That was Yesterday ( and yesterday's gone).

My Grampa Les lived his life knowing what was needed to know, and using what he had learned through experience.  He wasn't heavily "book learned," but he was very intelligent:  He taught me so much.





                                                              There was a time
                                                               when he could tell
                                                              the difference between
                                                               a fir tree and a spruce.
                                                              He knew exactly how long
                                                               it would take to mow
                                                              the back field by hand.
                                                               He would plan which day
                                                              he'd take to sharpen
                                                               and clean his tools.
                                                              His mind was necessary
                                                               back then, but now as he
                                                              stares out the window,
                                                                I wonder if he still remembers
                                                              those days, or is it less painful
                                                               to simply forget.

Grandma's Hands

I have been always amazed by how much work my Grandma and mother did without the modern conveniences we all have today.  No matter how much work they had, they always managed to have love for their families.  This poem is for them:


                                                            He hands were
                                                               always warm and
                                                                  soft against my
                                                            skin, but they
                                                                had a different
                                                                   smell each day.
                                                            After a day
                                                                 of making stew,
                                                                    The impossible to
                                                             wash off smell
                                                                 of onions lingered.
                                                                     Apple pie days
                                                              left her hands
                                                                 with the smell
                                                                      of cinnamon and
                                                              nutmeg.  Wash day
                                                                   would leave scents
                                                                         of soap and bleach.
                                                              Each day may
                                                                    have produced a
                                                                          new scent, but
                                                              the love always
                                                                     remained, never fading
                                                                           to be replaced
                                                              the following day.

My Dad and the Sea

My dad always loved the seacoast, and truly came alive in the salt air and what each season brought to add to the wonder he found there.  This poem is for you, Dad. I hope Heaven holds such a place for you, someday.


                                                  He loved to hear the waves,
                                                      even during a storm when
                                                  they'd hit the rocks, and
                                                       splash higher than his head.
                                                  Cascading back to earth, they'd
                                                        be rushed back from the shore
                                                  by the fingers of the tide.
                                                        He'd walk from his small house
                                                  to town, and then to the park
                                                       that bordered the shoreline.
                                                  Descending the old wooden steps,
                                                       he'd find a place to sit
                                                  while the wind either combed his hair,
                                                       or messed it up completely.
                                                   A fter allowing the sound of the sea
                                                       to soothe his soul, he would
                                                   lick his lips, tasting the salt
                                                       that had formed there, sigh
                                                   a peaceful sigh, and then
                                                       walk back home.                                                      

Work Ethic

I remember my boyhood days, and living on a small farm where money was was scarce, and we were expected to do our part.  This poem reflects this:


                                                 It was just expected
                                                  that a ten year old boy
                                                 was old enough to earn the money
                                                   needed to buy his school clothes.
                                                 Working on Skinners' truck farm
                                                   picking strawberries for five cents
                                                 a quart was the start of my summer's
                                                   labors.  Later when peas were ready
                                                 to be picked, another week or two in
                                                   the hot sun brought me closer to
                                                 my goal.  Riding the bus filled with bean
                                                    pickers was the next stop.  Arriving
                                                 at Brown's farm in Brooks, I'd spend
                                                   my day picking beans for a dollar
                                                 a bushel.  Topping off my summer
                                                   was raking blueberries in August.
                                                 This would give me enough money for
                                                    school supplies as well.  This education
                                                 in the fields helped shape a young boy
                                                    into a responsible man. 
                                                 I never returned, but I know I took away   
                                                    much more than I left behind.                                                      

Teddy Bears and Neckties.

I started my necktie collection when I started teaching.  I have over 100 of them now.  I started my teddy bear collection after I was married 42 years ago.  I have quite a few now. 



                                                            Unable
                                                                       to sleep,
                                                                                    but
                                                             too tired
                                                                       to get
                                                                                      up,
                                                             I wait
                                                                      in the
                                                                                sanctity
                                                            of
                                                                      teddy bears
                                                                                        and
                                                            neckties,
                                                                     wondering
                                                                                        what
                                                            morning
                                                                     will
                                                                                   bring..

My Treasures

Coming from two different worlds can be confusing for some people, but if you care enough, you make the necessary allowances'  My poem expressing this:



                                                             So many
                                                                  of my treasures
                                                                                      seem
                                                             only laughable
                                                                  to her,
                                                                                      who had
                                                             been raised
                                                                  where one
                                                                                      never needed
                                                             to make
                                                                   simple things
                                                                                      become important
                                                             and worth
                                                                    holding on to.
                                                                                      A pure white
                                                             rock
                                                                    became a
                                                                                      queen's jewel
                                                            for me,
                                                                    but was
                                                                                      only something
                                                           to toss
                                                                    into a puddle
                                                                                       for her.
                                                                  

Nighttime Campfire and Curiosity

 I used to love a campfire with its surrounding mysteries and secrets.  I wrote this from a memory, but I gladly share it with you.



                                          Next to the glowing campfire,
                                              the eyes of the night
                                          were staring---unblinking---
                                              I listened for a familiar sound....
                                           a breaking branch...a sighing wind...
                                              Nothing, but the staring eyes,
                                           and an occasional feel of warmth
                                              from the campfire.
                                           I wondered if the silent watcher
                                              made the inhabitants of the forest,
                                           wonder if I, too, were a friend or foe.
                                              In the silence of darkness
                                           nothing stirred,
                                              except curiosity
                                                  coming from both sides.