21 - 60 Notes From The Heart

" Sing us a song, you're the piano man sing us a song tonight
Well, we're all in the mood for a melody
And you've got us feelin' alright
Now John at the bar is a friend of mine
He gets me my drinks for free
And he's quick with a joke or to light up your smoke
But there's someplace that he'd rather be ..."
Billy Joel~Piano Man.










P21 THE SEDATION OF MEDICATION

Pill for daytime, then for night.
Allergies to numerous to count.

Spray for this, ointment on that.

Cream for this, or maybe gel.
I'll run a test, then I can tell.

Have an itch from side effect.
Lotion twice daily should protect...



P22 SHE'S DIFFERENT THEY SAY
(for Kathy)

 She's different they say in every way.
She spells her own name, it's always the same.

She's different they say, so leave her that way.
She feels, sees, hears just as we do.
Hell, what do you mean, she's better than you.

You move away try to ignore.
But oh, if you knew she has so much in store.

She feels when I am happy. Can sense when I am sad.
To tell me that she can't "do this",
really makes me mad...

Can't you heal her? Can't you even try.
I can't believe you'd tell her,
"there is nothing we can do".

We've missed so many moments.
The days we have so few.

So, let us hang in there together and love the time we have.

For you my dear sister are different, in so many ways.
You trust, you care...I can't compare
the love I have for you...



P23 LET ME ENTERTAIN YOU
Aides Epidemic

Let me entertain you for just a little while.
I'll taunt you, tease you, you may even crack a smile.

But in the end all is said and done.
There is no more thinking to do.

You'll wish, you'll pray.
You'll say, no more...today.

There was a brighter future, one you did forsake.

How many people of the hearts did you break?
How many children did you kill in vain?
How many more before you stop hunting your prey?
How many more taken before their judgment day?



P24 MODERN TIMES
(the 80's)

Plastic money, powdered food.
Hollywood sure looks good.

Tinsel town, neon lights.
Bottled babies, freeze-dried dogs.

McRonald runs our nation.
Look at all this aggravation.

Purple hair that they wear.
Don't forget the Tofu, too.

...Take me back to yester year.
Oh, my darling, darling dear.



P25 BRAND NEW KEY

It's up the stairs, down the stairs,
finding something new...
Reaching out for things I've lost, then I'm finding you...

I really can't remember what I'm trying to forget.

There must be a key for the lock I cannot reach.
There must be an answer for the question yet unasked.
Will we capture the future of tomorrow,
or is time really in that glass...

Look at the child who holds your future.
See where the waves return.
It's not too late to begin tomorrow.

The key maybe around the corner. It's not so hard to find.

For the lock that it will open, is the meeting of the mind!



P26 BLESSED ARE WE
(for the love of my country and America)

See God's grace upon this land.
Fruitful harvest on which we stand.

Glamour, delight. Studded-star filled night.

Colors of nature in multitude.
Let men come together in brotherhood.

Of Thee I Sing...
The reincarnated soldier's song.

Home Sweet Home, recognized all along.





I was remembering the old cowboy movies and what lives the old miners must have gone through while digging and dying for their love of gold.

P27 MINER

We dug, picked and panned away.
Not aware of night from day.

"Gold Rush" fever in our blood.
Worked in the sweat, dust and the mud.

Drank ale from a tin cup.
Ate buffalo stew, sometimes rattlesnake, too.

Sang of our Darling Clementine,
while dreaming of gold we might find.

...As I remember the Gold Rush of 1849.




Published
Winter 1989-90
Issue # 41
Farming Uncle


I was thinking about the
"Little House On The Prairie"
tv series when I wrote this poem.

P28 DAY'S GONE BY

The mouth watering smell of mom's apple pie
...all too soon the day's gone by.

Swing on a branch beneath the old willow tree.
A splash in our pond, the buzz of a honey bee.
A buggy ride, just Pa and me...

Going to school in a hack,
my books I carry upon my back.

