Pearl-esque

At some point, it all becomes too condensed
to hold in one point, place or person.

I believe this to be the equivalent to the
internal pressure of a proton, that
binding force, around 100 decillion Pascal or
the compression at the center
of a neutron star.

These pearls glistening
in my lower quadrant of vision,
the milky way so to say,
are warm, as heat is conducted over
centuries. The pearls being given
to my grandmother by my grandfather
because of her name

He would take
a grain of sand
and a jewel was made.

He would wink at me every time
she tried to open the clam.




Painting by Charles Joshua Chaplin [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Family Jewels

A note about my daughter-who just found out

the family jewels, are really hers.

Delivered from the chrysalis of my conception

she is now breaking her shell,

timidly stretching her paper wings;

dandelion dreams reaching for the sun.

A mothers eyes see all around

the way she stares, intently noting

what not to be

come to be carried 

wandering like the dandelion star

resting in the budding garden of youth

fluttering with the whims of a wind

Her weightless wishes float.

Yet I cannot catch them all,

and some wishes may fall.

But she may just find her signature piece

in my opulent, overflowing box of beads.

Glimmering gems and jaded jewels

are for many women magic tools

(I watched her peach plastic knuckles round,

silk-woven skin searching for just the right one).

But Mom's old treasure box has none...

(My own crackled reptilian talon

clawing among the scraps)

Mothers fumbly fingers needle the necklace,

a meticulous malady, a mission to immature

an unbrandly new manifestation.

Elated with our fine creation,

two of a generation,

and a broken jewelry bead box.

"This choker rocks!"

Restrung,

just for the young.

Image By William McGregor Paxton [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons