Overcast Moments

You know those times where you are reminded of a friend or loved one in a simple mannerism portrayed by another, completely random, person? The times when your barista reminds you of your aunt for some reason or when the jury member down the row makes you think of your high school boyfriend? Yeah, you know what I'm talking about. Well, a long time ago I had a moment like that and I wrote a poem about it.

This poem was published in my chapbook, "Struggle and Peace" in 1999. I wrote it my senior year of college.

Overcast Moments
by Kendra Maurer


I saw you today in the gentle flick
of a wrist,
hesitant laugh.
You sat two desks down,
I could hear your soft voice in
her hesitation.
Your long absent smile appeared in my mind
for a moment
then disappeared behind
cold cloud of reality.

No Frills

I wrote this poem way back in 1997 in a Poetry & Drama Creative Writing class I took. This was the class that helped me decide to change my major from the very practical "Social Work"  to the less practical "English". I loved that class and I loved studying English way more than Social Work. I'm so grateful to this day that I changed my major!

This poem is probably one of my favorites, hope you enjoy it too! :-)


No Frills


There was no Elvis in long satin pants
or "Deluxe Package including rings" for $29.95,
there was only him and her and Judge McLean.
She wore her faded pink church dress with
a white sash to cover the tightness in the middle.
He wore his confirmation suit with
his bony wrists growing out from the frayed cuffs.
He held tightly to the small satin-covered box
which held three paychecks in a plain golden band.
With a few short words and a downward glance--
Judge McLean pronounced them and sent them out the door.
He led her to his grey rusting Ford pick-up
and helped her in. Sputtering to life,
the pick-up pulled out and disappeared down Highway 10.

-By Kendra Maurer

A Mother's Duty

Had a talk with Lindsay this morning at the bus stop about how I need to stop telling her exactly what to do all the time--instead I need to let her figure some things out. She was right--I know the whole "love & logic" theory, and right now her decisions aren't going to be too big of a deal so I need to let her figure stuff out. She's starting to gain some independence and maturity and I need to allow her room to grow, I think. It made me kinda sad to think about my "baby" growing up. I know she's still only in third grade, but it's beginning--it's not like she's going to get less independent as time goes on. That's not the easiest thing for me to come to grips with! Anyway, it inspired a poem of sorts. It's still rather rough, but here it is...

A Mother’s Duty

For Lindsay



I can still remember insecurity

gripping my heart

that first day we brought you home.

“Now what?”

How do we “do this” with this sweet baby in our arms?

It didn’t take long to see you’d

changed everything.



You brought a new normal for us,

and a new role for me—

Mom.

It was new to me yet

I fell into it, as if it was something

I’d been born to do.

Not that being a mom was easy—

there were hard times for sure,

but it just felt right.



You helped define me--

I am wife and mother.

As you grew, my role grew with you,

I gained a little bit of freedom with each

step you took on your own

but you always came back to me,

grasped my hand.



Over the past eight years

I’ve worked, cleaned, and cooked,

But mostly, I’ve mothered.

So you’ll have to be patient with me

as we take this next step together.



I know my mothering can be too much for you at times,

smothering

as you grow the first sprouts of

real independence and maturity.

It’s hard for me to let you go,

even just a little,

so you can figure things out yourself.

I know my role is changing,

evolving from mother into friend,

but my heart still clings to you—my baby

and only wants to hold you closer,

protect you.



It’s against my nature to loosen my hold,

But I will try—I know I need to and

even more, that you need me to.

Because I am your Mom, I will

give you what you need,

cuz that’s what mom’s do

even if it’s painful

-Kendra Maurer

Flashback

This one was written back in college as well, and published in my chapbook, "Struggle and Peace" 1999.

My Dad the Ice Cream Man

On the lookout for a memorized pattern of lights,
in between slaps of meat and beans on tortilla shells.
A welcome taste of chocolate and ice cream
that kept us going through the long weekend nights.
Stuck inside the taco of fast food,
the visit of the Schwan man gave us a taste of the outside.
The doors open--a smile and my dad,
"Good evening--ice cream anyone?"
Cold cream fills my mouth, covering my taste buds,
blanketing my tongue with pure delight,
the chocolate sends sparks to my nerves,
my eyes close and lips curve up.
Another Friday night stolen by taco john,
redeemed with an ice cream sandwich.