Tasting kraut from a crock,
Sister sewing a Sunday frock.

See the doe behind the shed.
Cotton bonnet which covers my head.
Hay filled mattress I call my bed.

Remember too soon these day's gone by...



P29 BODY & SOUL

The harvest you reap, is the harvest you sow
The heart that you keep you must let it know

For Body is half until spirit's made whole

Like man and women...combined as one
un-separated as the moon from the sun

For hearts beat together
that last forever...




Possibly written in memory of our "nutty" family, or just a tribute to nuts in general.


P30 NUTS

Nuts, you say...
...not only today, have been around so long.

They are not the same, not even their name
sizes, shapes and colors, I just love them all.

For to understand their origin
you must study very well,
become a critic you see,
a nut like me, for this to be a fact.

That nut you have found lying round,
upon the ground, has feelings just the same.

But a nut, is a nut and will be a nut
by any other name...




Published

I wrote this poem at the kitchen table one morning, while looking out the kitchen window at the corn field outside and the huge hickory tree in the backyard.

I had also read some Poe before writing this, which I think the reader can detect.


P31 SHADOW BELOW

The shadow on the ground below,
sun that warms the pattern green.
Leaves that know their time is gone,
dancing movement all serene.

Clouds that permanent fixtures be,
this August day surrounding me.
Air that passes.
Wind can it be~ touches my face sweet Ulalee...

Sky which is the same,
the place created over again,
years ago-lands apart.

Corn tassels seem to wave to me, as if a cheerful melody.
This ground below soon shall sleep.
White blanket peace, nothing but white blanket peace.

Nothing seen, nothing heard.
Nothing seen but the doe's tracks finding lost herd.

Quiet, quiet, quiet...and then,
the colors burst forth, it's Autumn again.
The wilderness lives a life anew,
awaits for the pleasures long past due.

Beautiful splendor seen before mine eyes,
the window of darkness between thee and me...

The wheat which he braided.
Pansy she smiles.

A lily from which valley am I?
Delicate bells such sweet fragrance, fragrance it has...

Care for such splendor in life which were left.
Nature we must protect.

Take not for granted this green shadow below,
for it's the hickory's limbs which have made it so.




Published

Now this poem is one of my favorites.
As a child my father woke me at midnight
very excited by the aspects of seeing this owl.

The farmer who was a friend of my father's called him around midnight to come and see this awesome snow owl that was in his barn.

We dressed for the occasion and went to see this owl.

I remember it was very cold, snow on the ground, our footsteps crunching with every step we took.


P32 BEAUTY OF FLIGHT

Thee ominous cry from far away.

Waiting quietly.
Watching, watching silently,
anxiously awaiting his prey.

As he speaks through his eyes not a sound does he make.

Which omen will he forecast?
Flight without meaning, future without time.
Standing boldly as his eyes look into mine.

His eyes unforgettable, his body like snow.
Fear not his presence in awe.

Take off and flight, soars, floats with ease.
As he captures the field mouse,
feet never touching the ground

Back to his home with prey he does roam.
Once that, I've seen thee.
But once a memory does make.

For seeing such beauty of flight
does the snow owl take...




I wrote this poem while sitting on a tree stump one fall afternoon. I wrote many of my poems there. I found the woods to be a very peaceful and serene atmosphere for my writing. No one there. Silence. Silence can be golden at times.
I could listen to the trees, a few wild animals and the wind passing by.

P33 OUTDOOR DELIGHT

My worries and woe's disappear, silent footsteps that I hear.
Bluebird sings his song of morning cheer.
Leaves that smell of wet dew.
These sounds I long to listen to.

The energetic squirrels that scurry to and fro,
the gentleness of baby fawn and mother doe.

Sitting upon a hickory stump,
I find multiplied toadstools everywhere.

Soon here will be vibrant life again.
The breeze of wind will blow,
new grass and wildflowers shall grow.

It is peaceful and serene.

