Friday, June 20, 2008

I remember hoping I'd live long enough to see my children all grown up.

As I looked at this picture of me with 3 of my grandchildren, and one great grandson, I realized my 'dream' had more than come true.
I have two blogs of poetry; this one speaks about things that I think about; wonder about, and sometimes cry about. Most are based on 'real life' events.
If I start writing again, I'll make a link to that site, because I think this page offers plenty (maybe too much) to absorb and read at a sitting. I welcome you, and hope you enjoy the music that starts with a more current-day/modern collection of artists, and I've saved the heavy-duty classical stuff for the last. There is a total of about 8 hours, so you can read; don't read - walk away, but turn the volume up, and you won't get any commercial-interruptions; no static, and you won't have to dig through your CD file. Just think of it as a 'radio station', and each song was lovingly picked 'just for you'. Diane

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

How I love my old refrigerator; don't know how to title this one right now...May 20, 2008



Oh how I love those magnets
and my refrigerator too
I can cover all those scratches
and this is what I do
I plop up the photos
that make me smile each day
I enjoy filling that cold-chest
and putting those carrots away
I slam the top; the bottom as well
I fill it up - and the photos tell
the story of my life and deeds
I've even tacked up a packet of seeds
those 'peel-off' stickies; the magnet
is my buddy
But photos gather dust and grease
and photos wind up 'cruddy'
Still, I love them - I don't see
the dirt
I see my joy
and forget any hurt.

Hey, that wasn't so bad - gotter done!
Now, I need a title....

I wrote this May 14, 1994 - TRASH-CANS APPEAL TO ME

I was surprised to hear my trash-cans talking
..collected by the patio..
I listened to their story
they were playing 'one-up-manship'
discussing their lives and glory
The saddest-looking one; no top - rusted
dented and dirty
was now retired to holding cat-box litter
discarded wood; broken glass
and nails
and he signed as he said:
"I'm not pretty...."
One - still with a top; a big dent that
made it bulge
he claimed he had a herniated disk
and he started to divulge
his secrets; the many mysteries
..then he spoke to the rest of the
group
He complained about that newest member
colored so bright - a square
'container'
who was now the President
(and on retainer)
like some attornies - yes, the 'new boss'
This new model we'd added
...the 'cleaner trash', in it
we'd toss...
"Tidy trash" - tidy trash is clean paper or styrofoam
or we might desginate it to hold
earthquake items; food & flashlights
..keep it dry and sealed..
it would never be filled with mold!
Another can complained most bitterly
about their desginated task
when the smallest of them all interrupted and said:
"Can I ask..."
"Ask what..." the quartet demanded - irritated in their tone...
"Well I just wanted to tell you a miracle
given to me as I stood so alone..."
"Late, one night, I only had papers and pop-corn packing..
I felt so empty - so unfufilled; somehow I was lacking..."
"Then I heard foot-steps; a baby's cry
my top lifted up by a lady
then I heard her sigh..."
"Inside me she placed a new-born child
..covered the top, and I went wild!"
With glee - a new baby for me
I was a nest
for a child to rest
it didn't seem like the place for a babe
but I remember that Bible that was tossed away
and it talked about a
special son
who was born and placed in a tiny straw bed
after his life
had begun
So I held this one - like I was its womb
never realizing it might become
its tomb
And then I heard foot-steps as they walked away
it was then, I realized this child
had been abandoned...
...so I started to pray.
The next day I was fortunate to remember
that the owner was tidy as tidy could be
it was also Wednesday - the day before trash-day
so I knew I could get this baby free!
Calmed by this, I settled down - and with all my might
I shook a little to make the papers
like a mattress
I made it ever so soft
and the baby rested quietly
that Wednesday night.
On Thursday morning, sure enough - as
the sun came up; another day and new light,
The lady of the house brought the daily trash;
lifted up the top, and saw the child
resting near that bit of ribbon
and discarded
sash.
The child's legs now wiggled - tiny hands started to wave
then a tremendous cry emerged...my, that baby
was brave!
I heard my owner gasp in surprise
she said: "What a wonderful gift I've found; this tiny bundle
...and what beautiful eyes!"
Well can you believe, by the time the day ended for me
I was on television - a regular
celebrity!
So many people helped and rejoiced
and later I heard this child has been
adopted
by choice
Now 2 loving people who had no child - not even one
they adopted this little munchkin
and now they have a son!
Just like that story about the son of God
they got a son from a trash-can
...little old me.. - sitting on the grass
thinking 'now he'll grow to be a man'...
Well wouldn't you know, my owner said I was the best trash-can she'd
ever had
and she rewarded me from that time on
by lining me carefully - those liners she calls
GLAD!
Once my mission was fulfilled - once I'd been deployed
I sat ever so strong - protecting my post
...never again was I annoyed
Well after the smallest can had impressed the entire group
they suddenly found a new-found pride
never again did they complain
about holding a pile of weeds and flowers - nope, they
simply rejoiced in storing
the things that
had died
They never said 'why me' - now they felt needed
they were vital; important
so each day they now greeted
they welcomed the visit
from that lady who showed up early
never again were they
angry or surly
And now I think about trash-cans and their mission
I look at all of them - they appeal to me
I realize they have a simple and special purpose
so I daily bring them 'presents'
and treat them very carefully...

I wrote this March 13, 1993 - 'FOR THE COMING SNOW'

Is there a star with many points
stuck to my weathered hat?
Upon my nose a few clustered, and I just
went trudging to find
my cat.
Following its foot-prints; light upon that silver fluff
The stars at midnight, sparkled over me
and the shadows of the moon trailed me
as I walked along the bluff
In the night I tripped over decaying trees
toppled - bent - some standing with the burden
of this late-night flurry
when a faint 'meow' from a distance sent
my footsteps - quickly did I hurry
for my furry friend
and if I must sum this up in a word
it was this little frail kitten of mine
found a few days earlier
it was this voice
I
HEARD!
My adopted friend had sneaked out 3 hours earlier
scampered quickly away
and I was packing up to leave; unable to pay the rent,
I had to move the very next day
I thought it absurd to cry - absurd, and I stopped - smiling
when I HEARD
I also saw in my mind's eye
my computer's cursor blinking - it idled after I ran outside - crying; oh my little friend...
why, oh why, oh why
and then I again, began to
cry....
As I race toward the sound, words start to flood my mind;
they all rhyme - such a strange time, and yet I
run - then walk - in the chill of that lonely night,
I'm now focused only
on that little kitten's plight
Why am I thinking about elephants - some type of tacky packy derm
and wonder if this is an elephant about which I'm supposed to speak
...no, it is the kitten - and now my legs are growing weak
This night - it's cold; chilling - damp
one would call it 'bleak'
Then I find my shivering, frightened cat
now I hold him against my cheek
Suddenly he purrs - we're back, and he's upon my lap
and I type quickly, this simple poem
I hold my half-frozen friend - typing; and he's quietly
waiting
'til the small pan in the kitchen
upon the stove
makes that small cup of milk
so perfectly
warm....

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

'ALL OF THIS......'





.......and without Miracle-Gro
no roto-tiller
- no bags of 12-12-12
no 'soaker-hose'
- no 'weed-killer'
.......missing from the cover
of HOUSE AND GARDEN
nothing to mow
and nothing to hoe.

Friday, April 4, 2008

I WROTE THIS FEBRUARY 19, 1996 - IN MEMORY OF THOSE WHO DIED IN THE OKLAHOMA CITY BOMBING...


'WILL IT BE OKAY'
In memory of those that perished in the Oklahoma City Bombing.
Diane Stirling-Stevens
The fences carry toys; notes
the memories - a simple token
of what reminds each of their sadness
hearts so broken
Offerings placed for this future museum appear
about the many people
who've shed a tragic tear
Those that grieve - and still believe
in love, life - renewed birth;
flowers - rabbits - nature's mirth
the wind that whispers; the
flower that smells so sweet
the early spring rain
the touch of a new baby's feet
the laughter of a child
the summer night
calm and mild
The autumn - twisting turning
blustering winds
the golden maple leaf
it sends
like a feather - floating
to the soil below
the seeds of cycle; of love
we all must now commit to sow
Reaping - weeping
this harvest yields
too often this militant voice
yet so few - these are the facts
but they too often
in vicious anger
wield these terrible and
tragic
acts
These actions that make the evening news
our confidence in human-kind
..often, they sorely bruise
Does it matter of their fame and glory?
Did they think it would make
a 'news-worthy' story?
Did it matter on that April day
when in Oklahoma the blast
took any and all away?
Yet we must remember
Hiroshima - Nagasaki
to the millions of deaths
in some Nazi camp...
the tears shed on each dying loved one
are still wrenched from deep heart sorrow
and are still
just as wretchedly
wet
cold
and damp!

