We’ve moved
my wife and I from home
to the last place
we’ll ever live and she
wants to know why
I’m sitting around
not helping to unpack.
So I tell her the problem
which is her problem too
but she keeps unpacking.
I’m not at home, I tell her,
but I’m not here either.
Not to worry, I say.
I’ll let both of us in
when we arrive.
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com.
Three fingers; three candles
Her broad smile
The justification of the big day
Her questions universal
Her thirst for information
A credit
To any philosopher
The nature of death
The origin of flowers
An endless barrage
Of unanswerable queries
Questions formal education
Discourages
With the corset-tight standards
With the rigors
Of what to learn
And when to learn it
Stifling that curiosity
Thoughts and reasoning
Dormant
Until age and wisdom
Reaffirms that childhood fancy
No longer
Worrying about utility
Free thinking
A galaxy of learning
In that short time
Before age
Sweeps it all away
Do not quiet that child
Seek with her answers
Accept your own ignorance
And welcome that common journey
For hers
Is a world still expanding
A wonderful world
You can share
Her voice
A black hand
That reached for me
Her tone
A mother; a teacher
Showing me
A world of her youth
Gritty
But always with dignity
Pain so deep
That pretty words
Like whore make up
Seemed so out of place
Hurt deep and dark
But never so bleak
To smother her optimism
I cling to her
As she led me
Through dark tunnels
Then into the light
Her pen
Like a chisel
Carving her words
Deep in my consciousness
The people seem so old
bits and pieces
the remains of
generations gone by –
empty pews, sparse choir
light collection basket –
even candles burned at
both ends eventually
go out.
Don’t expect quick
thoughtless response.
That was so yesterday.
I’ve rushed into yes
way too many times when
I should have gingerly
paused. So now, practicing
the Art of No, I balance
your request, getting back
to you later.
Fred brought his old comic books
and some hard candy to a food pantry
and didn’t think much about it.
Just a different kind of donation.
Maybe somebody would want them.
When Fred visited the pantry again
Molly behind the counter raved
about the comics and candy
how much they meant
to the children who came in
with mothers looking for food.
Molly said the children were
happy to have something
they could call their own.
They took their comics
and candy home smiling
proving little things mean a lot
to little people who have nothing.
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com.