A twig snaps, jackrabbit does his little dance.
Seasonal ducks surround the pond.
Echoing code of the woodpecker.

It's my place of solitude,
when I'm in a solitaire mood...




This is just a silly little diddy...
Reflective of my Irish side.

P34 'TIS IRISH IN ME

Thank God for the Irish in me,
Oh, Thank God for the Irish in me.

For if I had no Irish,
I'd have no sense of humor in reality~
So, Thank God for the Irish in me...

Daddy had too much German,
Mamma one-forth French
"Say, Levee' Lemur Wewe"...

So, Thank God for the Irish you see...





This poem was dedicated to my cousins, Aaron and Adam. Each one different and unique. And how I remembered them as children when they came to visit.

P35 BROTHER'S
(for Aaron & Adam)

I the blue-eyed blonde, you the dark eyes and curls.
That old fire truck we share.
My hand-me-downs that you wear.

I've cut my elbow, you've scraped you knee.
You like baseball, I play the flute.
I live in blue jeans. You, it's strictly a tie and suit.

But, we are brother's.
Yes, two of a kind. This we can't deny.

We fight, we fuss, cuss and discuss.
That same evening become friends again.

Brothers...you and I.





I once lived not far from a train track.
I'd listen to the sounds and the horn coming from the train during a cold winters night.

To me it was a lonesome eary sound.

P36 REMEMBRANCE OF CHEER

As the horn blew from that ole' choo-choo, a warning given,
"beware, beware take caution."

A "hello", of just passing through.
Clickity clack, clickity clack of the winding cold track.

No steam like long ago, from the coal smoke stack.

Past remembrance of our ride to the relatives
as holiday cheer rings.

Thoughts of the present,
dreams for the future and
peace on earth, always.

The engineer's familiar wave good-bye.
This train that blows a lonesome cry...





This poems is a tricky one.
It has a lot of riddles and you just have to read between the lines somewhat...lol.

It's written primarily about me.
I'm just making the statement that I hope when I'm gone, that people will remember me in a kind way.

And remember the things that I loved
and held dear to my heart.

P37 THOUGHTS OF A MELODY

'Twas once a merry, child remembering tune.
Notes and music, rhythmic with intrigue and spellbound dance.

Listen for the stories, truth's, myth's and lies.

Remember the beauty of creatures great and small,
for her song that loved them all.

Her treasures all but a few, held close by her heart.
The seasons, sunsets and warm summer nights.

Not wishes of grandeur, or dreams of a king.
But simple wildflower moments
were her gifts of life's finer things.

A pearl from the ocean, a smile from a friend.

Notes of perfection in a song not yet written.
The song which began that of whimsical joy.
...Unending peace~

Notes put to paper, carefully planned.
That which came only from The Great Master's hand...




Before writing this poem, I was thinking about all the waste in our country and others who do without. The have and the have-nots.

And what I different world it would be if we all had a peaceful co-habitation and existence. If all had enough.
And all were at peace.

P38 KNOWLEDGE UNKNOWN

Not teas from the orient, Havana cigars,
full length minks, or fanciful cars.
Gems of Africa, silver bangles from India.

Love given freely straight from the heart.
Not measured, borrowed or bought.

Freedom that rings a universal song.
Greed, power, violence...and
self-destruction all things of the past.

Civilized peace between nations...at last!

Children the teaches of equality, who set the examples
for which their elders failed to have learned...



P39 ENDLESS HOURS

Live for each moment, cherish the day.

Love with a heart that is open.
A mind which is understanding and shoulders that are broad.

Carry the load that, which is given to you.

...For days you can't repeat.

Hours are endless and years...
unforgettable...



P40 THE CELEBRATED BIRTH

To enhance the fragrance of frankincense and myrrh,
Glory to God...Peace on Earth.

The Savior sent from heaven above.
Bringing happiness, joy and love.

Hear the angels voices;
"Oh, Night Divine"
"Oh, Silent Night, Holy Night"
...the star with gave the wise men light...

