On Forgetfulness

If you hear me complain that I cannot recall
     where I put my car keys,  or my dead cell phone,
     when I came home from wherever it was that I went yesterday ...
Please ask me if I can remember
       the very first time our baby grabbed my finger,
           or called for me in the middle of the night,
               or how I felt when the school bus pulled away
  that September day, so many years ago.

As a Rainy Day Dawns

Note:  This would make a better song than a poem.  Thus, it is a Work in Progress. 
Suggestions are welcome

As a rainy day dawns,
a weak old man yawns.
His legs and hands ache,
so he knows he's awake.

With groans and with moans
and creaky old bones,
with grunts and with sighs,
the man tries to arise.

His vision is blurred.
He can't hear a word.
With each wheezy breath
he's closer to death.

Accepting his pain,
he smiles at the rain.

When his feet touch the floor
he thanks God once more
for the gift of the dawn
and  the strength to go on,.

A NEW YEAR (and I don't care)

5:30 am, January 1, 2014.

A new year and I'm still here. For that, I'm grateful.
Yet, what difference does a new year make?
Every day, every hour, every minute,    
every breath is a new beginning,
If I declare it to be so.
On we go.

One step into the future is a step out of the past.
But what of the moment? Where am I now?
If always coming or going,
     when does a human have time for being?
When is Life?

We leave the past behind:
      the celebration and the sorrow.
Memories are safe there -- nothing can hurt them.
Tomorrow has hope and fear, dreams and tears,
     and maybe even glory.
Is that the real story? I don't think so.
Every story has a beginning and an ending.
That's what we remember,
      but it's the middle that really matters:  
      where the peanut butter meets the jelly.

When I look at my hands, I can see where I am and where I have been.
I feel the roughness and the callouses, the stinging that lingers,
      the wounds not quite healed.
One hand is empty - nothing to clutch, nothing to do.
The other holds a pen.
Ah!  There is the moment  - alive and well,
     creating something, pausing, moving, stopping,
     making sense out of life.  So it goes.

Let the revellers toot their tin horns.
Let them have their new year. I don't care.
All I want is one more breath.

ANNIVERSARY BLESSING

May your life together be blessed with perseverance, resilience and longevity.

Through ebb and flow, may the waves break gently on your shore.

May you endure the inevitable storms; and find strength in one another.

May you recognize and respect the separateness within your togetherness.

May you remember always that Someone who loves you dearly

       is watching over you, guiding you ... and smiling.

FATE - a sudden sonnet

Everything you thought would last,
everything you've counted on,
is disappearing all too fast.
The world you know will soon be gone.
One day you find yourself alone.
The people who you thought were friends
all have troubles of their own.
And so it goes -- it never ends.

When fate is waiting at your door,
turn the lock and let her in.
Find out what she wants you for.
Life might get better than it's been.
It's time to take her as your wife.
Fate's been your roommate all your life.

MEMORIES of my COUSIN BOB -- and the RED PLASTIC SCISSORS

Memories of My Cousin, 
Bob Kirk:  a personal reflection

Part I.  The Red Plastic Scissors

I have no memories older than this one -- a gift from my cousin, Bob.  I was no more than 2 years old.  He was in his early twenties.  My mother was his Guardian; and Bob lived with us when he was in college.  I know it was no later than 1948 or 1949, because Bob moved out when he and Jeanne got married; and we moved across the street in 1950.

The "boy's bedroom" had dark maple bunk beds for my brother and me.  I can vaguely see a desk and a single bed. I guess that would have been Bob's bed.  I remember Bob sitting in the chair at the desk, graciously letting me try to cut his hair with a pair of red plastic scissors.  I'm not sure if the scissors were sharp enough, but I do remember that both of us were laughing.  When you've been on the planet for only a couple of years, it's a big deal when you're allowed to do something new like this.  I'm sure Bob had no idea how special that moment would always be to me.

After 64 years, I finally got around to start writing this thank-you note to him ...  and another 6 months to finish it.  My mother always told me to slow down.  (Bob, please tell her I'm OK.) 

_____________________________________________

Part II.  More Memories of Bob -- some big, some small.  

• I remember being puzzled about Bob's last name being different from his brother's.  This was long before Bill Shatner decided to become a Kirk, too.
• I remember when Bob took me on my first airplane ride, sometime in the late 1950s, perhaps 1957 -- on a twin-engine plane with propellers, probably a DC-3, Mohawk Airlines from Boston to Rochester, NY.  It was nighttime -- and pouring rain.  Back then, planes didn't just roar:  they whined and rattled, too.  The flight  was awfully noisy, very dark, quite turbulent and terribly exciting -- but not scary, because Bob was there.
• I remember the house on Seneca Parkway in Rochester.  I recognized the street 50 years later, when some of my NY "family" bought a house a few doors down.  
• I remember a compliment that Bob gave me in that house. Bobbie had tripped over the cord of a big ceramic lamp, which was on the end-table next to my chair.  The flying lamp would have crashed on or near her.  Only a skinny kid could have made that diving catch behind the chair.  I was surprised and pleased to hear such a loud, enthusiastic "Fantastic catch, Vinny" from Cousin Bob.   
• I remember being delighted to learn that Bob was bringing his family back from Rochester to the house they bought on Front Street in Weymouth. 
• I don't remember if I ever thanked Bob for splicing the mast on my first sailboat, the first time I somehow snapped it -- half-way up.
• I remember being impressed by Bob's oil paintings, and those by my own Dad -- and I listened when they talked at the Cape with Van Coleman about technique and composition.  
• I remember, when many a Christmas morning was winding down, the joy of realizing that there would be more fun in the afternoon, when the Kirks arrived like gangbusters.  Sometimes, I didn't realize it until the door burst open.  Suddenly, the day had new life.
• I remember thinking that my Cousin Bob had the ideal family -- better than the Nelsons -- and I confess that there were one or two times when I would have preferred it to my own.
• I remember how Bob told me, as an adult, about his remarkably successful battle with arthritis.  He got me interested in Hatha yoga; and it has helped a lot.  That was one gift from Cousin Bob for which I did express my thanks to him.

Thank you, Bob, for all the inspiration that you gave me through the years.  We miss you here -- but I do believe that you and Jeannie are together again.  I also believe that if we could see you now ... Well,  there's a song about that.*  Please tell  Fr. John that we miss him, too -- and ask if he read what I wrote when he crossed the bar not so long ago.**  You do have Wi-Fi there, don't you?

With Love,
     Cousin Vinny

    

___________________________________________________________________
*   Click HERE  or Google "If You Could See Me Now - Don Moen".
** Click HERE or Google "Meus Deus Pater".

LOOKING YOUTHFUL: Another Semi-Serious Sonnet

If you want to look young, just consider the crayon.

There are some that will alwaysok new.

With tips that stay sharp and wrappers that stay on;

But not Red, Yellow, Purple or Blue.

Likewise, Orange and Green are quite quickly worn down

'Til just a dull stub doth remain.

Even gloomier shades, like the Black and the Brown,

Are soon sticks made of wax on the wane.

Yet the Okra, the White and perhaps the Chartreuse,

With their wrappers that haven't been torn,

Simply stay in their box for they don't get much use,

So their points hardly ever look worn.

But what pride can you take appearing so youthful,

If it means that you're not very useful?

Author's Comment:

Many well-preserved people lead useful lives.  In fact, keeping busy helps keeps you young.  This poem refers to those among us who value appearance only  ~  and don't look deeper.   I'd like to incorporate this point into the poem ...  but who ever heard of a sonnet with three stanzas?

The Promise of an Old Day

(click photo to enlarge)

A few Haiku pour vous

A REFLECTION at LAKE NEATAWANA
February 24, 1997

A gull with a limp
is still majestic in flight.
Be not quick to judge.

A REALITY TRILOGY
February 9, 2010

I wait in Silence
hoping that a Dream will come
and swallow me whole.


Reality dawns
to awaken me again,
so I close the shade.


Real Life rings loudly,
but I don't want to wake up.
Where's the snooze button?

YODISH WISDOM
June 18-ish, 2010

Hurts, to walk, it does
If, on comfort, you insist
For the hearse, here wait

BLESSINGS - The Final Four

I have been blessed with three of the four best blessings imaginable.
I regret that my gratitude is no match for that grace.
Death is nowhere in sight, and I'm already learning
how to live,
how to love, and
how to be loved.

I have yet to be graced with the ultimate blessing:
to learn how to die.
Whether Death is crouched around the next corner,
or asleep behind the moon,
I do hope to be ready when we meet.
I know of no blessings beyond this.

REGRET

The tree that you planted
under the window
has grown to block the sun.
Still, after all these years,
you don't have the heart
to cut that old tree down.

THE OTHER SIDE

I'm too old to be young again.
I'm in too much pain to run.
Who needs another mountain, when
You just climbed over nine or ten?
Why re-fight those battles won?

I hear the children as they play
With laughter and exhilaration.
They submit to what the grown-ups say,
When they know there is a better way.
So, each day ends with aggravation

There is no need for sweat or speed
With music, art, or pen and pad.
I'm quite content to sit and read.
Bones won't break, mistakes don't bleed.
See? Not so young is not so bad.