An old colorless photograph of a woman looked back at me.
Dark hair hung loosely on 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.

I grew to learn that she possessed intelligence and love.
But now I realized the youthful beauty, she once was.
I felt for her losses, youth and beauty changed by time;
Of opportunities lost, chances and journeys forgone.

 
Then a faint voice whispered from the photograph.
It’s same voice that echoes from my heart today.
My son, smile with me, rejoice in the journey I took.
Because its many twists and turns, lead me to all of you.

​

A Birthday Memory
 
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.

Food For Thought
 
"What is poor?", I asked my mother.  She smiled, her hair finally gray, since she stopped using hair coloring, was drapped around her forhead.  But these strands couldn't conceal the twinkle in her eyes.  "Now it's my story so be quiet and just take notes.", she pretended to complain.  I was writing a paper for my American History class and thought she might have some useful information about the depression.  I didn't realize her recollections would be so fascinating.  She sat back in the chair and absentmindedly played with the gold chain that supported the bifocals that hung from her neck.  I smirked, knowing she'd lost her train of thought.  That was always dangerous with my mother.   Her stories were inherently long; I didn't need to do anything to drag them out futher.  With her thoughts again harnessed, she looked back at me and continued.
 
Poor is going three days with just water and stale bread, and that bread my mother had to beg from the neighbors.  God would dad have been angry if he knew mom had done that.    The date was just before Thanksgiving, shortly after we arrived in Maine from Massachuettes.
 
We left Mass in a hurry.  I think we where running away from bill collectors.  Dad packed up mom and the eight kids,  Freddy was the baby and must have been two, Charlie, stubborn Charlie must have 16 and just as cantagorous then as he is now.  With the old Woody packed he brought us to Maine.  He sold the Woody and we stayed for a time at his family's run down farm.  His folks had past on and the property had been abandoned.  We all worked hard there.  It was fall, too late for planting, The fields needed to be cleared for next springs planting, so Dad and the three oldest boys chose to  harvest rocks instead of vegetables.  I was five.  I remember the piles leaves, of  Maple and birch that blanketed our yard with bright reds and yellows.  On most days I played outside, while my older sisters, Peggy, May, and Jackie, went to school. Mom prepared our meals, mended our clothes, and took care of Daddy and Freddy.  It was funny how similiar Daddy and Freddy were. 
 
My Dad, was the kindest harsh man I've ever known.  He never had a pleasant word for anyone.  He could never be satisfied.  And he wanted so much for each of us.  It was just before Thanksgiving, I remember being so hungry.   The boys hunted but no one shot a deer.  Dad would be out every day looking for work.  He would walk back the five miles from town late each evening.   On this one night, I  heard his slurred speach as he shouted at mom.  I still remember what she screamed at him.  "You're useless Fred.  Your kids are starving because you're a drunken bum."  I heard him as he stumbled out of the house and the thwap of the door as it slamped shut.  Kneeling in bed, my breath frosted the glass pain, I watched as dad staggered back towards town.  May and Jackie were both crying.  Peggy was sitting up in bed her arms folded around her knees her face death like in the pale moonlight.  I heard the front door open and gently close.  I heard the riggety old porch complain as mom sat down on the squeaky glider.  I fell asleep listening to the sobs of my sisters and the squeaking of the glider.  
 
The house was quiet at dawn.  I peaked into Mom's room.  Dad wasn't there.  This made me more afraid then the night before.  Dad always came home after they argued.  Just then I heard a rumble.  With my wooly socks and my older sister nightgown dragging on the floor, I ran downstairs jumped up on the old faded sofa, and looked out the window.  I saw Dad get out of a very large black touring car.  I scurried out, wooly's and all.  Into the cold November morning.  I almost slipped on the frost but Dad swept me up in his arms.  He hugged me harder than I've ever been hugged.  I thought he would squish me.  He placed his finger to his lips and shushed me.  Together we unloaded bag after bag of food and carried it into the kitchen.
 
Before breakfast Dad and Mom went for a drive together.  For the rest of that fall dad would leave every afternoon, in that big old touring car.  He wouldn't return until late.  I overheard Charlie and Norman whispering one afternoon.  They said Dad was running boo's.  I talked to Mom about it many years after Dad's death.  She admitted he was running moonshine.  It was the only way he could feed his family. 
 
My mother sat back in her chair and smiled her Martha Ray smile.   Our home with its relative prosperity was  worlds away from her childhood home.  I glanced down at my note-pad and realized I hadn't written a single word.  At that  moment I wrote, "I'm sorry I didn't get to know my grandfather."

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 force of nature.
The towering tree, now tittered too much, against the forces of nature.
And in this way, the children came to pray, to the powerful force of nature.

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.

Photograph
09/09/2013 Photograph

An old colorless photograph of a woman looked back at me.
Dark hair hung losely on 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.

I grew to learn that she possessed intelligence and love.
But now I realized the youthful beauty, she once was.
I felt for her losses, youth and beauty changed by time;
Of opportunities lost, chances and journeys forgone.

Then a faint voice whispered from the photograph.
It’s same voice that echos from my heart today.
My son, smile with me, rejoice in the journey I took.
Because its many twists and turns lead me to all of you.

Granite & Marble
09/18/2013 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 to soft to tell,
Of a life lead so very well.

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