My mother simmers oxtails
and hollers like a kettle—
high blood pressure and anxiety,
nothing is ever good enough,
she fans herself with a dish cloth
while she squawks about ingrates
and too much gristle.
Beneath brown eaves
my father smokes in silence,
he watches moss grow over a stone.
© Nancy Botta, 2018
Rusted Honey 
Love this. Great images.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I love the images this conjures.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Love it!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Great poem and images going two side ways, makes it a good read.
Two things now getting real serious,
1, you ate or at least they ate great
2, I want to chill with your father wile smoking and in the hope dinner will be ready soon.
LikeLiked by 1 person
This is great!
LikeLiked by 1 person
This was great in the contrasts it brings: the warmth of the kitchen, the damp chilly air outside. Cooking up a storm, smoking and chilling. Focused, pondersome. But there is also acceptance here, that comes from knowing them so well and seeing them both as the separate beings that they are, brought together both in you and in your home.
Thank you for sharing!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Very, very enjoyable, thank you.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Love the form and you painted a vivid picture of dinner with the folks!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Touching in many ways.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I love the description of the father ‘smoking in silence’, he’s part of the story of the mother, or possibly he is the story. Either way, beautiful writing.
LikeLiked by 1 person