Thursday, April 3, 2008

FOR MY DAD: 'VERN, THE FULL-BIRD MEMO' - DAD DIED MAY 26, 1993

Subject of memo: AS WE SALUTE THE GENERAL MEMOS,
LETTERS & FAXES...


By: Vern - THE
FULL-BIRD AUTHOR OF MEMOS


My little cat
so quiet in the house
suddenly 'click'
and the magic mouse
rousted up the General Memos, Letters and
Faxes...
other documents entered format
who was one step above the 'ruler'
and had more authority
than the
cat!
I saw the font read 'normal'
but then I could choose 'times' - or
'new Roman' (they had given up)
Now centered and leaning to the right
was the italic
(the ever-noisy new-born pup)
Off went the Christmas lights
they'd been on all through the night
dangling from the umbrella
tiny snowmen in
plain sight...
Red feet in the breeze
flexing from ribbons so very red
I heard the cat - the mistress of this house
'sneeze'
Then a chipping; clipping - snipping
chirp
a humming bird had started to burp
from the sweetened sugar - a wise disguise
flitting - not noticing
that
silent bird
of Paradise
It ignored the Bluebird of Happiness - a critter
quite elusive
and the Sweet Bird of Youth
(something that is conducive)
Sweet Bird of Youth
my father never knew
with pen in his hand
he wrote of things so true
Scraps of paper by his side
The Old Crow of bourbon - his lover; then
his bride
The Old Crow was always dad's
life-long friend
with his quivering hand he'd labor
until both their lives would end
Things kept dad thinking
ever awake and blinking
like those modern
Christmas lights
He poured out his heart and his liquor
as he wrote of bugs
and blights
So many a night - a precious rhyme and then
...scratching his head in frustration,
he'd try to start
again
Dad never was a 'General Memo' - but he did
letters and filed his taxes
Dad wasn't rich at all
no computer; modem...
never 'faxes'....
Dad didn't have a keyboard and mouse
he didn't use ten fingers
to do his typing
Dad used his fountain pen...
..it leaked, and took a lot of
wiping
No, this Old Crow had nothing soft
not even his favorite chair
Life was hard for papa
and most of it was never fair
Mom - a maiden
laden
burdened
with hunger; responsibility
and poverty
Not only was this my mom & dad;
it was my entire
family!
Sitting back among the trees
was our tiny farm
dad worked so hard
then one day
an arm
blown away by his own gun
now his 'speaking hand'
was paralyzed; frozen
as it laid
idly in that
summer sun
The Old Crow never again did land
because it stood constantly staring
by dad's right hand
Staring - grumbling - now the gray is
covering my dad's aging head
Cancer joined the Crow
and now my dad is
dead
Dad, you left your imprint
like Hansel and Gretel, I've found
those crumbs of bread; I feed
them to my wireless mouse
and this is what they've said...
The mouse did click - General Memo led the way
I found it quite so easy
to write this poem
today
Now the times are new
and a stylish Roman font
set up this form and let me 'say'
...it moved about because my clicking rodent
was working right (finally) this
August summer day...
I found the 'center' - set this style for me
and the Noisy Bird of Happiness
will forever set us
free!
And I promise, my dear father - I'll always relish
another breaking-day
I'll never indulge in 'Old Crow'
and throw my life away!
Dad, I'll make you the Phoenix bird
now that your ashes are in that tiny box
Like you dear father, I've done my share of battles
and graduated from that school they often call
'Hard Knocks'
But when someone knocks it will open
and when someone seeks
one will find
No doubt there will be some type of answer
that will pop into my mind
Thoughts for now - those things you asked me
so many years ago
"Why do you play the Moonlight Sonata so quiet
and so very slow?"
"Why do you race to catch that grounding ball?"
"Why do you climb to the roof-top; I don't want to see you fall!"
Dad, I'm glad I saw your pride as you stood proudly by your
jeep
Dad, I'm glad I was born 'Rambow' even if I had to
dress up like 'Bo-Peep'
In great grandma Grace's costume; I was only 6
I held my rod with confidence
..that fancy bow - the ram that
sticks...
I got to be that straight-A student
then later chosen Bible-School Queen
Only grandpa and mom came to this 'coronation'
you refused; you were drunk - this celebration
...it went (by you)
'unseen'
As did the concerts I played - certainly 3; even four
But dad, you stayed with
Old Crow
and lay drunk upon the floor
You drank your Ancient Age; Old Crow
and Seagrams 7 too
but you didn't live to that ripe old age
No lucky 7's did you
do
So now I've written again - I've talked to you
in this early morn'
Many times I've talked to you with my heart
since the day that I was born
But when I look at my tired eyes
'tearful and green' like yours were
I can not see the blue of skies
when crying creates such a blur
And now I see the humming bird - its always attracted to red
I hear you singing in your wooden box
but, dad - I'll make you rise up (again)
..the Phoenix-bird -from the dead
So, 'pop' - you are the General Memo, letters and faxes too
You are the words I spill on these pages
..I'm just the early-morning typist
who's telling (again) what you always
knew
Now that another document is finished
and it's ready to go to print
I see the tiny sparrow in the tree; it's
stolen another piece of
lint
Soon she'll go to her nest - make fluffy bedding
for tonight
And dad - thanks for helping me do the
'talking'
...in this poem - the truth, we both
did write!
Love, Diane