Celebrate this baby's birth...

Christchild sent for yea' poor sinners on Earth...





I wrote this poem after viewing a wonderful Canadian photograph that my cousin had taken and sent to me.
What a wonderful gift!


P41 CANADIAN MOUNTED SKIES

Angered omen skies above me.
A young sailor's delight, once his dream.
...Dreams of adventure unknown voyages.

Danger lurking,or riches of a uncovered kingdom.

Endless ocean.

"Yo, land ho... and a bottle of rum..."

A symphony of color splashes this canvas.
Canvas stretched tightly which has no end.

No other places, place you see hold such beauty
as this Canadian sky for me...



P42 GANG'S ALL HERE

First as Mr. & Mrs., that was you and me...
Then we'll have a baby we can bounce upon our knee.

As the years go the children they grow,
in numbers, sizes and personalities.
We'll have to find a bigger home for room it can't be found.

One's ready for reading,
writing-off to school with you.
Next one's into percussion on mom's pot's and pans...

Oh, here's one still in diapers,
while another one barely three.
"What about this unfamiliar face?"
"No. He belongs some other place."

"Oh, my", says Mrs. to Mr., "
What's a poor Mrs. to do?"
Numbers have increased to seven,
I think we are about through...

"Oh, no...don't tell me, the Mr. crossed his eyes again at you..."

So, number eight we will L O V E just as number one.

One seems to have sniffles. Next one sneezes some...
Don't tell me, two with the mumps.
Now three with measles, and baby flushed by fever.

Now, they are grown, some with children of their own.
Mr. & Mrs. smile and cheer.
"Guess we can eat",
now that the Gang's all here...



P43 SWEET VALENTINE

I received a heart shaped envelope
from the new boy across the room.

As I opened it carefully the passage which read:
"BE MINE FUNNY VALENTINE"
With a comical clown dressed in pink-striped pajama's.
His shoes were red.

A heart larger than life,
which he balanced upon his balding head.

I still to this day have that same funny clown
which still carries that large heart of his around.

It was placed in a box full of memories and treasures
from years of our past...

For you see that clown of yesterday
has become my "SWEET VALENTINE"
... long at last.




Published

This poem was written while thinking about a wilderness walk, all the sights, smells and wonders of a wilderness day and what treasures you might find.

P44 WILDERNESS DAY

Her Diamonds;
the dew drops that blanket the land.

Her Ruby's;
were fruit berries placed inn a straw basket.

Her Emerald's;
new June peas, gathered in her muslin starched apron.
She shelled them by hand.

Her Pearls;
Lily of the Valley,
which she wore next to her auburn hair.

Her Music;
assembled by the cry of bobwhite,
woodpecker and flight of the bee.

Her Perfume;
surrounded her with lilac, apple blossom, sweet clover in April.
Jasmine and lavender scent in May.

All her jewels and treasures;
found from a sunrised
...wilderness day.




Published
Spring/Summer Issue 1990
Connecticut River Review
7 Shawnee Court
Cromwell, CT 06416

This poem was written while thinking about one of my all time favorite movies,
"Gone With The Wind" and Miss Scarlet O'Hara.

P45 ORANGE BLOSSOM COVE

The dogwood's in bloom.
Sweet Georgia sunshine warms my face.

The fields are full of cotton.
Atlanta's my kind of place.

I needn't look further.
Lemon-aide,
cool cherry tree shade,
the red clay skies...

...And that smell,
that wonderful smell
of Orange Blossom Cove.



P46 FAMILY TREE

We have a dog and a cat,
sister's we have three.
Grandpa, Great Grandma...
Mom, Dad, baby brother Billy and me.

A cousin Fred and his twin sons Bob and Ned.

Great, great Uncle Charlie, from the Old Country.

Now, let's see~
Don't forget our Irish Aunt, Sweet Bea.

Now we've completed this family tree.



