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Poem

It was a tin-roof wooden house standing 
Across the red brick cobblestone street 
Adjacent to a wide open field full
Of shady live oak and sweet smelling tangerine trees where 
My father’s boyhood home was nestled  
Quietly in his home town. 

Often times we’d travel to visit 
The grandparents still living there 
In that Americana corner of our lives.
We didn’t know much of anything at all except 
The sky was blue, love was true and we 
Youngsters were the apples of the old folk’s eyes.

We’d sit for hours in white wicker rocking chairs
I helped paint one time with newspaper on the floor 
And a horsehair brush grandma gave me 
To teach me that painting needn’t be a lesson 
In staying between the lines.  “Sometimes,” she’d say,
“It’s better to let the paint flow 
And speak for itself in time.” 

And granddad liked to watch the sky – especially at night 
When stars were burning bright and would point towards Polaris and say:
“Heaven’s over that a-way.”  And during daylight hours 
When storm clouds appeared and we could hear 
Thunder and lightning all around, he’d laugh and dance 
As if the circus were coming to town.  

We watched mocking birds and blue jays flying in and out 
Of all the tree top branches and leaves singing 
Their love making lullabies to us and one another and then
As quickly as they arrived, 
Disappeared into the wind.  
It seems we’re not much different 
Rather family, foe or friend.  
  
Accordingly, the old house still stands today 
But the dear old folks have slipped away.  
Perhaps to the place once pointed to
High above that night sky view 
Where comets roam and grandpa liked to call “Up yonder,”  
Leaving me with thoughts of gold 
And memories made to ponder.

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