The winds of change

So, today’s challenge was to write a poem rooted in “weird wisdom,” such as something objectively odd that someone told you once, and that has stuck with you ever since. As an example, we were directed toward Naomi Shihab Nye’s poem “Making a Fist.”

I do find it intriguing the way my mind responds instantly to these first-thing-in-the-morning prompts by inevitably taking me back to childhood. Perhaps that’s where wisdom was formed? Maybe I failed to register significant interest in things as I got older? Or maybe my mind is just waffling – who knows?

Anyway, another childhood memory rekindled by another daily prompt.

To the tender mind and salad day ears of a child,
There is no greater authority than a grandmother’s words.

They are supreme.

They’ve seen Senates crumble, Courts of all sorts collapse,
And the Spanish Inquisition? A paltry power dream at their feet.

Their omnipotence has such unbridled license that a mere swish of the tongue could slice the sagacity of Solomon like a bull-whip through blancmange.

Mine would stand, dishcloth in hand, adorned in the Federation of the Apron, a robe of such purple prominence that Ceasars would sacrifice their own children just to touch one, and from her throne in the kitchen issue decrees:

“If the wind changes, that face will stick”.

And yet, the Chinook didn’t fix my look,
And the Haboob left me untouched,
The Berg and Bora have come and gone,
I’ve seen the Scirocco blow and go,

Buit if you ask me, now, will I call her false?

My answer will always be no.