Position: Parent

Must be an excellent spin-doctor. Must be patient, consistent, and creative. Medical, teaching, debating, and policing skills; ability to clean up puke in strange places; tears on small faces; to help heal hurt feelings and mend broken hearts: Required.

Assets: Thinking on your feet, running with sore feet; willingness to play the same (physical and mental) games over and over, to enthusiastically pretend to like the hokey-pokey and later, try to understand the latest teen craze; to explain things you don’t really understand yourself, to be fair and flexible and admit all your mistakes.

No paid vacations or medical benefits.
Hours: Long and variable.
Must accept frequent schedule changes without notice.
Pay: You’re joking, right?
Rewards: Endless.

A Lighter Take On Swine Flu Pandemonium

I know it’s serious, and I pray no one else dies from this, but I can’t help making fun of the pandemonium and media frenzy that has taken place around the world; the pandemonium taking place today in my province, as people line up for six hours or more, people with chronic illnesses, with their babies and toddlers, standing in the freezing cold, hacking and coughing on each other, waiting to get this vaccine. There’s got to be a better way.

On Swine Flu

I’m standing in line,
and I’ve got a gun.
Gimme that shot for H1N1.

Roses are red, violets are blue.
Let’s make love; not swine flu.

And for your holiday cards:

Kiss me, Santa Baby,
but don’t use tongue.
Let’s not spread H1N1.

On being wired differently

“Our home will be the only super-wired
house on our block!”
you grin at me amid a mess of wires
that fall two stories from our new master bedroom,
branching out like octopus arms to a spot
below the basement stairs.

I think you’ve gone mad.

It’s nearly midnight as I hold a flashlight
up for you to find the missing link.
We haven’t eaten, but you’re being fed
by some crazy kind of adrenaline—
and I, by the passion in your eyes,
as you realize your brilliant scheme
plotted back in March when this house
was just concrete and mud.

It’s nearly one a.m. now;
we flutter about the house
like moths in the moonlight;
You, humming as you wire us for life,
and I, listening to the crickets,
content in the darkness,
in this space that will be our jungle;

In this place you and I have marked
and called home.

Wired by Heather Grace Stewart

Thoughts from a Gratitude Journal

So much seems trivial
studying the sun-kissed tulip
blossoming in the clear glass jar
at my bedside:
be beautiful
stretch toward the light.

Sun-Kissed by Heather Grace Stewart

light moments

I want to remember
the look on your face
when you walked my way;
the feel of your hand
on the small of my back
when you walked me home.

You must have worn blue;
maybe an overcoat
as we rushed into the rain.

We drank coffee,
talked about writing;
the state of the world.

Did you make an
awkward joke?
Take my hand?
Say my name?

We measure national debt,
average rainfall, yearly income,
overall satisfaction with everything
from online banking to
mail order brides.

We mark height and holidays,
historic moments, essays, exams,
final resting places—
then celebrate or mourn them
with cheesy greeting cards.

We don’t mark
light moments
like we mark the dead.

I want to remember
the look on your face
when you walked my way;
the feel of your hand
on the small of my back
when you walked me home.

Honey-Do List

I’ve been meaning to tell you.
There was this guy, Mike—
I think that was his name—
on TV today.

Mike can kick himself in the head
over and over and over,
twenty-five times in one minute.

It gave me this idea.
A time-saving technique.
When we’re fighting about
nothing and everything all at once;
When you’ve just said it’s only PMS,
and I’m glaring at you with that
“You’re so not getting laid tonight!” look;
When you’re throwing your
hands up in the air, yelling,
“What do you want from me?”

Give Mike a call.
Learn how to do that.

When Freedom Stands

Babies are born and lovers lie;
We’ll make plans, when Freedom stands.
Do not let their stories die.

We teach the how, perhaps the why;
Teach to repeat, to ace exams;
Heart and truth would make them cry.

He stayed inside, in search of his brother.
The second plane hit, lens on his mother.

They put on their fire suits, knowing the worst.
They stormed the pilot; called home first.

Some got relief. Some got the wall.
Nine-thousand remains: nothing at all.

Heartbeats skip and minutes fly
like spy planes with capture plans.
And the dead cannot ask why.

It’s not the oil. Truly, we’ll try.
Allied lands, joining hands—
Empty space in our New York sky.

Babies are born and lovers cry;
We’ll make plans, when Freedom stands.
Do not let their stories lie.
Do not let their stories die.

The Twin Towers, by Heather Grace Stewart (2000)

Thank-you, Dear Readers

I’ve just received another Certificate of Donation from Unicef. This is my second Gift of Education donation and third charitable donation to educational causes using proceeds from sales of Where the Butterflies Go. Thanks for buying the book and making a big difference in the lives of needy children (and in their communities–the Gift also covers part of their teacher’s salary for a year). Now I understand what words can do. Everything.  If you haven’t yet, please check out my poetry collection here and pass the link along to others. If you’d like an autographed copy shipped to your home, it’s easy to arrange–just drop me a line here. I’d like to keep going–so much more can be done.

Thanks also for commenting on my poems and stories; for letting me know when and how they’ve touched you. You brighten my days and keep me creating.

Heather

Gift of Education

Responsibilities, Rewards

floppy head to hold oh so gently,
tiny fingernails to cut;
whispered breaths to check on in your sleep,
chubby rolls of baby skin to clean, dry,
dress in warm sleepers;
diaper rash to prevent,
cradle cap to clear up,
little rosebud lips to keep satisfied.
But when that mouth finally forms a smile,
the world stops spinning on its axis,
and all I can hear is the sweet song
that is your laughter.

'Pure' by Heather Grace Stewart

Valley

for Larry and Robin

Your pillow has a valley;
that soft place
where your head would rest.

This first night without you,
I’m lost in the valley.
I never want to climb out.

I breathe in your scent,
memorize every note;
pretend you’re still beside me.
My delusions are quickly
interrupted by an incessant
buzzing:  I’ve left my
cell phone on vibrate.

The minutiae of life
must go on; I must go on.
Somehow, I’ll make up
your side of bed.
Someday, your pillow
will lose its soft scent;
your clothes will be gone;
all traces of you
will have faded from view.

But you were my valley;
you were that soft place
where my head would rest;

Love like that
is a flower
that never fades.