Memories of My Mother. Mother's Day, 2007

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Have you not seen it? Not the Taj Mahal?

Yet you have eyes and you have never seen?

Have never looked upon its lacey whiteness when the moon shone down

Nor seen it glowing like a jewel in the sun?

Reflected in the pool below, its glories multiply.

But you -- ah how can you dare say that you have lived,

Missing the thing most beautiful on earth;

So exquisite Allah himself must weep.

You know me not? I am the architect of that most perfect thing.

Blind -- yes. For when I finished,

The Sultan gave the orders. I should never see again

To build another like it.

Bitter? Ah, no. I sit with memories.

The marble beauty I have intimately known.

Let those who never have seen beauty use their eyes.

I am content. For I have seen the best.

Ruth Amelia Little

Presence

"And must you live alone?" They asked me then

When life had crashed around my heart, leaving it a shambles.

I nodded dumbly, trying to whip a smile ahead,

But feeling lonely tears drop down instead.

"Alone." I forced the word and whispered it again,

Contrasting it with fireside chats and woodland rambles,

with close embrace and trips with friends and work shared cheerily;

With bracing talk and restful silences and sleep welcomed wearily.

"And do you live alone?" I still nod yes.

But in my heart a singing answers no.

Alone? When all around there speaks your presence still?

The furniture you made, your drawings and your books,

The rules and pens and hammers that you bent unto your will;

Your teachings in the lives of son and daughters,

The fire of love and wisdom, not quenched by many waters;

The words I hear, the comfort that has grown,

The many things about the world you taught to me;

And wrapped around me like a blanket warm,

The thoughtfulness that you have always given,

Your tenderness that reaches down from heaven.

No, love of all my life, I do not love alone.

Ruth Amelia Little

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I remember we had a handsome hand-cranked "Victrola" and a record played by violinist Fritz Kreisler; she and her sisters had picked it out (probably about the 1920's) and It had a German name, (wish I could remember it) and begins with the following notes or something similar. She wrote this lullaby to it.

The Garden of Dreams

There's a beautiful garden atop of the hill,

I call it the Garden of Dreams.

And wee children sail there when sleepy time comes,

They sail there on silvery streams.

The beautiful garden lies under the mist

'Til you come where the sleepy flowers grow,

And there poppies blow in the soft rustling grass,

And breezes are rustling low.

So scent the sweet poppies my wee little one,

And drink of the silvery streams,

'Til you fall fast asleep in the soft waving grass

In the beautiful garden of dreams,

In the beautiful garden of dreams.

Ruth Amelia Little

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Once when I was home on leave from the Army my parents and I went to a movie about King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. As we drove home Mother remarked that she didn't like the portrayal of Guinivere; "She seemed too worldly." It may have been about this time that she wrote her poem about Arthur's unfaithful queen.

Song of Guinevere

Within my narrow convent walls

In peace and prayer my days go by.

No wild, sweet laughter to me calls,

Nor yearning cry,

Nor yearning cry.

Without, the world is wide and free,

And love and life and pain are there,

And all roads lead to thee, to thee.

I cut them off with calm and prayer.

Within my narrow convent walls

In peace and prayer my days go by.

No wild, sweet laughter to me calls,

Nor longing cry.

Today the abbess paused by me

And tilted up my face.

Said she, "What holy calm I see,

What consecrated grace."

I wonder if she would have sighed

If she had known my heart had died.

Within my narrow convent walls

In peace and prayer my days go by.

No wild, sweet laughter to me calls,

Nor yearning cry.

Your yearning cry.

Ruth Amelia Little

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Many of her poems were about watching us kids grow up. Many others were about her walk with God.

So Much!

Lord, you have given me so much!

I cannot understand

How you have gathered precious things

And dropped them in my hand.

Goodness and love surround my life;

Friends, church and home and food.

Why have I been so richly blessed?

My days so filled with good?

The little children of the world

Who, faint with hunger, cry,

The old who fall in filthy streets,

The sick who helpless die,

Have they not earned as sweet a place

On earth as much as I?

Lord, you have given me so much,

I would a giver be.

Have you a plan where I will love

And help some child see

The beauty of a world newfound,

Already found by me?

Lord, you have given me so much,

Take back some wealth to Thee.

Ruth Amelia Little

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We tried to break our high-strung Boston, Mitzi, from chasing cars and nipping at their spinning tires. One day she got her foot caught under one of those tires and walked on three legs from then on.

FUN

I will not scold you, little doggie,

For chasing cars must be a lot of fun.

But lying in your bed, your wounds all bandaged,

Reflect upon the foolish things you've done.

We warned you, didn't we, my darling,

Telling you such actions lead to pain?

We punished you and in the yard we tied you,

Why did you have to chase that truck again?

Don't look at me so pleadingly, dear doggie.

You know that I will try to make you well,

And here are little visitors to see you.

Their tears drop down, their sympathy to tell.

I will not scold you, little doggie.

I, too have known with pain when day is done,

And quiet followed wild, chaotic laughter,

That foolish acts do not wind up with fun.

Ruth Amelia Little

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A critic might say "It's nice but it's an overworked theme." Yes it is, and maybe it's because so many poets voice their regrets that time does move on so swiftly.

Late

I knew that she was lonely --

I knew that I should go

To put my arms around her

And say, "I've missed you so."

But time moves on so swiftly,

And sweeps me in its flow.

Today I went to see her,

Too late for her to know.

Ruth Amelia Little

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I wasn't present when her own mother, my Grandma Alverson, died, but my mother's memory of it merits repeating. Her reference to her father meant Dr. Alverson, a small town doctor, who was driving his two-horse buggy to a house call on a bitter winter night. The assumption was that his fur collar folded up around his ears kept him from hearing the approaching train.

Eternity

The preacher talked about Eternity.

It seemed so plain for it is just around the bend.

I could not know, but I could dimly see

The beautiful beginning of what might seem the end.

Remembrance came thronging from the past.

Surprising thoughts of beauty at the last.

I saw my mother in release from pain

For just one moment radiant again.

Joyfully raising her worn hands from her bed.

"They're coming!" Smiling, welcoming she said.

"Who's coming, mother?" "Why, they all!

They all are coming." Perhaps she heard them call.

Beyond the bend in my life's flowing river

I glimpse this cleft of light. Dear ones will come!

For Christ, who knows how much I love is giver

Of love like His for my eternal home.

Why! Shall I know at last my father's kiss,

Forgotten since I was a babe of three?

And will my husband be the first, in bliss,

To turn my face the love of God to see?

They're coming, All of them. As time grows nearer

It seems each memory of past love grows dearer.

The preacher talked about Eternity,

And it was just around the bend; it seemed so clear to me,

Ruth Amelia Little