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Memory's Song







Memory's Song





When the trees turn to flame much like fire,

And the evening is crisper and fair,

I can see through my heart's eye the farmhouse

With its chimney smoke wisping the air.

Though the ashes of sorrow long took it,

And a thicket of pines rose instead,

In my mind it still stands as a haven,

And a song still rings clear in my head.

I can see through the clearing the windlass,

And the well bucket tied with a rope

Where she drew from the earth sparkling water

That was poured into clean pails to tote.

There's the turnip green patch by the "big road",

And the car barn that sways neath its weight.

And all over the yard the fresh markings,

Of the brush broom where someone has raked.

But as evening comes slipping in greyly,

And the cold breeze of Autumn's breath blows,

There's a song I hear played on my heartstrings.

It's a song that my memory knows.

To the slap, slapping beat of the barndoor,

Her sweet voice crooning softly and low,

Ore' the salt block and into the bushes,

It seeks and it soothes as it goes.

Many miles have these feet trod since childhood,

But no song have I heard then or now,

Like the tune that the old girl was singing,

As Grandma called homeward the cow.


Author's Notes/Comments: 

Another poem about my Grandma Cook...

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Daddy's Hands

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Family And Friends

My daddy's hands were twisted

From many a hard day's toil.

The knuckles large and bulbous

And his fingernails were soiled.



But I knew when I would watch them,

Always busy, never still...

They got that way by honest work,

Keeping our larder filled.



Sometimes bruised and bleeding,

Sometimes scrubbed and clean,

But always ready to meet the need

When days were bitter and lean.



I watched them as a young girl,

All wind-burned, roughened, and bent,

From too many years at holding the plow,

Long before childhood was spent.



They hoed the garden come morning.

The carried the water at noon.

At evening they'd lift me and tuck me,

To the crooning of some nameless tune.



His hair now is white and he's older.

His steps are much frailer and slow.

But his hands never changed in the aging.

They're the hands that my memories know.



Lord, could I have one petition?

One favor especially for me?

Just once 'ere we come to the parting...

Let those hands fold in sweet prayer to Thee!

Author's Notes/Comments: 

My daddy is my hero.  I have never met a man to compare to his sensitive soul.  I wrote this poem long before the popular country song came out.

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A Mother's Morning












A Mother's Morning







She sighs as she puts up the dishes.

She sighs as she straightens her bed.

No noise greets her ears and she wishes

She had heeded advice others said.



The house is so still and so quiet,

No fingerprints mar wall or door.

But she longs for the days when she polished

And cleaned up and vacumned and more.



When clutter was living and spreading

Each day was a struggle to keep,

Ahead of the boys and their tracking

The rugs that she knew she must sweep.



But she'd trade all the peace and the quiet

For one day playing ball with her sons,

Knowing now that the time would be treasured

As one of her most precious ones.



Looking around she remembers

How quickly the years slipped away,

And smiling, she dials seven numbers

Then into the phone she does say...





"Hey, Sugar, I was just thinkin' about cha'"







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Short Poem 3- Parents

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Short Poems

Though sometimes it seems

Your parents don't care,

Through good times and bad

They're always there.

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A Mother Looks At Graduation

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A Mother Looks At Graduation







Yesterday I washed his face

And wiped his dimpled hand.

Today I watched him drive my car.

My baby is a man.

The tennis shoes all full of mud,

And toys strewn everywhere,

Are now a distant memory,

That once caused near despair.

Instead, I spy across the room,

A gun rack by the door.

My son, the hunter, (so HE says)

Has toys that cost much more.

And all those days of playing cars,

And tracking floors with dirt,

Are fading from my mind and yet,

It somehow makes me hurt.

For though I'm thankful plenty

That he's healthy, tall and strong,

Today is graduation day.

Tomorrow he'll be gone.





Music:




Author's Notes/Comments: 

I found this in a drawer under the lining.  It was written in 1984 when my oldest son, Gene, graduated high school...I was right.

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LEAH










LEAH






L    ove filled my heart when I saw her.

E    verything else took backseat.

A    ll I had wanted she brought me.

H    er presence made my life complete

      Through the years nothing's changed

      and I'm thankful.

      She's a blessing and I know that's true

      Leah Edwards is my own granddaughter,

      Smart, kind and she's still pretty too.













Music: You Are My Sunshine

Author's Notes/Comments: 

My granddaughter has brought me nothing but the sweetest joy and love since the day she was born.  She's smart, loving, kind and a Christian, and I love her with all my heart.  I picked this music especially for her since she is first chair clarinet in the school band.

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Garrett













  

GARRETT


G ood grief did you see him?

A ll you could see was feet!

R unning so fast they couldn't catch him!

R eally, watching him play is a treat!

E very time I see him tackle,

T ouchdown, or hit a homerun,

T hen I feel reassured and I'm thankful

   Garrett Edwards is my grandson.







Music: Abbadaba













Author's Notes/Comments: 

My grandson is the sweetest, smartest, strongest, best athlete of any little boy I know and I love him with all my heart.

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Just Thinking

Someday in the future

I'll get my life-long wish.

I'll look into my sink and find

Not one soiled glass or dish.

My floors will all be spotless,

And I'll wash just once a week.

Then when I go to bed at night,

I know I'll get some sleep.

There won't be smudges on the wall,

Or a careless streak of dirt.

And I won't be bound by endless chores

That cause me toil and hurt.

I'll get into the tub at night

And there'll be no piercing cry.

I'll really take a nice hot bath,

Without threatening a life.

There won't be spitballs on the walls,

Or a lost shoe on the roof.

There'll be no refereeing fights,

Or, "You better tell the truth!"

Maybe then I'll get some rest

If I'm not too old to care,

Perhaps I'll even find my brush

When I'm trying to fix my hair.

I'll wake up in the mornings

Without a great stampede.

And no voices will be calling,

"Mama, what do we got to eat?"

It's all that keeps me going now,

When everything turns sour.

But I wonder how I'll fill each day,

With all its empty hours.

The crumpled, pinched-off dandelions

Won't be resting in the cup.

There'll be no sticky faces

For a kiss all puckered up.

I won't hear then how great I look

In a dress that's much too small.

No one will be there telling me

I'm short, as he grows tall.

There'll be no unexpected hugs,

Nor pats of little hands.

But I'll have roots wound round my heart

As tight as iron bands.

No on has asked my option,

No permission did I give,

But my heart tells me that I'm "Mama"

For as long as I shall live.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This was written in 1981, but I hit the nail on the head with my predictions. haha

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Priorities

Feathery patterns of sunshine,

Dancing on shiny waxed floors,

Squeaky clean windows and sashes,

Now, how could a woman want more?



The clothes hamper's empty--no washing!

And the bathroom is spotless and neat.

No cooking today.  It's not needed.

There is no one at home now to eat.



The throw pillows stay where she puts them.

(Not scruffy from too much misuse)

And the trinkets for years she's collected

Look lovely, but say, what's the use?



She remembers a time when she polished,

And scrubbed down, and cleaned up, and swept,

Each day in a vain try to somehow,

Stay ahead of the children one step.



But the handprints for years that she wiped off,

Sometimes with a frustrated tear,

Don't seem quite so bad in the silence,

Now that there's no one else near.



So she ponders the short years of childhood,

How they're lost in the duties of life,

And Nana lets grandchildren do things

She never allowed as a wife.

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