By Kendra Maurer

Flashback

Due to my recent return to attempting to write, I've been reading some of my older stuff. I thought it might be fun to share some of my "flashbacks" with you. I wrote this one in college and it was first published in the Fall/Winter 1998 (I told you it was older) edition of "InLand: A Journal for Teachers of English Language" and later in my chapbook.


Mt. Sinopah

Tall and slender
her outline cuts into the blue sky around her.
Her cold chiseled stone face
reveals nothing of secrets buried
deep in the cavity of her chest.

His cries do not move her--his tears
fall, soaking the ground,
but she does not soften.
She watches as he stumbles.

The wind in the trees covers his screams
as she hears the last weak beats of his heart
against her cold body.

They search for him--for a trace
as days pass--empty.
Their calls echo against mountain walls.
Won't human grief move her to unearth
deadly secrets?

Spring

For the past four days I've been setting aside 2-3 hours everyday to spend some time actively writing. It has been really fulfilling. Part of my routine is that I spend a little bit of time doing some sort of writing exercise--those muscles are pretty out of shape. I'm using prompts out of a cool little book that I've had for a while but neglected to use, The Pocket Muse by Monica Wood. Here is part of what I read today,

"Write what moves you. Write what interests you. Write about what frightens you. Write what thrills you. Take a cue from the poets, bless their underfunded little hearts."

I love this quote! This is exactly how I feel. Sure I want to be "successful" but if I'm miserable every step of the way because that is my only goal--what's the point? So I try to write what moves me--what intrigues me, etc. I enjoy the process that way--it's like my heart/soul/thoughts overflow out onto the page. I love it when an idea pops into my head and there is an unexplainable need to write it down and explore it through words. That hasn't happened to me in quite some time.

Wake up little creative braincells! It's time to get to work. Enough hibernating--it's spring! The groundhog's been here and gone. The tulips are peaking out and the snow is melting. Open those eyes and start stretching. You want some coffee? C'mon, I've got it all ready for you--blank paper and a good pen. I've even set aside the best of all--time. Empty, protected time just for you. Won't you wake up and come join me? It's been so long, I miss you!



A poem

(a rough draft, oh and be kind, I haven't had a poetic thought in a very long time)

Good Morning

by: Kendra

Alarm blasts me out of peaceful sleep

and my arms, legs stumble

pull on clothes and shoes.

I tiptoe out the door

into the cool, fresh air.

My legs carry me down one hill,

past houses that sit sleepily,

and up another,

my feet hit the pavement in rhythm.

Deer in the field pick up their heads,

their ears perk up,

waiting to see

if I am a threat.

Fluffy white tail flicks as agile legs carry them over

the fence and closer to the river.

The sun is my only companion now,

it's pink and yellow eases over

eastern peaks, squeezes through

clouds and melts down into the sleeping valley.

I breath in deeply the new air,

my body is waking up, muscles are warmer and eyes brighter.

I hear a slow flapping above me,

it is a grey heron, his long legs tucked tightly

into his body. He pays me no mind

just flaps slowly and strongly towards the river.

As he passes, I see a small thing flittering

around the fence--a flash of yellow,

then, the song.

Montana's bird fills the morning with its song

and I smile.

Rewards for waking with the dawn

to run are great

when God's creatures appear

to sing, flap and flick

their good mornings'.

On the Beach in Banderas Bay

a poem, written on my first trip to Vallarta, Mexico in March 2004. Since we're going back there, I figured it would be appropriate. We leave tomorrow and I can't wait to leave this horrible freezing weather.

On the Beach in Banderas Bay

Hot sand squeezes between

my toes, polished bright pink,

as sweat trickles

slowly down the small

of my back.

I stand, watching watery blue

meet sky at the horizon--

a straight line even as the wind

comes up, creating rolling waves

and cooling sun burnt skin

that I'll later smear with saving aloe.

I push my imitation Oakley's--

only 100 pesos--

further up my nose

and wade into deceptively

warm water--

engulfing myself into

the essence of

'relaxing vacation'

as time slides by unmarked.

Are there even hands on the

clocks in Mexico?

In Honor of My Favorite Fall Fruit

Pomegranate

Greedy fingers dripping with sweet stickiness

dig and claw under the fleshy rind

hunting for buried gems.

Glowing red juice filled jewels drop into my bowl,

with each finger flex another sweet ruby

is piled onto the hill of red

in the white ceramic bowl next to the empty shell.

Scarlet fingers pop a handful of beads into my mouth--

taste buds sing as each sweet ruby explodes.

by Kendra Maurer

Copyright 1999