his clothing soaked with sweat.
She wonders if his leg still hurts,
or if he’s eaten yet.
Or how his trip was; has the
price of diesel fuel gone up?
And hopes he wasn’t fined again
for an over-loaded truck.
In the car beside her after
all his work is done,
a voice she hears not often asks,
“How you doin’, hon?”
They speak of trivialities until
he goes to shower.
She goes to fix him coffee
and find the milk’s gone sour.
In bed they hold each other close;
no passion spoken of.
He much too quickly falls asleep,
too tired to make love.
At 4:00am he’s off again.
she’ll see him in a week.
This time he’s off to Illinois
for a trailer load of meat.
To see him just a few short hours
is not an easy life.
But that’s the way it usually is
when you’re a trucker’s wife.
Those Oldies but Goodies
I love to hear the old songs played.
My radio’s a-blare
with Connie Stevens, Brenda Lee,
The Happenings, and Cher.
Those golden oldies take me back
to moments in my past;
a kiss, a quarrel, a school girl’s crush
too young for it to last.
For every tune I like the best,
occasions spring to mind.
Silly little things and yet
I remember them as time,
is bridged when I can sometimes
turn my little radio dial,
and those melodic strains may bring
a tear and yes, a smile.
Winter Storm
A dove-gray sky backdrops the
white laced fragile flakes of snow.
The wind which travels from the north
with strength begins to blow.
The naked trees pay homage to
the approaching winter storm;
forced to bend their frozen limbs,
like age-ed men who mourn.
The wind moans on throughout the night;
a haunted lonely sound.
As if to seek some shelter,
on doors and windows pound.
Like a fear crazed animal,
it rushes down the street.
In its wake the air is filled
with whirling snow and sleet.
By morning all is quiet.
The winter storm is gone;
leaving behind a virgin white,
on a world of peace and calm.
Night
The night holds many secrets,
few people ever see.
We sleep the long black hours
and elude its majesty.
We do not see the stars that blaze,
Like diamonds in the dark.
Or chance to see one falling,
The moon, a giant ghostly orb;
a silent world in flight.
Across the skies through
passing hours,
beaming forth pale light.
The throbbing voice of crickets
and the glow of fire flies,
should prove to us night
is not death,
but very much alive!
Awaken from your sleep some night
and stand for just while.
Look Heaven’s glory in the face,
and give the Lord a smile.
Please Talk To Me
You sit in silence I must beware,
of all within that’s growing there.
Your mood is still, the minutes long.
In fear I ask, “Did I do wrong,
or speak of things that made you see
my human ‘error; that side of me?”
If it is me and what I said,
then tell me what it was, I beg!
What ‘ere it is that’s made you so,
please tell me, I would like to know.
Or maybe you feel sad today,
and want the world to go away.
I wish not your quiet to intrude
and leave you in your troubled mood.
Home
Amidst the stack of paperwork that sits upon my desk,
it may seem insufficient but I do my level best
to find some ‘semblance of order and keep it filed away.
Only to find that twice as much is on my desk next day!
And yet when it gets to me, my mind begins to roam,
and I find that I am once again Virginia bound, my home.
Several hundred miles away, back twenty years and more,
the Blue Ridge Mountains rise again beyond my old back door.
In its shadows I again feel peace and solitude.
In my mind home’s still the same; I won’t let time intrude.
I walk again the country roads and smell the air so sweet.
The summer dust is soft and hot beneath my own bare feet.
Upon the hill the church still stands, unchanged as I recall.
And I can still hear ‘Rock of Ages’ sung within its hall.
The church yard carries in its breast loved ones I held so dear.
And yet their smiles and laughter have not faded through the years.
A summer breeze plays through the trees and tangles up my hair.
I see a little blue eyed girl chasing dreams and air…
The present catches up with me but I am more relaxed.
My mind can still remember well a more quiet, simpler past.
When again I yearn for home and it seems so far away,
It’s nice to know that in my thoughts, I can still return each day.
