Forgotten, but not Gone

 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. 

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.                                                                     
                                

Waiting for Lenore

I have always found Edgar Allan Poe fascinating, and I knew of a fellow waiting for the return of his love, hopelessly.  I wrote this poem for his situation:




                                                                Listening to the wind
                                                                for some sound like Poe"s
                                                                lost Lenore, he heard only
                                                                the intensity of the storm.
                                                                Flickering flames from the
                                                                fireplace produced the
                                                                popping of pine knots.
                                                                Tonight, she'd not be here,
                                                                nor would there be any word
                                                                spoken. The raven of darkness
                                                                caused his eyelids to droop
                                                                as the book fell from his lap.