MY Father’s Basement
.
bare bulb
strung on a wire
from the floor beam overhead
crawl space hidden
from the upstairs noise
illuminated like the back
of a closet behind the clothes
decayed leaves
the smell of warped wood
barely enough space
for his rotting bench
my mother’s old pickle jars
arranged on two-by-fours
circling the cinder block
each jar labeled
by his craftsman’s hands
with the permanence
of black ink:
three-inch nails
half-inch bolts
lug nuts studs
packed against
the stone-wet walls
now pitted with sand and dust
abandoned in rows;
posthumous pill bottles
on the dresser
beside his bed
.
The Blizzard of 1947- Brooklyn, New York
No street lights, no lamps lit in the houses
on Ocean Avenue. Just my father and me
headed for Kings Highway in search
of milk, bread, anything we can find.
Threading our way through walls
of ice and snow, I sit cross-legged,
arms folded across my chest,
just as my father instructed;
a rope tied around my waist to the back
of the sled to keep me from falling off.
My job— Hold tight to the bags on the way home!
I don’t know how my father carried both me,
the sled across the street to the trolley stop,
how he followed the tracks under the snow
in the dark. All I can see is the back of his coat,
his arms and hands stretched out behind him,
pulling the ropes, dragging the sled.
The steady crunch of his boots.
.
Beth SK Morris is the author of three poetry books: IN FLORIDA (2010), NOWHERE TO BE FOUND (2014), and the recently released, “IN THE AFTERMATH- 9/11 Through a Volunteer’s Eye’s” in commemoration of the 20th anniversary, September 2021. Her poems have appeared in Artemis, Avocet, Broadkill Review, Crosswinds, High Shelf, Pank, Passager, Poetica & Songs of Eretz among others. Beth holds a Master’s degree in Speech Science, English Language & Literature, and a Ph.D. in Speech, Language & Hearing Science. She is a member of the Hudson Valley Writers Center and Poets House in New York.
wonderful poems