Flowers
The room is bright and cheerful.
The new mother spends her hours,
addressing all her ‘Thank You’ notes
for all the lovely flowers,
that she received when she had Johnny
only fourteen days ago.
And though they died within three days,
oh, how she loved them so.
At convocations, graduations Johnny would observe,
the flowers by the podiums and thought
they were absurd!
All through his life, to mother, wife, the
flowers that he gave,
foreshadowed Johnny’s future
for they rested on his grave.
Now Johnny’s wife in dreary room
whiles away her hours,
addressing all her ‘Thank You’ notes
for all the lovely flowers.
(a Song)
Your love for me has faded on the winds of space and time.
Those tender words you’d spoken and the letters that were mine,
are but fragments of sweet memories to ease a broken heart.
The fault was mine, you changed your mind
and now we are apart.
* * *
But as the years drift by my window and we go our separate ways,
I won’t forget the love you showed me;
lessons from my younger days.
* * *
The brigh
tly burning flame of love is slowly dying down.
You were the first; the pain was worse in loving you I found.
I was just a child untouched by life until you came along.
And now the fear of how to love and live are finally gone.
* * *
But as the years drift by my window and we go our separate ways,
I won’t forget the love you showed me;
lessons from my younger days.
Pray for the Children
(written following the death of Adam Walsh in August 1981)
Pray for the children who
cry in the night;
torn from their families,
away from love’s light.
Who’s bodies are broken then
hidden away.
Forever made silent, their
laughter so gay.
Except in the hearts of those
lost in grief.
Where kind words or time cannot
offer relief.
But more shattering than children
screaming in fear,
are no sounds at all from
people who hear!
Who see with their eyes but
turn mutely aside.
Does apathy rule because
caring has died?
We may not have snuffed out a life
with our hands,
but the price of our silence
Is an eternity damned.
Old Age
Once you though you owned the world.
It’s wealth and dreams were yours.
Your strong and youthful bodies fought
“The war to end all wars.”
Your clear eyes saw the changes
from horse to airplane flight.
You tried new things in every field
to bring mankind more light.
You beared through great depression;
fought ignorance with rage,
and helped in your own way to
bring today’s atomic age.
But now you sit and reminisce
upon your rocking chair.
You watch the latest cars go by
and jets fly through the air.
Yet you shall pass from sightless eyes
and vanish into dust,
as we reap the fruits you labored o’r
and heard no praise from us.
A Memorial Day Remembered
“Lest we Forget”
In the late 1950’s my family lived in the town of Raymond, NH; a little country village about 30 miles outside of Manchester. It was a typical New England town; population at that time, less than 3,000. It boasted a two truck fire station just across from the little park with a statue of a revered WWI hero, and a small library next to the fire station. The town had its share of churches; Congregational, Catholic, and Methodist to name just a few. In 1958, the entire senior class of Raymond High School had their individual pictures displayed in the drug store window. It wasn’t a large class.
On Memorial Day that year, the town’s prominent members along with the Veterans of Foreign Wars, the Lions Club, The Rotary Club, Brownies, Girl Scouts, Boy Scouts, the Women’s Club, members of the Police Department (four in all), and the Fire Department gathered in formation behind the High School’s marching band complete with baton twirlers, I was a Brownie Scout, and along with the other little girls in their brown shirtwaist uniforms and brownie caps, took up behind our elders, the Girl Scouts in green. The band struck the first few notes of a familiar John Philip Sousa marching tune. We marched in place for a few seconds before following in step behind the band. I loved it! I was so proud to be a part of something so much bigger than I really fully understood at the time. The flags of all the Armed Forces waved in the warm spring breeze. Old Glory led the parade as we continued on toward the cemetery at the edge of town. The entire population came out for this event, either standing along Main Street as we passed by, or following along side from time to time. We marched to only three compositions as it seemed to be the only ones the band knew.