I wrote this poem upon the request of my sister inlaw. She was making bears from discarded old quilts she had purchased,
and wanted to sell them.

She asked me if I would write a poem to
go along with her bears.

It's also dedicated to my niece Amy.


P47 QUILTED COMFORT
(for Amy)

Cuddly comfort from childhood days.
Mom's homemade chicken noodle soup.

My favorite faded, washed out old jeans.

Rainbow cast through my window
from the raindrops of blue Monday.

Friend on this lonesome afternoon,
tells me I'll be feeling better soon.

Quilted ear held between my fingers.

Mr. Ted E. Bear gives me cuddly comforts~
Pleasant reminders of my childhood ways.



P48 HELD TIGHTLY DEAR

Oh, hold me tight my darling,
but not too tightly my dear.

Please leave the candle lit' softly
for it's my old outward features
you look upon, that I fear.

What mark has time delivered to us~
Our silver hair well earned.

So, hold me closely darling as we pray,
for another day spent together...

I'm a young 87, you a ripe 92.
With our teeth close by soaking,
we wonder and ponder what to do.

Hold me near in your thoughts until we awake.
For tomorrow is forever and ever till, the end.




Published
June 1990
World of Poetry Anthology
Rank: Honorable Mention Award
Golden Poet Award 1990

When I wrote this poem I was actually remembering two different memories.

One when my sister inlaw took me to see a refurbished old train depot that had been converted into a beautiful home.

While the other memory was about our English friend Mrs. Websdale, who's son fought in WWII with my father. She wrote my mother letters and would enclose small lavender sachet samples. She wrote to my mother many years after the war ended.

P49 OLD LADY NOSTALGIA
(memories of Mrs. Websdale our friend from England)

Scented nostalgia fills the air.
Boards and beams combine as one, as true as our lives and love...

Clapboard floors that creek and crack,
or was that our voice intertwined with latest discussion.

Loft above that drapes a priceless quilt,
that has timeless memories, one story one scrap.

One story passes down from baby's first bedding,
perhaps an old Amish wedding.
This lace scrap from the bride's ivory gown.

These walls show the knot holes, the age of the tree.
Slate'n cobble stone walks beneath me.

Shutters from my kitchen open.
Open as the sweet lavender passes.

"Blow out that candle. Tomorrow we pray for rain"...
As the little girl in me thinks of cedar line-filled treasures
and the old lady from England,
who sent her lavender scented nostalgia.


This poem could be about anyone's family or a loved one, and the heartache that one would feel when all their belongings and memories are sold away during an auction to strangers.


P50 WORN PIECES

Yes, they're selling my life away today.
Yes, my life..

Most of the people here I see
are buyers, auctioneers and strangers to me.

They hold, sit and look upon. Some smile, some nod.
Some sound surprised with ooh's and aah's,
of a buyers paradise.

Maybe the deal of a lifetime.
But most don't realize this is my lifetime on display!

As the auctioneer's announced shout,
"SOLD!"
As the buyers choice to the highest bidder,
went my china fruit bowl.

"SOLD!"
Between two-competitors,
went my Mother's cookie jar.

"SOLD, Sold!"
Went my Grandmother's Irish lace and linens.

My throat and heart began to ache as the next
"SOLD!" my Father's railroad watch,
scratched crystal cracked and worn.

Worn too, are the memories
that soon will become new values too.

Priceless...
As pieces of my life were sold today...






This poem is just my whimsical version of what a conversation between two birds might sound like.

P51 FIRST SIGN OF SPRING

On this wet and windy March day,
I see a traveler pass by my way...

I ask if she would welcome shelter here,
as she answered with delight,
"Oh, yes my dear."

Her voice was heard two week ago.
Her song of spring, first sign you know.

She sat for tea, then sang for me. Much to my surprise.

I told her how my winter had been long,
then I'd listen to another song.

"I really hate to see you go,"
said I to the red breasted Mrs. Robin.

"Your tea and shelter gave me comfort
on such a dismal day."
"The pleasure was mine," I said.

