R.M. Yager is a retired nurse/teacher/photographer whose topics are marginalized, at risk populations,
poetry is her vehicle to deliver words most people find unspeakable, she hopes to offer inclusion,
wants to stop you in your tracks with controversial humor/tragedy within family and relationships, also writes about nature and whimsy. Her work has appeared in numerous journals across America as well as internationally. Give her a topic she will write you a poem about it!
Old Chair
I am getting older, yet not
much older than he was
when he took me into his life
I find myself sitting
in Dad’s rocking chair
more and more
I need to feel the places
where each day he rested
his calloused palms,
and curled his fingers
on the armrests
over and over
I discovered more about him
long after he had died
he’d lived in an orphanage,
yet never talked about it
he made a home for me
replacing what he’d lost
I rock back and forth
sometimes slow,
sometimes fast
this old piece of wood
is one of the few things
I have left of his
I’m so grateful
to just sit here
in this same place
where he held me
so many times when
I was a little girl
My Fantasy
For some strange reason I have always fantasized about becoming involved with a blue-eyed Italian psychiatrist, hoping to be pulled into his deep Cerulean eyes. I would ignore his thick Cimbrian accent, melting from his low sultry tone, I’d stare at his thick blond hair, dismiss the relevance of his hands waving wildly at me urging me to stia calma. I refuse to speak up, he urges me to be coraggiosa, reveal what has been troubling me all these years, holding me back. His eyes beckon me to come closer, it would be his gaze that would force me to submit to my old terror. Sadly, just as I am about to reveal my fears, the bells toll from the tower of the cathedral across the piazza. Then, the timer on his desk chimes that my hour is up.
The heavy presence
of your absence
thick in the air
like humidity
on the bayou
time passing by
as slowly as
molasses dripping from
Grama’s wooden spoon
a yearning
permeating my life
everywhere I look
I don’t see you
can’t feel you
hear or touch you
all I have is
impersonal: Facetime
I-pad filled with
photos, videos.
my preference is
having you perched
sitting near me
better yet, perched
up on my lap
I want to feel
your hair, tickle you
watch you smile
hear you laugh
beside me.
Not Perfect
You are a special Mother
because you have a special Child
who was not born perfect
you’ve had to watch and endure
know that there is no cure
you’ve had to be steel
knowing future life is so uncertain
having no choice but to cope,
while never giving up
you’re heroic, stoic
normal milestones, there may be none
joys of first words that may never come
nor first steps to marvel and enjoy
you merely take each day
are grateful for each one that comes
your child may never become an adult
may never see your smile,
or ever hear your voice
no one understands your special needs
you are a special Mother,
I look at you in awe
© 1999 unpublished book
RM Yager Lyrics of Our Lives
Every Now and Then
Giuseppina – my Italian immigrant Grama, who adopted me, held two jobs, had a third-grade education,
lived through the Depression – you step into my body. I’ll feel a little tug.
I’ll be cracking eggs into a bowl, you are there with me baking bread, I feel your hands over mine,
punching the bread dough back down in the bowl.
I can see you on my way to church, putting on your hat and coat, pulling gloves over calloused hands,
putting on your one good pair of shoes. Your rosary beads clink on the church pew while you pray.
I blink, feel your fingers over mine while I hang laundry, I hear you singing Ave Maria on wash day,
just like when I was a child.
At night I watch the news, hear your voice say how the world has changed,
while you mend socks and embroider.
Later, while riding in my car, you’re next to me peeling the skin off a fresh apple, it falls into your lap gracefully in one piece. Complaining about my job, having to work while going to school, I feel a jab to my ribs.
You were not there to see me handed my college diploma, but I felt you next to me on the stage.
As a middle-aged woman distraught, going through a bitter divorce, I felt you nudge me out the door, your hand holding mine, walking me into the sunshine, determination on our faces, the wind blowing through our hair.