Wow, I’m a poet!
I’m Valorie…I’ve always wanted to try my hand at writing poetry. So a while ago I decided to learn something about doing that. I joined the poetry workshop at our local library and pretty soon I was actually writing poems. My husband thinks they’re great. What else is he going to say if he wants dinner every night?.
But what totally surprised me was the discovery that my mother, who is gone now, had the same desire. She, and therefore we, grew up in a small California town by the bay. Idyllic would describe it, like an old movie about life in a quieter less complicated time. A time when you really could smell the roses. She was from a family of ten children and it wasn’t a wealthy family by any measure. He father struggled to feed them all and her mother to raise them all. But I think the combination of the times, the serenity of the little town and what it bred deeply into us all is what brought out the good thoughts that she and now I tried to put into words, words I hope will give at least some, for a moment, some slight comfort to those who read them.
So it was in going through her things after she passed that I found a number of poems she had written but never told us about. And she did it with an eight grade education and no training at all. It was a nice feeling to know we shared this love and especially that I probably got it from her. I think everybody has something they’re wanted to do but just haven’t gotten around to. I’m glad I did. Thanks Mom!.
Here’s one of my Poems:
Because I hadn’t known him as a young man,
I didn’t see him an old man,just Grandpa.
He always made me laugh with his own laughter,
rich and warm. A great story teller, spellbound
I listened as he would spin tales of intrigue
and mystery, making it up as he went along.
The times I spent with him were filled with
special treats set aside for those rare visits.
His German pancakes heavy with honey and
fresh lemon juice and a sprinkle of powdered
sugar. Wading with us in the over sized fish
pond with no fish, he would recall the days of
his youth when he hopped on a freight train and
mingled with friendly hobos along the way.
Told us of the imaginary adventures where
those tracks would lead, once a gypsy camp with
loud music and dancing. Now, every Christmas he
assembles the old Lionel train around the base
of the tree. It glides on smooth black tracks
through tunnels and over bridges, while he
continues to tell those stories from long ago.
It was the day after thanksgiving that my
grandmother found him on the floor of the garage.
An aneurysm. He had been unpacking the Lionel.
Here’s one of Mom’s. It’s better
Oh, little boy, life is such fun
You run and play each day in the sun
Ready for sleep when day is done
Swiftly the years are flying along
Suddenly, boyhood days are gone
Young man now, so fit and strong
The world is yours, what could go wrong
There will be love, laughter and song
More swiftly now, time fly’s on
Old man, I watch as you struggle along
The years have brought both joy and pain
Still each day I see you, a face with no name
As you walk slowly by, proud hand gripping your cane