

        should age settle in

           like a silk layer

                of dust,

           like the sand

  sinking in an hourglass.

She first changed her dress

when I was but a child, still

playing hide and seek behind her bosom—

later my mother lost

            my sibling—

                        who

            would she or he

have been?

Now I sit and turn the pages

o’er and o’er while the fireplace

                        sweeps up

the forgotten summer days.

The Christmas Market: A Poem

Smell is one of the strongest memory triggers. When I first returned to Germany, having lived there once as a little kid, my parents kept asking me if I remembered things. We visited downtown Stuttgart.

“Do you remember this?”

“No.”

We visited Reussenstein, an old ruined castle where I wandered off as a toddler and my dad thought I fell off a cliff but I ended up back at the car instead.

“Do you remember this?”

“No.”

Then we visited Hess Bakery, and the smell hit me, the sweet scent of fresh baked rolls, pretzels, and tarts hit me. Suddenly, I was four years old again, inhaling the familiar smells. For the first time in my life, I experienced a sort of déjà vu. I was home.

Another one of my favorite experiences living in Germany was visiting the Christmas markets downtown every winter. From the booths covered in garland selling sugar coated almonds, carved wooden ornaments, or fur coats to the ice skating rink and the giant Christmas tree, the market is full of wonders.

Although it may not be one of the places I remembered from being a kid, it’s full of wonderful smells, so I decide to connect some of them with memories. Some are real, and some are made up, but it’s an interesting connection—smell and memory. There are still moments when I inhale a random scent and suddenly I remember a summer evening at my grandparents when we caught fireflies or the feeling of rushing through a stuffy airport.

The Christmas Market

An explosion hits your senses before you even see it. Breath it in

because the cold is merely mixed with the warm memories
of a violin, soothing your gentle nerves and singing to your soul,
a pup curled on your lap as late autumn leaves linger then fall,
of a mother’s soft embrace, post-semester, welcome winter,
a warm blanket, plump pillow, and grateful snuggles,
all taken in a breath—of roasted sugar almonds.

Another strike begs you to silences. Shhh, the rush

of water on a sea-shelled shore, shhh, the shameless
grains of sand, how on earth did it get in there, shhh,
the bitter taste of salt stinging your nose, making you grimace,
shhh, the sun kisses your cheeks but don’t let him bite
or burn like the stinging jelly, man should have watched
my step. Shhh, stupid macaroons, can’t say we all like them.

Bam! A dinner table filled with the clatter and chatter

of relatives and distant friends, uncomfortable conversations
and shapes and sizes, heaven forbid you should stick your nose
in a book, travel to a time they ate the same food and made
your troubles look like a walk in the park, round dinner plates
and thin wine glasses, sticky juices and brazen spice,
would you care for a cut of pork?

***

Let’s chat! Have you ever been to an outdoor Christmas market before? What’s one smell that triggers the strongest memory for you?

Also, I’m sending out my first newsletter this month, featuring one very green literary-related travel destination. So be sure to sign up to receive more book-related news!

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