I ask her to stop by again.
A nod in response as she flew away...



P52 FRUSTRATION ON COMMUNICATION

Misunderstood interpretations, lacking in communication.
Equals in continual frustration...

Emotions blazed, blood pressure raised.

Boardroom or back-alley brawl.
Problems, personal conflicts,
feelings within these complex walls.

The politicians that assume worries,
long to consume control.

Worldwide peace.

...The same men that go home to bicker
and fuss with their beloved wives,
just as you and I.


Published

 This poem was written in memory of a relative we use to visit in Fort Recovery, Ohio. Grandma Sarah Oberlander.

We had many wonderful Sunday dinner's at her home. It was just a great place for friends and family to gather.

Her home was like a museum to me.
So many wonderful things to see and experience.

She had an old bath tub with claw feet.
As a child you could get lost in that tub.

She had a glass enclosed bookcase where she kept her old family photographs. As I kid I always wondered who those people were.

My favorite thing of all was to lay on her daybed that she had tucked away in the corner of her big front porch. I'd pretend to be asleep, while the relatives were all gabbing away as their rocking chairs were squeaking.

It was truely a magical place for a kid.


P53 WEST WINDSOR PLACE
(memories of Grandma Sarah Oberlander's place)

My eyes pierce through Aunt Millie's chantilly lace curtains.
While the chilled drops of April rain
slide slowly down the parlor window.

Reminds me of a hundred tears, maybe angels
...maybe angels tears.

As I gaze at the ancient apple tree limbs of great entanglement,
will soon again breathe the joy of life.

Just as for me when Spring begins to breathe,
as it unfolds a new leaf of life.

I've had many pleasant childhood memories
in this old whitewashed buckeye house.

The intertwined voices and laughter of family and friends.
Willow and wicker rocking chairs harmonize as well.

Lying upon this feather daybed I hear these wonderful
sounds that will last a lifetime...

It's always fall here, for that's my favorite time of the year.
I hear sugar maple leaves russell with the wind below.
The Sunday church bells chime a familiar hymn I know.

Oh, what an enchanting never-ending place.
Here at 540, West Windsor Place...



P54 SPECIAL SOMETHING

I'm sitting very quietly upon this hickory stump.
I need a little special something to start my day off grand...

It's not as though I don't appreciate this lush
emerald carpet that you revitalize each year and place on top the land.

But I need a little special something to start my day off grand.

Oh, not that I don't enjoy and welcome, the cheerful songfest
this morning from the sparrow, bobwhite, woodpecker and chickadee.

But I need a little special something extra this morning~
to help me make it through the day you see.

Thank you, Lord.
I haven't seen one like that in years.
It was brilliantly beautiful to see,
that scarlet red cardinal that circled 'round me.
I needed that little special something...today.




P55 LADY OF SOUTH SHERWOOD


Travels concrete streets alone.
Often passes by South Sherwood, which once had been her home.

Lives by a different creed.
Begs, borrows, bribes and tries to forget.
But would like to remember what the good 'ole days were like...again.

Feet tired, numb and swollen from walking, walking...
...Walking in circles of despair, lines of defeat.

A triangle of hopelessness. Wishes that are forgotten.
Dreams of a better tomorrow.

Lady of South Sherwood's past.



P56 MAMA'S COUNTRY COBBLER

Just as I had prepared to return back home,
with last piece of linen and lace camisole folded.
So has one more chapter in my book of life's revelations.

A return home to relive one more moment, one more minute,
that recalls a decade in my life...

The cut purple lilac on her cut glass candy dish,
displayed like a canvas still life painting,
atop this white maple night stand.

I shall miss this memory filled room.
It has always been a quite place, full of blue cotton-candy-skies.
A thoroughbreds dream. Clover-covered hills.
Kentucky blue grass just around the corner state.
Acres an acres of open space.

Something about this southern charmed place.

