S.1, E.2: From Morning to Mourning: Unveiling Morning Poetry of June 22nd

Editor’s note
The audio tracks don’t often match the final published edits. The poet hereby reserves the right to continuously edit their work—enjoy the randomness, unevenness, quirks, and imperfections.

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“Coffee in Microwave,” by Tess McCarthy, c. 2024

MorningPoem No. 27: Oh No, It's a Monday Poem

Another Monday!? Oh no!
Wasn't it only Wednesday?
How'd this happen?
Wasn't I harping about being real
in the here and now on Wednesday?

And my coffee ritual and poetry?
This Monday, I'm not goofing around by
heating up coffee
ten times
because I should have drunk it
when it was hot.

It's cool, cold/cloudy outside
but my Monday is not--it's hot
fresh out of the depths of
some semi-soiled microwave of my life.

Monday "dings"
and it's the perfect temperature
so I refocus
and sip life.
_
June 22, 2014

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“Mother in Repose” by Tess McCarthy, c. 2014 / Metro Manila Hospital

MorningPoem No. 320: That Was Then, This Is Now

It's not so hard to believe
that my mother
(the same age I am now)
had a "second life" with us, younger kids
she could have stopped 
with my older brothers
but then we wouldn't have a sister,
or a me,
or an adorable little brother.

Could I accomplish that same feat 
by raising a family
(young babies) in my middle age.

My mother didn't tell us 
she was "too" old to have children,
for she blended in 
with the other mothers in age and religion,
no one knew how old she was 
or what number 
on the bottle of her hair dye was.

And I didn't know my mom's age either:
Because I thought she was the norm.
Her skin looked as fresh as dairy cream 
and brown as caramel candy.

For all I knew, she was this product 
that didn't expire
(not like Twinkies, no) 
but more like honey
—which never spoils. 

It wasn't until I was in my 20s
that I realized my mom 
was markedly older than my friend’s moms. 

She looked and acted young for so long, 
I'd joked her secret was sleeping in Tupperware.

Underneath appearances, I realized 
I had limited time with her on earth. 

Selfishly, I prayed to have her until a hundred, 
but prayers are only prayers
they are answered, of course,
but not always fulfilled.

Because if all sorts of prayers were answered, 
then we'd have what we wanted,
but not necessarily what we needed,
and, for me, 
I needed a higher answer to my wishes, 
because that was then, this is now 
a definite lesson:

Cherish your mother for as long as you have her, 
because like refrigerated cream,
she expires, too.
_
June 22, 2015

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