As we approached the gates of the cemetery, the music stopped. With only the beat of a single snare drum, we walked through the gates, into the field of stones. It was peaceful. The oaks and maples throughout the grounds spread their green canopies over graves of white marble, granite and slate. The stones bore the last names of many of the townspeople who stood there that day. I noticed a sea of small American flags placed at each grave of a veteran; veterans of the war between England and America, the Civil War, WWI, WWII and Korea. The earth was not yet scarred anew with Viet Nam. While taking all this in, the peacefulness was shattered by rifle fire. Three times their bullets split the air and I shook in fear of the noise they made. All stood silently. Time stood still for a moment as the leaves rustled softly overhead. And then a lone bugler played Taps. It echoed hauntingly over the graves of those we had come to honor; a loving tribute to the lives they lived and for many, who died in the service of their country. The parade and the service had ended.
Many years and miles have passed since I left Raymond. I sense that hallowed ground at the edge of town now cradles some friends I once knew, and has received sons and daughters fallen in Viet Nam, the Persian Gulf, Afghanistan, and Iraq. It is no different from any other cemetery across America, but it is where I remember my first Memorial Day. I believe I will recall it my last Memorial Day.
Reflections
Souls
Scattered bits and pieces;
fragments floating in the nowhere
trying hard to come together
in the elusiveness of now.
Need
Reach out and touch me if you can.
Reach out and touch me now.
Oh God, must I die needlessly
Because you don’t know how?
Defeat
I paused awhile and then I knocked,
but turned away.
The door was locked.
The Laundromat
Doing daily washing
on a weekday afternoon,
are a group of weary ladies in a
crowded laundry room.
It’s cold and rainy outside so
their children have to run,
around their busy mothers who
frown upon their fun.
The little ones don’t seem to mind the
lunch still on their clothes.
And there’s hardly one among them
without a runny nose.
The mothers downed in ragged shirts
resemble refugees.
Thank God they’re not allergic to
Clorox, Tide or Breeze!
After what seems like forever
in the only laundromat,
all is dried and folded;
the clothes and children sacked.
Through the drizzling rain these
wives while making their way home,
are dreaming of the day when
they’ll have washers of their own.
The Soldier
(a song)
“Mommy can you fix my helmet,
and the trigger on my gun?
I’m going outside to play soldier.
can you watch my bubblegum?”
His mother looked out of the window,
and watched her son play war.
“What a sweet thing he is” she was thinking,
and returned to her dishes once more.
And a child will grow playing games of old.
He knows not the grief or strife
of the plastic toys for the
little boys
go to make the games of life.
The years, they went by and he grew up,
and he’s left his childhood ways.
He’s forgotten the joys of his boyhood.
Just the helmet and gun he saves.
His mother one day at her door step,
saw two men from the Infantry.
“We are terribly sorry to tell you,
he was killed by the enemy.”
On the ground he fell. Bits of mortar shell
laid him on the earth to stay.
In his hands the toy, like the little boy,
only now he did not play.
*******
Only now, he did not play.
At Concord Bridge
The slate grey sky of January’s waning afternoon emits a silent soft white snow as I walk the pathway leading to the river. The summer tourists are long since gone, and I am alone before the monument and the crude wooden bridge. Its dark timbers are glazed with ice and slowly being consumed, as well as the world around it in pale silence. The farmer by his plow, immortalized in stone, appears like a ghostly apparition beyond the rustic archway; motionless, enduring time, keeping watch.
I shiver a little with the cold and shove my hands deeper into my pockets. I close my eyes. Suddenly my ears detect a distant sound, a rhythm.. coming closer. Footsteps? Yes! Feet marching, coming nearer and nearer. There are other sounds too. Voices filled with intense urgency, protest and anger coming closer.. louder. Footsteps and voices move together in a sea of madness and chaos. There is a shot! Its sharp crack leaves a ringing in my ears and echoes endlessly across the farm lands beyond.