An old colorless photograph of a woman looked back at me.
Dark hair hung loosely above her shoulders, a pale but lovely face.
I wondered what dreams this woman may have had,
What plans might have washed away in some silent tears.

For years it stood, doing as it should, as children did as they would.
Their voices raised high, with shouts and cries, below the mighty wood.
It spoke no ill, or sullen word, it simply swayed as it should.
Listen intently, to a soft summer’s day and  you might have heard its voice.

Its needles rustled, to softly sing, to the children playing at its feet.
Of strong summer squalls, it stood against them all, and shrugged against the heat.
When winter’s northeastern gales did call, it stood stoically to meet.
With snow laden branches, its rings did add, for year, after year, after year.

Until the day, when nature came to call, bringing a violent bolt of heat.
Our towering pine, stood to take this too, to protect those at its feet.
Too powerful is nature, when it comes to call, too unforgiving is its plan.
Our towering tree, took too great a toll, now weakened to its core.

More years did pass, but it grew no more, as this is the way of nature.
But stand as it should, for as long as it could, against the decline of time.
The towering tree, now teetered too much, against the force of gravity.
And in this way, the children came to pray, to a story told without rhythm.

They said farewell, to the tree known so well, for this is the way of nature.

We walked and talked that Christmas Eve. 
Marveling at the fake Christmas tree. 
Some lawns glistened with tacky snow.
But not a snow flake fell. The air was warm, the breeze was light.
The starlight twinkled throughout the night.
We walked and talked that silent night,
 Just my mother and me.

I hear her voice, her gentle tone. 
But her words are lost to the passing years.
Despite the years,  the feelings remain,
That cause these sudden tears.

A picture hung over a piano, a mother an infant, a madona a child.  The child swaddled in white, a white hospital gown, but ebony hair for both.  Sharing love, wonderment, a bond forged in the womb and sealed by a myriad of moments, some forgotten, some remembered, and all cherished and appreciated.  



Always!

Mother's Day 1998
09/09/2013 Mother’s Day

It is spring here in Maine, May 6th to be precise.
The peepers are shrieking getting their exercise.
A few days before Mother’s Day and I’m late again.
I gather some paper, my thoughts, and look for a pen.

There are no words that can aptly show you my love;
But pray picture the alabaster image of a flying dove.
No praise I’ve ever heard meant more than yours;
That’s why, as a boy, I eagerly sped through my chores.

My memories of youth I’ll carry with me forever,
Sweet and dear memories to be lost--never, never.
A mother’s concern protects the child within. As she nurtures, he learns, and tries not to sin.

Out of her shadow he will grow to be a man.
But to his mother he’ll be her number one fan.
For some this may be just a day another day in May.
For me, a chance to say thanks and love on this Mother’s Day.

A Birthday Memory
09/09/2013 Written 8/18/1996 

     My thoughts of you, are in the quietest of places, where only gentle memories of youth go. You will exist forever, in this place of heart and mind.   I see the face of the provider, as I recall the love you so unselfishly offered.  I feel your embrace, as you consoled me through the confusion of my adolescence.  I hear the words of the nurturer, who had the wisdom to insist I make my own decisions.   

     Today, we’re celebrating family and birthdays and it will be a great day.  I know that sometime during this day you will  say or do something that will find it’s way to that quiet place of memories and I’ll keep it forever.

Granite & Marble
I stand in a place of granite and marble,
Stones are marked with names and dates,
For the forgotten faces frozen below the cold, cold ground.

The wakening morn shows snow and white,
And down, down, down it falls to the stones and light,
As a shroud that settles on faces in the ground.

Of the sky, a swirling stew of gray and gloom,
But for a charcoal crow void of flight and light,
For it perched, alone, on an edifice of life-no more.

Each stone that marks the names and dates,
Tell stories far too short and solemn,
And miss the faces and years of stories left untold.

A Beatiful Death
10/11/2013 A Beautiful Death

Slipped and Fell,
Slipped Away,
Slipped to the very last day.

For love we cry,
When they come to die,
Of life we simply must try.

For Death is cruel,
But Death does rule,
When finding drugs a tool.

Words of wisdom,
Pearls of truth,
Look back and find her youth.

A kiss to say farewell,
A voice too soft to tell,
Of a life lead so very well.

Speak truths we must,
In our convictions we trust,
In silence, we return to dust.