You could always smell something deliciously sinful.
The aroma coming up, up from down stairs.
Mama & Mrs. McFilmoore could, always ease my clumsy tomboy days.

Kitchen counter topped with haystacks,
raspberry roll logs and pecan pie,
...down south pecan pie.

I gaze at the hot from the oven, fresh peach cobbler.
"Baked for Sunday's get together", Mama would say.
At the same time trying to slap my dimpled hands.

Oh, so many memories here that I will miss but,
I shall take them all with me to remember, for good ole' time sake.



P57 I REMEMBER...IN NOVEMBER
(for Vinod)

I remember in November, the first time that I saw your face.
It was a kind and caring face.
The face that I wanted to keep seeing for the rest of my life...

You were custom-ordered to perfection, everything in the right dimension.

I remember in November,
what you wore, the things that you said.

I remember in January,
what you wore, the things that you said.

For I remember,
I fell head over heals in love with you.

I also remember the champagne and strawberries.
The moonlight, sunset, ocean breeze..the palm trees.

Where we first met. Hawk's flight, starlight.
...Still have meaning to me.

...And I remember through it all
~I am still in love with you.




P58 MEMORIAL DAY MEMORIES

We take our trip past the Antiville turn pike.
Down through the once named, Buffalo Trail.

We take our bouquets now made of plastic and styrofoam.
Maybe leave them for a day or two.

We take our memories from our hearts, our tears into our hands...
As we pray, pay our respects.
In remembrance of our loved ones,
we have lost---but love.

This Memorial Day remembered.




I wrote this poem in memory of the trip my father took our family on to Michigan, to visit with friends and relatives.

We went for an afternoon ride on an old steam paddle boat. They had a live band on board.
They played German polka's and my father danced with me.

These are fond memories.

P59 TO BOB'ALO BAY
(for Father)

As the band began to play another Polka upon request,
on the old steam paddle boat that day...

Oh, their playing Papa's German Polka
...MMMmmpapa, WWWwhhommpapah
Off to the wooden dance floor we flew.
My tiny hand in his callused palm.
My heart pounding with excitement.
As hard as Papa's two left feet upon the old oak floor.

My feet barely touched the floor.
...One, two, three...and a one-two-three-four...
The only couple on display.
Minutes turned to hours, still we danced that afternoon away.

Papa's German Polka...
Our special dance to Bob'Alo Bay...





This poem is dedicated to a very dear friend of mine,
who was taken way too soon.

She dedicated her life to so many others. And made their lives and each moment special.

We had many wonderful times together and memories that I'll always treasure.

Miss you Connie!
P60 PLACES IN MY HEART
FUTURE MEMORIES MADE,
(for Connie June 7, 1995)

Places in my heart are filled---
with weathered black and white photo's of carefree childhood days.
The older I get the more it seems I remember,
almost as if flashbacks of yesterdays...left but never forgotten.

Places in my heart filled---
with joys from our shared laughter...of which we've had many.

Places in my heart filled---
as though dusty old boxes I found from Grandma's attic...
lid which has been placed tightly, almost too excited to open.
Filled to are the empty boxes of my life which you have filled with yours.

One has the smell of new Autumn. The shiny bronze box, this one.
Filled with our annual bittersweet collection.

Another, the smell of cloves, bayberry and gingerbread.
That wine colored box, with chantilly lace trim.
This one has our Christmas mistletoe memories and aged,
"Happy New Year" banner enclosed.

This next box, the oval wooden Shaker box, over there in the corner.
Inside it, a copper kettle, a flint stone, muslin apron and calico bonnet.
This box represents our pioneer, "Days Gone By."

This last empty clear crystal box, which lid has yet to be placed,
this one shall contain our future memories ...yet to be made.
...this last one I saved for you.

Home |Table Of Contents | Volume I | Volume II | Volume III | Volume IV

Original poetry and short stories by M. Melody Tuli
All publications and rights reserved to poet.
*(A = Awards), *(P = Published)

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