I Love…

I love my mother.
         Her sparkling, laughing, blue eyes often read,
         She easily made the most wonderful bread,
         She knew how to listen to what I said.

I love my gray sweater.
         Soft, warm, and worn,
         Pulled over my head looking old and forlorn,
         I’ll keep on wearing it though it is torn.

I love the color blue.
On white Florida sand, the azure gulf rises,
Blue skies, blueberry pie, Roger’s blue eyes,
And blue butterflies.

I love to go to the mountains to roam.
         In summer away from our hot Texas home,
         Wading in cold streams won’t cause me to moan,
         Though building rock dams can chill one to the bone.

I love children.
         Tall, short, skinny, fat,
         Those who giggle, cry, and pout,
         The runners, the jumpers, and the sitters about.

I love reading and writing.
         Learning from poems, stories, and books,
         I like to see how my ideas look,
         Written on a page of my very own book.

I love baked potatoes.
         Covered with butter, chives, and sour cream,
         Topped with cheese, chili, olives, it will seem,
         Like something that came from your very best dream.

I love Roger sweet and true.
         Sailing on the lake so blue
         Working with an untried crew,
         Always, always, making do.

Cerita M. Hewett
About 1994 revised 2002

Mountains to Climb

We can see clearly
Massive mountains to be climbed,
Not so clearly the preparation.
The time, the effort,
The knowledge, the skill,
They will require.

We usually need some smaller,
Practice hills before we
Take on a mammoth mountain.

May we conquer many mounds,
And feel happy,
Then, when we start our mountain climb,
We will find that this towering alp is mostly,
One rise after another.

May we feel our strength growing,
As we climb and stand on knolls,
Stamina built on ridges,
Will be there to sustain us
All the way to the top.
And then after many months, sense the joy of a
View from the summit of a towering mountain.

Cerita M. Hewett
October 29, 2015

Entertaining

(for Joann & David)

I made pork loin for our family
And thought of Joanne and David,
We went to their home
For occasional church potluck suppers.

They made pork loin supreme,
The group brought the sides,
All was served on china with glass,
Set on tables with clothes.

No plastic containers in sight,
Everything in its special dish or bowl,
But more than this
I’ll always remember…

The open door, the welcome,
The kindness, the laughter,
The gentle touch,
The conversation so that…

No one ever wanted to leave,
The reluctant good byes,
The friendship extended to each one,
The mastered art of entertaining.

Cerita M. Hewett
August 10, 2015

Sleep (by Elena, 11yrs)

Joy, peace, calming air fills my lungs
In the light and beauty surrounding me.
Listening to my heart thumping out a rhythm,
Slow and sleepy
Like a bear in hibernation.
The lids of my eyes hang low
Cutting out the brilliant light.
Slowly, like turtles crawling up onto a log,
Sleep overcomes my inner will.
Sleeping, rocking slowly.
Sleep.

Elena Hewett
Oct 2015

Air Conditioned Pants

A beautiful girl with
Faded blue,
Air conditioned jeans,
Sat next to me on the flight.

She talked on her phone,
Wrote text messages,
Read from an autobiography of Gandhi,
And drank a coke without ice.

That is all I know about her
Because,
We didn’t talk.

Cerita M. Hewett
June 5,2015
Revised July 6, 2015

Summer 1945

Thunder filled our white frame house.
Our family ran outside and looked up,
Airplanes in formation roared overhead,
Uncountable flying machines rumbled above,
I grabbed my five year old sister’s hand,
She squeezed it tightly,
Staring upward toward the silver slivers in the sky,
I shaded my eyes with my other hand.

Mother called, “Maybe, maybe Uncle Bryant is the
Pilot in one of them.”
That made them seem friendlier,
We all waved wildly,
But we still clung to
Each other.

Cerita M. Hewett
October 16,2002

No More

Behind the Alojamiento.
In the daytime, mostly hidden,
An owl sat in a leafy tree,
Only eyes, a foot, and half a body visible,
We looked for him in the light,
As we walked by there each day,
And listened for him at night,
As we lay suspended between awake and asleep.
Once in a while we would hear
A soft ooo- ooo- ooo-
Or a muted rustle of
Wings in flight.

Then one day we saw him no more,
Heard him no more,
Yet our heads turn as we pass his perch,
Hoping for one more sighting.
Still we listen for his call in the twilight hours,
Just a mirage remains,
Just an echo in our brains,
Only a gentle, pleasant, lingering memory!

Cerita M. Hewett
September 4, 2010

Grapes

With school out,
We sat on the wooden back steps
Sucking out the sweet green middles of the deep blue grapes,
Spitting the seeds into the lawn.

The warm September afternoon soaked into our lithe bodies.
We joked about the day,
Talked about the substitute teacher,
And discussed who was running for president.

I was at that moment thirteen years of age,
Physically mature,
Complete in my own mind,
All knowing.

You asked, “So, who would you vote for?”
Knowing you were listening, not judging.
I shared unabashedly, “I like Ike.
Since he really knows war,
He will work for peace.”

Two women sharing grapes and the day,
Somehow I didn’t notice then that
You were thirty years older than I,
That we were mother and daughter.

Cerita M. Hewett

Confession

Today, for lunch, I ate a Klondike.
Yes, the luxurious ice cream bar,
The one that is covered with chocolate,
The one that melts in your mouth
With the taste of cream, sugar, and, Uh-huh, chocolate.

It cost me two hundred and fifty calories,
Which I needed to work off on my bike,
Walking the trails in our forest,
Or shooting endless hoops in the hot summer air.

Once we each devoured three Klondikes
On the fifteen minute drive from town to the cabin.
I didn’t feel too good in my stomach
That time, but I was cooler.

Maybe it is the long
Hot summer of Texas
That compels one to such excesses,
Looking for chilly, refreshing food.

Still today, the memory of its smoothness,
Coolness,
Richness. . .
Was a magnificent way
To refrigerate a hot summer day.

Cerita M. Hewett
August 24, 2015

Gaurdians

The dogs in our neighborhood
Take very seriously their jobs.
Perhaps it is because there seems
To be so few of them in Guayaquil.

                  We rarely see them in the daytime,
                  And only hear them as we lie in bed,
                  On nights when our minds are over active,
                  Wishing for the sweet refreshment of sound sleep.
                  Then it seems the chorus begins.

                  Woof, woof!
                  Oooo, oooo!
                  Arf, arf, arf!
                  Rrrrr, rrrr!
                  Owoo, Owoo, Owoo!
                  Close and distant they holler.

                  I wonder, “Are they talking to each other?
                  Is a rat running across their patio?
                  Perhaps a cat slurks along the top of a nearby wall?
                  Has a well known thief entered the garden?
                  Is some old dog ill?
                  Has there been a death in the community?
                  Did their retirement fund collapse?
                  Or are they debating some compelling political question?”

                  At last their conversation ceases.
                  Perhaps the danger passes,
                  Possibly their pain or sorrow is soothed,
                  Perchance a truce or concession comes to pass.
                  At last night-quiet peace reigns supreme once more.

                  We remain awake, alas awake,
                  Quiet, yet awake,
                  Musing over all the possibilities.

Cerita M. Hewett
April 29, 2009
(revised 2014)

PineyWoodsPoet

a winding walk in the woods

Poetry