He,
like me,
quirky.
Music poet,
not afraid to show it,
nor grow it.
When we met we laughed.
Life’s full measure we quaffed.
Lived life to its full staff.
I will miss
his playfulness.
We could have been friends, I guess.
But he’s now gone.
At least he wasn’t alone.
She never has cried,
but, sometimes, when a light dies
in your life, you must.
1:28 run./
Early morning Atlantic./
In surf I find me.
Thankfulness is more. /
Like abundant fields, it grows/
when friends shine your life.
OR
Gratitude expands. /
Like sun-drenched fields, my thanks grows/
as friends enrich life.
The world’s most tasty/
treats are best relished when your/
eyes are fully closed.”
Under Lincoln’s stern/
gaze, with liberties you help/
protect, I voted.
Days.
Weeks.
Months spent,
thinking,
dreaming,
planning
what to do for children
so they know I care.
So they feel
my love,
my devotion,
my unwavering commitment
to them.
To their happiness.
Personal things found,
bought,
created,
made with love,
like when the 1st grader
in my past
made a shiny gold
flower vase
out of sparkles
and paper
and glue paste.
I was so proud,
and she loved it
so much.
And things I do now
for my children:
Events,
furniture,
trips,
car repairs,
debt forgiveness,
as well as dinners,
poetry,
art,
flowers.
I think of them
as much as I did then,
or maybe more.
They are my flesh and blood,
sprung from my loins,
grown of my sinews.
I would give my life for them.
I have given my life for them.
And yet,
somehow,
they don’t know.
They don’t recognize
how much
I think about them;
how often
I feel for them;
how pained
and empty
and alone
I feel without them.
But my creative reaching,
my monetary stretching,
my time sacrificed giving
means,
evidently,
nothing.
And I don’t know
how to change
what they can’t
feel.
They say
they think
I don’t care.
I don’t show love.
I don’t give them
what they need.
That may be true.
They may think that.
But there has never been
a father who has tried harder,
or thought more
about
showing his children
he cared.
Because with every fiber
of my soul,
I do.
Her name was Mary.
She went to 6th grade with me.
I made fun of her.
I called her names,
Mostly the “r-word”.
I wrinkled up my nose,
Mimicked the way she nasally spoke.
I threw snowballs at her
When she walked to school,
And when she walked home.
Her friends would surround her
And try to protect her
From the cold slush that
Would smack her face
And make her scream
“Leave me ALONE!”.
But her friends could not
Surround and protect her
From the stinging insults
I and my friends
Hurled at her:
Retard.
Moron.
Mental.
That was nearly
A half century ago.
I see public service announcements
Telling me what I already know:
The R word is hurtful
And wrong,
And my memory
Of Mary
Cuts me
deservedly.
Now I am
In the same mountain valley
As I was then,
A place where people
Are supposed to be nice.
Someone in an office
Says a co-worker is a “retard”,
Then asks “Is that okay
To call him that?”
I want to stand
And scream:
“NO!
DEAR GOD!
NO!
NOT THAT!
It’s NOT OK!”
Her name was Mary.
I called her names,
Made fun of her,
And made her cry.
I’ve thought about Mary,
off and on,
for decades.
The memory of her
makes me now cry.
I want to tell her
I was ignorant
and stupid.
I want to ask
For her forgiveness,
But I don’t know how.
So I remember,
And weep,
And write:
“Mary.
I am sorry.”
Note to my man self:/
Never let a chick see you /
sick. She’ll distain you.
Like a woman reading
In her soft, quilted bed,
With warm, golden lamp light
Glowing ’round her head,
So do fall’s fading flowers
Of Albion’s alpine meadows shine
As they show off late beauty
At sunset, one last time.
For soon a warm blanket,
Soft, deep and white,
Will form a safe coverlet
And protect them both at night.
Then, the brightness of morning and spring
Will amaze the eyes with the beauty waking brings.