"Life is a journey with both good and bad along the way." By Poet
My dad has been gone for many years,
making it time to clean out his belongings.
I remember his war stories as a young child,
they were better then reading books.
Each word would come to life,
as his stories went on and on.
Telling about his men almost starving,
and how the farmers fed and hid them.
Here in a box what did I just find?
Love letters to mom in old torn envelopes.
What is this thingamajig?
It looks like a writing pen but it will not write.
Did you know pens in those days needed to be ink filled?
Imagine that!
They filled their pens with ink before they would write.
Today we still have writing pens,
most come ink filled and ready to write,
some are disposable pens.
None will be as cherished as this old one,
knowing ink flowed over his journal and love letters.
Twelve envelopes
from the Department of Truth.
Gathered together
by a curious sleuth.
Though buried away
by a bottle of vermouth.
Monday, November 8, 2021
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Bent fingers trace embroidered leaves
on satin and long lacy sleeves.
Blush roses, twenty-six she counts--
A French word she can't now pronounce.
She blows dust from old envelopes
tied with blue ribbons and her hopes.
The letters penned by her true mate.
Over his name, she... hesitates.
A trunk in attic soon became
her refuge from days all the same.
Photos dwelling midst her daydreams,
and keepsakes of sweet seventeen.
She thought he'd walk up Dusty Lane;
he might appear, along with rain
and wash away her endless tears;
bring summer nights and happy years.
A wedding date that came and passed;
memories cut like broken glass.
A heartache like the roaring wind,
returning nightly without end.
She lived alone among the ghosts
of dances, laughter, champagne toasts.
Altho eccentric, she was bright;
looked forward to impending night.
Aunt Agnes passed at ninety-three;
still wore her ring for all to see.
Memories left for wind to tend;
they have beginnings but no end.
Waning orange red
A blazing summer sunset
Warmth envelopes me
Inside the box were twenty cards
To send to twenty friends
Or any folk to whom your wish
For festive joy extends.
But when I filled them out and they
Were signed and stamped and sealed,
I realized that the box had
One more envelope to yield.
It wasn’t a surprise, for it’s
Been just that way for years,
Though recently some companies
Have started switching gears.
The extra envelope is there
In case you make a goof
When writing an address;
Just start again and there’s no proof.
I guess the manufacturers
Thought little of our skill
To copy an address, but I
Their image won’t fulfill.
And so I have a drawer that’s full
Of envelopes galore.
I’m set for life if extras
Aren’t added anymore.
Envelopes, like cantaloupes,
Emptied vessels cast aside.
Harbors of wayward ships,
Collection plates to take inside,
Internalized...
Emptiness, is nothing less,
Bleeding ulcers seeping in,
Burning edges outward in,
The constant pain that lives within.
Uninsulated...
The inner core, the apple seed,
The heart of love is beating still.
The tidal flow to sooth the sand,
The lover's hand to touch and fill.
Remembering...
The joy, the warmth, of god within.
Tall houses overlooking Green Park
Gracefull movements voice melodious
Eyes locked Bodies brushed Surprise!
A beautiful sunny Spring day Soft laugh
Fresh words of love attracted attention
A young maiden appears in the doorway
Turning key in the lock Already distracted
Colour flooded her face a milder pink hue
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