Poems as snapshots of life

[alee_grrl]

One of the ways I love poetry is that it can act as a verbal snapshot of life. My mother had several books of Robert Frost's poetry around the house, which influenced my love of poetic snapshots. I wrote this particular poem in college as a remembrance of my maternal grandmother. She died when I was ten, but her memory has been a comforting presence for me. Most of my memories are of her holding court at the kitchen table (the more batter everyday table rather than the fancy dining room one) in scenes much like the one described in this poem.

The Matriarch

She sits enthroned
In a chair of cheap cold tin
With a cover of blue speckled vinyl.
A matching table
Of fake gray-white marble with
Blue filigree along its edge is bowed
Before her. She is robed in faded night
Gown once ornate with vivid flowers.
A steel halo of stale cigarette smoke blends
With a bluish silver helmet of curled hair.
A paper hand rests
Next to a can of diet coke.
Brown eyes set in among
Deep crow’s feet avidly investigate
The pages of the romance before her.