Thursday, April 3, 2008



By: Vern - THE

My little cat
so quiet in the house
suddenly 'click'
and the magic mouse
rousted up the General Memos, Letters and
other documents entered format
who was one step above the 'ruler'
and had more authority
than the
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
Then a chipping; clipping - snipping
a humming bird had started to burp
from the sweetened sugar - a wise disguise
flitting - not noticing
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
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... leaked, and took a lot of
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
with hunger; responsibility
and poverty
Not only was this my mom & dad;
it was my entire
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
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
Now the times are new
and a stylish Roman font
set up this form and let me 'say' 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
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
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
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 went (by you)
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
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
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
Soon she'll go to her nest - make fluffy bedding
for tonight
And dad - thanks for helping me do the
'talking' this poem - the truth, we both
did write!
Love, Diane