Wednesday, April 2, 2008

'CINCINNATI GHETTO' - JULY 4, 1976 - Diane Stirling-Stevens



I titled this "With Little Encouragement From the Wind"

(note: All poems on this 'blog', have been put under copyright April, 2002 - you're welcome to copy or print; I can always write another...Diane)

A rusty pole

...stuffed...

in an

amber beer bottle;

a ragged flag - 2 foot high

the

faded flag

the 'do or die'

50 yellowed stars - on this field of blue

in reality - it was in a nearby field

and what grew

were thistles; weeds - no freedom seeds

and the red; splotched, botched and patched

flag - hatched

from this listless tree

blowing not with any encouragement from a wind

so mighty and free

This ghetto; crumbling homes - struggling roses

buckhorn stalked the frail children

who played with twigs and sticks

as they dug for

lost coins - they loosened the concrete - looking for treasures

'in the mix'...

Yes, on

this 4th of July -

and I asked...'why'...

Frail; dirty - aged faces framed windows

with eyes scorched from poverty's touch

yet they proudly displayed this frail cloth

in a land they loved; that had

promised them much!

These tenements; owned by slum-lords (recently in the news)

as the headlines told how they were counting

their 'stocks and bonds'

(and their colors were in the chips of blues)

as they mingled their good-fortune

with the Governmet 'sound' which was

that of a

subsidy

paid for - not 'idle'

were

their yachts - they are the 'haves'

and they prosper off the

'have-nots'....

This slender thread of destitution; somewhere a line in our

Constitution - twisted round with the

knot and the 'have' knot

is tightly

'knotted'

in these ties, lies,

...it defies

the balance of what is not

natural,

but confusing and filled

with educated nomenclature

..be they words..

or pictures that

are painted;

oiled,

and foiled

framed - lame

as the pig-hocks that are 'boiled'...

My heart ached on that so-called 'Freedom Day'

and I dragged one foot as I went upon my way

a tiny blister I'd developed

from wearing my new and expensive shoes

I took them off - both, so I could truly feel what it is to

'abuse'

my feet on this broken pathway; with splintered glass

painfully aware of that lower-income

'mass'

Prayers; chanting - haunting me as I left

Yes, I would leave - but speak (now) with

words quite deft:

"It's long past due - yes, this tragedy must end;

...yet there's still no encouragement from the wind!"***

***as of July 4, 2007 - "The Song Remains The Same"

(Yes, that's the title of a Led Zeppelin song/album)

'WHEN I PLAY ALIEN' - written August 10, 1997 - Diane Stirling-Stevens


I saw the face on Mars
wondered about all the stars
I see four faces of
the human races
and wondered if they'd ben sent
sort of
'lent'
to this earth
and their birth
was a remnant of a face
we'd find in
space
Some land-mark on a planet
cast in concrete
eternal granite
Once burned in
nose and chin
traveling for years
some type of galatical
mirrors
of the basic four
the four doors - opening
and chose to land
on desert sand
recreating faces in eternity
seeking; finding - new
serenity!

This would result in
'inbred bigotry'
not because they do it
with concious choice
but because it's a
subconcious voice
So the sister planets who launched their travel
would easily find 'them'
and not have to unravel
why the faces had changed
by marriages and procreation
hap-hazardly
..now arranged'
resulting in new features of face
integrated by
mixing 'race'

Imagine that the retrieval spaceships
trying to bring the
'pure' race home
would have to determine as they
would
roam
..scanning; befuddled
faces muddled
Could not retrieve
not pertinent to
'believe'
or in 'faith'
to rely
merely by technology
the 'eye'
programmed to scan and pan
across this globe
this orb
must obey and return
to their beginning
not concerned with mistakes
or someone
'sinning'
No heaven or hell
not required to
pray or yell
So in the quiet of the night or dawn
this evolution and growth
new and continued
generations
..yes, they would
'spawn' and grow
preserve the lineage
no goal or pilfer
no need to pillage
merely a quiet
village
native - pure; refined, not 'divine'
With the need to recreate what they've learned
in the event their earlier planet burned
destroying all history
creating this 'big bang' mystery!
Allowing some type of economy
that required enslavement
paid with coin
but holding a
monopoly
Held by a few
grown wealthy
ignoring the weak
80% of society
truly unhealthy!
The device
by sacrifice
burdened to the slaves of experiment
torment
shack and tent
the abode of bricks
or sticks
dotting a garden
Eden forbidden
hidden - distorted - aborted
and only the chosen upon the ark
would be allowed to leave their mark
this tiring search and generations confused
commercialism - capitalizing
quality of life
so abused
data mis-used
I only wonder and speculate
What makes some love; others hate
I believe this universe is doing just fine
I believe that all that lives
is truly
divine
I can never live to see this white-haired God
I have to die - 6 feet under the sod
I can't reach from that grave
except by imparting
my thoughts; my notes
that I'm starting
and finishing as I type
and certainly with no goal
to hype
or stir emotion or notion
Just by devotion
to my brain - my fingers - I did train
as my mouth; these little letters
release me from ponder
freedom - no fetters
no burdens - no ties that bind
I read my thinking
I'm glad I can see - I'm not blind
I put down on paper - it becomes external
it's added to my journal
my thoughts - eternal
I do not sell it - I don't need a purse
I enjoy writing in meter and verse
To me each is a divine conception
life - itself - in all its forms
life - it's always in season
surviving as it conforms
confirms and advocates
through instinct
with no selection
Trees are never asked to advocate
or participate
in a presidential election;
flowers don't know if they're
weeds or 'deeded'
they remain in tidy rows so carefully tilled
animals - some chosen as beloved pets;
others eaten as food - their bleating or
cackling stilled
by the slaughter and some priority or
purpose
that determined what made
it right or wrong
I'm still puzzled by so many things
so this is my simple-minded effort
and song
but I like myself and so glad am I
to have lived
and learned
and when I die
I'll be glad I lived - asked, and tried;
I'll be glad I loved, laughed and cried
I'll be glad I cherished each day that came
I'll be glad I was true to me
and for the seasons that
remained the same
and even if I did come from the sky
if I'm not supposed to be on earth
I'll remember what made me happy;
what assigned me 'worth'
It was my mother's words (like food)
when mom said the other day:
"Oh my daughter - you are so good."

'JUST WALKING DOWN THE RAILROAD TRACKS' - May, 1990


Just walking down the railroad tracks
still observing
but never searching
still watching
and when I say:

"Who's calling please", the lines of
the telephone company
reach - the lines range
and run
across our country
and the trains still take our
loved ones
across those miles
to Fort Hood
where mother rode
to Florida
where great grandmother
traveled - 1906
dirt-road
not graveled
and
the many years of railroad service
ran across those ties
the 'ties that bind'

yet the ties that were 'broke'
were the backs
of the many immigrants
who from 5/16/1846
had to struggle
to fix
those miles of routes
so we could ride
those broken and gnarled hands
and their weathered skin
could never hide
and no one was there
as the rain was falling
No phones answered their call
No one said:

"Whom shall I say is calling?"

WHEN BILL DIED, I WROTE THIS - I'D NICK-NAMED HIM 'BILLY-BOB-PETE' IN 2001

Billybobpete
sweet
neat
I tap my feet
thinking about
the duck
trying to catch
the fish
having another wish
But if I were a duck
that had a bill
and I could bob
for a delectable treat
maybe I'd catch
that fish
then share this
succulent
dish
after it was grilled on
some charcoal
heat
but for this
I rely on
Billy-Bob-Pete
and I can only do
'bill'
when I can muster up the bob
but now that he's gone,
my meal won't be complete
I can't do do this
without
Billy-Bob-Pete!

