a poem in my pocket

Writer’s block

may be a knock

to stop doing nothin’

and start writing somethin’.

As you’re typin’,

thoughts can ripen.

It begins slow…

then ideas will flow.

So do not shirk;

just get to work!

A miracle of love born early

A tiny fragile fighter for life

A perfect gift from God our Father

This sweet angel did not linger long

Yet she leaves a message of hope

That we too belong to heaven.

Our farm is a place of bovine bliss

where bulls browse, cows drowse, 

and calves carouse.

Everyone

has their

unique story

to tell

and i am

no legend.

The ground, dried to cracking,

cannot long sustain healthy crop growth.

Father, pour down refreshing rains!

This voice, parched to hoarseness,

cannot easily sing joyful praise.

Jesus, stretch out your healing hand!

That poem, void of inspiration,

cannot take shape on the page.

Spirit, ignite with your creative breath!

I’m mistaken as rotten figs
Twasn’t angry birds
or even unbalanced pigs;
Twas earwigs!

My very much Dutch grandpa and grandma
each emigrated from Holland when they were young.
They fit American culture like a pair of wooden shoes.

Grandma followed in her Dutch Bible as Grandpa read aloud in English,
pointing to the text so I could pick out words like “Heere”, Lord.
And I knew the Lord listened when Grandpa prayed.

Grandma graciously served us rosettes and rusks on china saucers
with steaming tea or orange drink poured into matching tea cups.
We felt very special, listening in on grown-ups’ conversation.

Time of our vacation visits passed much too quickly
like the tick-tocking of their sitting room clock with
miniature figures of a boy and girl see-sawing the seconds away.

Grandpa rented Minnesota farmland; raised crops, livestock, two sons
and later, a dear daughter (who, in turn, raised my brother and I).
A gentle man with animals, he liked to tickle-torture us children.

Before bed, Grandma removed the squiggly hairpins
and let her braided bun fall down in silver ripples to her waist.
She would brush out her long locks while I watched, mesmerized.

On Sundays, she wore a stylish hat, black stockings and heels to church.
He dressed in a dark suit, handkerchief in breast pocket, and shiny black shoes.
Hard-working country folk transformed into classy lady and dignified gentleman!

We treasured time spent with Grandpa Ern and Grandma Gertie.

A matched set: hearty, elderly folk in memory-aged house,

Where they had raised two more sets together:  two boys, two girls

(their youngest one later gave birth to me).

_____

The tool shed and pool table were Grandpa’s sacred domain

while Grandma was queen of the kitchen, giving us a royal welcome with

glasses of sweet “nectar” and slices of buttery banana bread.

An ottoman with lid stored well-used crayons and coloring books.

A box in enclosed porch held wooden blocks and plastic cowboys on horses.

The stairs behind a curtain concealed miscellaneous household items

and a mysterious locked door (to upstairs apartment) at the top.

_____

Grandma smiled merrily with bright eyes and perfect rows of pearly whites;

surrounding us with her soft, warm hugs.

Grandpa peered through bottle thick glasses that magnified his dark eyes;

teasing us with tender gruffness.

_____

Diabetes sent Grandpa to nursing home after stubbing his toes;

of course, Grandma went with him (to be sure he didn’t flirt with the nurses).

Grandpa zoomed down the halls on his scooter

until heaven called him home and fitted him with new legs.

Grandma waved her white hanky until her final “goodbye”

shy of her 100th birthday party (we missed her…and cake)!

_____

The bold birds

that completely ate 

the spring-green tops

off my carrot and radish rows,

scold loudly as I stoop 

to pick fresh lettuce;

accusing me 

of robbing their garden.

Grandma, in faded apron, bustles about kitchen;

pouring thick, black coffee for adults at chrome table.

We grandkids nibble homemade cookies and wait expectantly…

Grandpa deliberately fills and lights his sweet-smelling pipe;

he draws in and puffs out elusive smoke rings.

_____

Grandpa poses in parlor before us, his audience,

dramatically recites Longfellow’s poem, “The Village Blacksmith”;

we sit beneath reproduced painting by that very same name.

(Dad later tells me, when local blacksmith died penniless,

Grandpa quietly paid expenses for funeral and memorial stone.)

_____

Grandma, settles down into her upholstered rocker,

with colorful basket of assorted yarn skeins nearby;

needles click rhythmically as she chats about

annual winter trips to sunny California while knitting

warm pairs of mittens or slippers for our Christmas gifts.

_____

Grandpa & Grandma take us fishing by small dam

where we catch about a hundred whiskery bullheads.

Later, behind house by old pump, we clean them;

Grandpa and Dad behead and gut the wriggly fish;

Grandma batters and flips them into her magic frying pan.

_____

Both grandparents bravely face separate battles with cancer;

Grandpa, after sacrificing most of his stomach to surgery,

overcomes the disease, sucking candy instead of his pipe.

Grandma, who vows never to live in nursing facility, dies

among family at home and achieves her glorious victory!

_____

The toad

on the road

shoulda knowed

he’d be flat

like that…

~kersplat~