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Poem
When I was young and fate was kind
To every wish, I had in mind
No appetite for greater gloom
Betrayed the joy that lit my room
 
Where nothing but the night is black
And black is never dark for lack
Of something bright or greater light
But merely brings a lesser sight

And should a sullen something scratch
Or enter unbeknownst to hatch
A nightmare by my crib or bed
No lack of love appeared instead

But still there grew impending fear
That drew from shadows newly near
To tempt the tender tears of youth
And soon betray a child's truth...

In days of yore, the greedy game
Betrayed the poor, the needy same
Who lost the score, but won the shame
Of those who bore the pauper name

Though many more who lost the fight
Were hungry for the smallest bite
The ones who wore the rags at night 
Were gone before the morning light

A mother weeps for one so dear
Her flesh and blood are buried here
Alone and lost, she's not the first
To bear the cost of what she nursed

A baby sleeps, she could not save
Or rescue from a silent grave
A sad goodbye to someone small
Who learned to cry but not to crawl 

In London Town the work is spare
No space around is not a fair
For those who sell or seek to buy
A softer smell before they die

The stranger face you meet today
May catch your bread and run away
The cautious kind, who never show 
Some gratitude before they go

The children cry for lack of food
Before the ones who treat them rude
Who proudly pass them on the street
For how they smell in their defeat

And so it was in lesser times
When sadder lives were not the crimes
That many make them out to be
The sorrow of my family... 

My mother's name was Seraphine
A servant sane but still serene
Who kept a cherished memory
Of someone dear who used to be

The lady known as Mary Grace
Befit the joy that lit her face
And found the strength of will to fight
The desperate souls who came at night

When she was young and indiscreet
She met a boy who made her greet
The rising sun with such delight
That heaven seemed to be her right

His eyes were brown and furrowed deep
To fix your gaze and make you weep
Or hope to keep you in his sight
To love you more with pure delight 

The hair that swished from side to side
Was curled more than he could hide
The image of a kindly soul
Who wrought the joy that made you whole

He never was the kind of lad
To make you think of him as bad
His earnest ways and silly jokes
Were popular with many folks

No kinder lad was more sincere
To pledge his heart and make it clear
That this the love they shared was sure
And Mary called him Oliver . . .
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