WRITTEN BY BILL SWANZY WHO DIED MAY, 2004 - IN HIS MEMORY


Oh what a story that house might tell
for every house has ears
it absorbs
what families leave
in their wake

Good times; bad - births and deaths
to be had
and always a singular presence
a house alive
sometimes happy
often too sad

We take it for granted
when we're living there
We gaze distantly after we're gone
wistfully thinking back
and wondering
if we ever lived
there......

Bill sent this poem as a gift to me - he was a very special man!

I CALL THIS 'BUMPER-TO-BUMPER' FOR ALL THOSE WOMEN WHO'VE HAD TO MAKE A 'CHOICE' - ON ABORTION...


It's not a choice
and it's not a child
unwanted - potentially
destined to be
possibly
abused
misused
neglected
hungry
dying a more painful death
when do we take away
a breath
Born into a world of drugs
possibly sent to war
shot by a 'drive-by' shooter
racing in that speeding
car
The warm choice
a mother's voice
not termination
but determination
to render this
angel's release
surrendered now
to heavenly
peace!
By Diane Stirling-Stevens - May, 1993

'STRETCHED FOR LIFE' - MY TRIBUTE TO RUBBER BANDS - 2/3/03


Every day brings a new sheet
with stories told anew
a poem here; a message there
the scroll just grew
and grew...

Yet still the band wraps it tight
and holds its pages bound
to keep them all from breaking loose
and scattering on the ground!

How many times will it stretch
before the stretching's done
and all that it holds securely
will be left for a
newer one?

How far will life pull it
how many pulls will it take
how far can it be taxed
before it will finally
break?

I like to fondly imagine
that if it snaps one day
the little band will somehow
confidently find
a way

to splice itself together
then tightly knot the ends
and bind the pages of its book
so its story
never
ends!
REMARKS ABOUT THE PHOTOGRAPH: The frame was made by a friend of mine who was injured in the 911 attack - she made this during the course of her rehabilitation.
The rubber bands were sent to me by a friend (Jim) after my 4/29/02 automobile accident that nearly killed me.
The picture is of my great grandmother Grace; my great grandfather Charles, and my grandpa Reese (his first birthday). Great grandmother took a flat-bed wagon to Florida in 1906 - it took her 4 months to make the trip.
Great Grandpa Charles looked after the children and the farm while his wife took 2 hired hands who drove the flat-bed looking for land in Orlando.
Years and years later, that land was sold to Disney - it is now Epcot Center (or part of it is).
I think the poem fits not only my own 'trials and recovery'; Norma's beautiful recovery, but my great grandmother's strong will to become a millionaire at a time when few women were.
I guess it's all about rubber bands......

TWO PINES WHISPER - JULY 16, 1996


Two pines whisper
two birds nest
two eggs (or more)
mama-Robin will rest

Spring - what's on my window sill?
A few Crocus
and a
yellow
Daffodil

Then comes August...
locust
a rainy
September
then a wintry
gust


Life is short - so enjoy
rejoice...
cherish the sounds
of your
loved-ones
who give you
'eternal spirit'
they are your
legacy...
your
voice!

MY DAD PLAYED THE TRUMPET LIKE CHRIS BOTI - 'A HEAVENLY TRUMPET'...

He never heard the voice
of a political puppet
He only heard the sound
of a heavenly trumpet
What a golden voice
that he fought for
in this land of choice
Dad - in the army
under the red, white and blue
Dad, blew his trumpet; and fought bravely
for me
and you
The taps - later, at so many funerals
he played
On that cold windy hill - he quivered
yet brave
he buried his sister
and brother-in-law too
that same day - dad never skipped a note
and that sweet sound of his music
resounded; echoed
over the caskets
remembered and cherished
through
and
through
Then dad's turn came -
he left mom; my sisters
my brother
and me -
May;
in the spring
of 1993
Now I hear my dad when I see
that early morning sky
I know he's making music
when that horizon is bright and blue.
Blew, blew - the wind and his
breath...
Dad, how I miss
you in this
form
we call
'death'.....