Mike Hall – Sparks of Calliope

The Letting Go

Her tiny hand was swallowed in his own,
Intent to steady her unsteady gait,
Guiding and aiding until she’s more grown.
The letting go, for now, will have to wait.

The hand held the bike as she learned to ride,
Its grip, a hedge against her wobbly state,
Guiding her, helping her feel safe inside.
The letting go waits for a yet seen date.

The hand holds hers once again in his own.
Time for the letting go has come at last,
For the hand being given is now grown,
Trusting another as her hand is passed.

The letting go starts with a dose of fear,
But the hand remains poised, faithful, and near.

The tiny bundle in the hand was placed,
Its small size nearly engulfed in his own,
His heart swelling, a feeling fully graced.
The letting go, for now, he must postpone.

The hand holds tight to this new little one,
Recalling another long-ago date,
He, guiding the other, before they could run.
Oh, how the letting go needed to wait.

The hand has grown old with the march of time,
Other hands now guiding with love and care
The hand that served many well past its prime.
The letting go, for them, did not seem fair.

This final letting go is full of tears,
But smiles abound remembering the years.

A Stitch in Time

I looked at the old Singer in the corner,
dust covering it from the lack of use.
This had not always been the case.
Many hours had been spent using the machine
as garments were made – dresses, skirts, shirts, pajamas –
some of them into the late hours of the night,
the whir of the needle resonating as it performed its task,
attaching the pieces which had been carefully cut,
the fabric pinned together, awaiting their becoming one,
the two-dimensional puzzle becoming three-,
the result, more than an article of clothing.
It was an object of pride in craftsmanship mixed with love.
I can remember the smile on her face when she finished,
the joy on the faces of those receiving the gift buoying her spirit,
making the time she spent worthwhile,
but her art – this craft – is slowly dwindling away,
disappearing . . . one by one . . . with her generation,
memories fading . . . vanishing into the past . . .

I turned to leave but could not resist looking one last time.
Maybe it was a trick of the light or just my yearning.
As I looked, the dust particles floating in the light seemed to settle,
forming the outline of her sewing with needle and thread,
giving a faint glimmer – a diaphanous, dreamlike vision.
I smiled and timidly lifted my hand as an acknowledging gesture.
She looked up, returning my smile, then returned to work,
focused on the next stitch . . . intent on finishing,
trying to preserve and protect what once was,
repairing the fabric of time, connecting the past with the present
before the memory drifts away into the ether of bygone days.

Mike Hall is the author of two collections of poetry, Autumn’s Back Porch and Thinking Out Loud. His work is a call for us all to think of our place in this world and how we can be kinder and more respectful to each other. He and his wife, Cynthia, live in the Dallas, Texas, area.

A Fork in the Road

Forks in the road come and go,
choices made on which path to take,
life decisions impacted by the choosing.

The pain from insults . . . from unwarranted blame,
heaped upon a fragile spirit,
leads to such a fork . . . but which path to take?

One leads to resentment – a slow burn building into rage –
the flames of wrath – all consuming –
     burns the “f” from fire,
     melts the “d” from danger,
leaving what is left to fuel the coming fury,
cutting a wide swath – out of control –
destruction left in its wake.

One leads to despondency – the avenue to depression –
turning everything inward, creating a shell of isolation,
     interjecting “self-” with doubt,
     rejecting hope by attaching “-less”,
the path spiraling down into unknown depths,
an abyss of no return.

But what of another path as yet unseen,
a path that needs to be cut so others can follow,
a difficult path, blazed with hard work,
a path where the pain is turned into purpose,
overcoming the inner-demons of uncertainty,
inspiring a future full of confirming assurance.

Pause at the fork and consider.
Contemplate . . . Envision . . . Choose.

The Good Side of Odd

They always seem odd, or out of place, like they are
     a five-string guitar,
     a few bricks shy a load,
     a dog that won’t hunt,
     an elevator not going all the way to the top,
     a few cards short of a deck,
     half a bubble off-center,
     stuck in reverse.
A smile lights up their face, an unkind word never uttered –
     their glass is always half-full;
     they search for the silver lining in the darkest of clouds;
     a perpetual spring is in each of their steps;
     failure is not an option (they just found another way that does not work);
     they believe the light at the end of the tunnel is just ahead;
     if one door closes, there must be one open somewhere;
     when lemons appear, they know lemonade is near.
See what I mean . . . odd.

Tag: Mike Hall

Two Poems by Mike Hall