I have always enjoyed reading Joyce Kilmer's " The House with Nobody in IT". I could relate to it, so I wrote about an old house I remember from my boyhood::
Forget--me--nots
ironically surround
the cellar
of the old house.
Winter winds
had removed
a few shingles,
but the windows
had kept
out the snow.
Picturesque---
An artist's dream---
not really.
Only an abandoned
old house
trying to retain
some of its
dignity.
Showing posts with label memoir. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memoir. Show all posts
Saturday, April 27, 2013
Friday, April 26, 2013
Old Ben?
Growing up on the coast brought me many old stories, legends and strange tales. My Grampa Les was quite the story teller, and often sent chills up my spine, so I wrote this to him:
caused the tiny ripples
on the water to sparkle
like some rare gems from
the sea,
But at night, the tall trees
seem to block out the moonlight
that might have kept the jewels
sparkling if I could have seen
them.
An eerie moan comes from the wind as
as it tries to part the branches to get
a better look at what is happening
below.
Perhaps Old Ben will make his rounds
to seek out the one who had cheated on him
so long ago. I quicken my pace now
for my grandfather had once told of Old Ben
searching and mumbling words that
only the wind can understand.
The walk in the daytime
was lovely, for the suncaused the tiny ripples
on the water to sparkle
like some rare gems from
the sea,
But at night, the tall trees
seem to block out the moonlight
that might have kept the jewels
sparkling if I could have seen
them.
An eerie moan comes from the wind as
as it tries to part the branches to get
a better look at what is happening
below.
Perhaps Old Ben will make his rounds
to seek out the one who had cheated on him
so long ago. I quicken my pace now
for my grandfather had once told of Old Ben
searching and mumbling words that
only the wind can understand.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Fish Truck
My Grammy Young had her groceries delivered and there were other salesmen that would supply things, like milk, bakery products etc. I remember these, but what I remembered most was the fish truck:
Mr. Finson usually came
every Thursday.
The back of his paneled truck
held ice and fish.
When Grammy felt up to it,
she'd shop---
Buying enough haddock
for a chowder.
The green peeling paint
on the outside
gave way to a neat, clean
inside, smelling
like a hospital disinfectant.
As Grammy grew older,
and I became more responssible,
I got to choose the fish.
The old man would smile
as he counted the money,
because Grammy always
gave me the exact amount.
Time's great eraser leaves only
faded memories,
that always become sharper
whenever I smell the aroma
of homemade fish chowder.
Mr. Finson usually came
every Thursday.
The back of his paneled truck
held ice and fish.
When Grammy felt up to it,
she'd shop---
Buying enough haddock
for a chowder.
The green peeling paint
on the outside
gave way to a neat, clean
inside, smelling
like a hospital disinfectant.
As Grammy grew older,
and I became more responssible,
I got to choose the fish.
The old man would smile
as he counted the money,
because Grammy always
gave me the exact amount.
Time's great eraser leaves only
faded memories,
that always become sharper
whenever I smell the aroma
of homemade fish chowder.
Friday, April 19, 2013
Candle for a Child
My grandmother used to love to sit in a rocking chair in a dark room with a candle she'd light each night. I never knew what was in her thoughts. I could only imagine since some of her children sometimes acted as if their mother no longer existed:
She'd light the candle
Every night and place it
on the window sill.
Sighing and turning
toward the old rocker,
she'd think about the
reunion she hoped would
some day take place.
She did not know,
or seek to know
when he might return.
Rocking slowly and watching
the fire of the candlelight,
she'd close her eyes and
allow the child she once knew
to come back home,
even though the man
hadn't bothered to do so.
She'd light the candle
Every night and place it
on the window sill.
Sighing and turning
toward the old rocker,
she'd think about the
reunion she hoped would
some day take place.
She did not know,
or seek to know
when he might return.
Rocking slowly and watching
the fire of the candlelight,
she'd close her eyes and
allow the child she once knew
to come back home,
even though the man
hadn't bothered to do so.
Stroking Waves
Growing up on the coast on a small farm, I often went to my favorite place, and today I write about it:
Blue, green
yet, gray
is also
a color
of the
sea.
Gulls punctuate
the surface---
white, showing
above the
blending in
of gray.
Seaweed,
newly green
fingers reaching,
stroking waves
as one
would pet
a purring cat.
I come
to the beach
waiting for
the colors
to speak
to me.
Blue, green
yet, gray
is also
a color
of the
sea.
Gulls punctuate
the surface---
white, showing
above the
blending in
of gray.
Seaweed,
newly green
fingers reaching,
stroking waves
as one
would pet
a purring cat.
I come
to the beach
waiting for
the colors
to speak
to me.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
To Christine
Today I learned the world lost a great poet, and I lost the best friend I have ever had. This happened on Deccember 31, 2012. Nobody had let me know, but I loved her as a wonderful friend and poet. This poem I wrote for her a few years ago, so she had a chance to read it. Here's to you, Christine:
She's not too proud
to light the kerosene
lamp,
or to mention artichokes
growing outside her kitchen
window.
She talks freely about
the spring wildflowers--
columbine--
windflowers--trilliums--blue myrtle.
Different---
YES, but never strange,
If she chooses, she'll
run
freely allowing nature to
clothe her trhoughts and
body.
She held me with
the fingers of one
hand,
and showed me what
lies beyond a green
reflection.
I'd give her thanks
for all she had given,
but
I know too well
that she'll refuse the
praise.
If I could find
one more yellow swamp
violet,
Perhaps then she'd know
without me saying one
word.
She's not too proud
to light the kerosene
lamp,
or to mention artichokes
growing outside her kitchen
window.
She talks freely about
the spring wildflowers--
columbine--
windflowers--trilliums--blue myrtle.
Different---
YES, but never strange,
If she chooses, she'll
run
freely allowing nature to
clothe her trhoughts and
body.
She held me with
the fingers of one
hand,
and showed me what
lies beyond a green
reflection.
I'd give her thanks
for all she had given,
but
I know too well
that she'll refuse the
praise.
If I could find
one more yellow swamp
violet,
Perhaps then she'd know
without me saying one
word.
Monday, April 15, 2013
Elderly Neighbor
I met many interesting , and sometime puzzeling people while growing up on the small farm in Searsport, Maine. This poem is about on unforgetable man:
The path behind the ledge led to
the field that belonged to the old man
who had once tilled it for a garden
When his wife was still alive.
He wasn't really unfriendly, but he
was not used to children as he
had never had any of his own.
My father would go there to split
wood for him, and Grampa Les
would go to help him stack it inside
for winter. I only saw the kitchen
of his house once when my mother
sent me there with some soup, because
he had been feeling poorly.
He told me to thank my mother
for her kindness, but gave me no words
of encouragement to stay and
keep him company for a spell.
I didn't like or dislike the old man,
but I did feel a sense of loss
when my father told me that he had died.
Perhaps, not solving the many mysteries
I knew existed, gave me the feeling
that part of my life was incomplete.
The path behind the ledge led to
the field that belonged to the old man
who had once tilled it for a garden
When his wife was still alive.
He wasn't really unfriendly, but he
was not used to children as he
had never had any of his own.
My father would go there to split
wood for him, and Grampa Les
would go to help him stack it inside
for winter. I only saw the kitchen
of his house once when my mother
sent me there with some soup, because
he had been feeling poorly.
He told me to thank my mother
for her kindness, but gave me no words
of encouragement to stay and
keep him company for a spell.
I didn't like or dislike the old man,
but I did feel a sense of loss
when my father told me that he had died.
Perhaps, not solving the many mysteries
I knew existed, gave me the feeling
that part of my life was incomplete.
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