Knot My Line » Poetry

Life Is Never Easy

Papa Joe — Thu, 14 Dec 2006 08:03:21 +0000

Finally sated with the rest I needed
Today, I drove to town
Not the big city
I’m not that rested
But the little village nearby
Astride the river

A little diner attracted me
I lunched on my favorite breakfast, An omelet
Filled with bacon, cheese and onions
Covered with salsa and Tabasco
No bagel though, this was a rustic eatery

My waitress, whom I greatly admired
And complimented with a question
“How can such a beauty as you lack a ring on her finger?”
Sadly she replied that her husband of ten years died last year
Embarrassed by the now revealed rudeness of my question

I drew her to me and told her of my son
Gone for now these many painful years
She paused in her chores and reached for my hand
And soothed me with understanding words
And emotions

We parted and I left
Shaken I took a round-about way back home
The constant drizzle and dreary skies
Echoed my mood

About a mile from home
A figure before me on the road
A young girl
With no rain coat or hat
Just slacks and a soaking wet sweater

Her thumb was out
Normally I pass such people
But this was in the middle of nowhere
I inquired, “Can I help?”
“Please drive me to the City” she responded pleadingly

I opened the door and in she jumped
“What to do?” I pondered
She told a cock and bull story of her plight
Jennifer she gave as her name, or was it Jessica
I wasn’t paying attention

My mind was occupied with wondering if I had erred in picking her up
Fourteen she gave as her age
Although physically she appeared older
Her face was that of a fourteen year old

I drew her out with talk of schools and family
She spoke of her Mother with affection
They were friends she said
Her Father was gone from their lives

She seemed quite real except for her story
A fairy tale of abduction
But she had not been assaulted and was unharmed she said
She did not want the police involved

I told her I did not believe her
But I felt that she was and would be okay
The twenty mile ride quickly was over
Her clothes had dried

She said she wanted to walk home
Her Mother would be disturbed that she had taken a ride from a stranger
I dropped her near the youth center and returned home
Wondering all the while and still
About this wonderful, painful and mysterious life

Dear Ancestor

Papa Joe — Wed, 13 Dec 2006 01:24:26 +0000

Your tombstone stands among the rest;
Neglected and alone.
The name and the date are chiseled out
On polished, marbled stone.
It reaches out to all who cares
It is too late to mourn.
You did not know that I exist
You died and I was born.
Yet each of us are cells of you
In flesh, in blood, in bone.
Our blood contracts and beats a pulse
Entirely not our own.
Dear Ancestor, the place you filled
One hundred years ago
Spreads out among the ones you left
Who would have loved you so.
I wonder if you lived and loved,
I wonder if you knew
That someday I would find this spot,
And come to visit you.

Author Unknown

If

Papa Joe — Fri, 01 Dec 2006 20:19:57 +0000

“If I were to live my life again,
I would live through the moonlight nights,
Holding your hand as I did in the past,
Sitting with you in the dimming lights.

Holding your hand when sorrow was near,
Kissing your cheek when the children cried,
Smiling, my dear, when things went wrong,
Or, shedding a tear when the baby died.

If I were to live my life again,
I would choose you again for a wife
And, I’d worship you as I have in the past
Even though I knew of our coming strife.

Yes, if I were to live my life again,
I’d pledge it, my dear, to you
As I used to do in the long ago
When you were my sweetheart, good and true.”

Franklin Lee Stevenson

Beside Him

Papa Joe — Fri, 01 Dec 2006 19:50:58 +0000

“She lay herself beside him on the bed–
Placed in her hair a daffodil–
But he had plowed the stubborn fields all day
With clumsy oxen ‘cross the hill.
Her night gown had a deep embroidered yoke
But his eyes saw the coming grain,
She sighed a little as she heard him snore;
For snores so often cause a pain.
She moved and put her breast against his back
And breathed against his dark brown hair–
He woke and said the soil was nice and soft
And that he’d have to breed the mare.”

Franklin Lee Stevenson

Friendship

Papa Joe — Thu, 30 Nov 2006 18:54:49 +0000

“Oh, the comfort – the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person
Having neither to weigh thoughts,
Nor measure words – but pouring them
All right out – just as they are -
Chaff and grain together -
Certain that a faithful hand will
Take and sift them -
Keep what is worth keeping -
And with the breath of kindness
Blow the rest away.”

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik