Golden Hours
Page 3
I open my eyes quickly. It’s almost dark and much colder. A wind arises whirling snow about my feet and hurling it across the bridge like dust upon a desert.
In the growing shadows the farmer stands silent; unmoved. My ears hurt as I turn and start for home.
I Lit a Candle For You
I lit a candle just last night
and ‘or its warm bright glow,
I prayed the Lord might ease the
fear and doubt within your soul.
While troubles at this moment in your
life seem to abound,
a quiet calm within the greatest
storm can still be found.
That place you often go to
where no other ears might hear.
Within the presence of the Lord
who’s always, ever near.
Seek refuge in His presence.
Find strength within His love,
and there will be no trial in life
your spirit cannot rise above.
So face the wind head on.
Let not your confidence be blown.
And He who loves you more than man,
will guide you safely home.
The Walk
The silence is so deafening;
the mud is hard with cold.
I turn to see if someone’s there;
just trees stripped bare and old.
Their bony fingers reaching up
to touch the hot white moon.
Only to find the moon white ice,
and death has come too soon.
I tuck my hands up in my sleeves
and shiver in the night.
For in the house which I have fled,
gives forth no fire light.
No warmth within its heart to give
my lonely heart some cheer.
And so I walk the frozen road,
wishing love were near.
Michele
Only once in our lifetime would the soul that was hers
be born to this world to impart,
such love and devotion to all that she touched
with her laughter, her smile and her heart.
Her voice like no other our ears still detect,
as if she were standing close by.
We can still see her clearly though not physically,
But there within our mind’s eye.
Angelic in face, her presence
would light up wherever she happened to be,
to illumine the goodness of others,
so that those blind to that goodness might see.
How strange she could see only beauty
in a world filled with trouble and sin.
And not see how the rest of us saw her;
beautiful outside and within.
While in body she’s no longer with us,
her spirit still reaches to touch,
the lives of those blessed to have known her.
Who still love her and miss her so much.
White Church by the Side of the Road
My work week quite often is trying,
and its trials weigh as stones on my soul.
But always my burdens are lifted,
in a white church by the side of the road.
It isn’t particularly large or ornate.
No stained glass adorns the inside.
One may even call it a house filled with sin,
for no liar or thief is denied.
The alter is not one of fine marbled stone,
bearing silver or fine linen cloth.
But a simple long wooden table,
and above it a large wooden cross.
The choir is small but sufficient.
In truth there are better I’d say.
But oh, how their voices harmoniously blend
when singing “Oh Glorious Day”.
The minister doesn’t preach loudly,
or cause us to tremble in fear.
For he preaches the love of our savior,
and it’s Jesus to whom we must hear.
What a wonderful way to finish the week,
to sit with the rest of God’s fold;
finding peace from within and forgiveness of sin,
in a white church by the side of the road.
My Time
Slipping softly from the bedroom
where my husband is asleep,
I tiptoe through the blackness
so the floor boards will not creak.
It’s Five AM; the morning star shines
brightly in the sky,
and the only sound of living
is a car that passes by.
I steal into the kitchen to
fix a pot of tea.
Then sit curled on the sofa with my
cup of thoughts and me.
I may daydream just a little
or remember things I’ve done;
Those few moments of great sadness,
the times of joy and fun.
Fond memories of my childhood,
like pictures in a book.
Moments I cannot relive,
yet comforting to look.
Recapturing a second’s thought;
a smile, a laugh or tear.
these things flow gently through
my mind
while reminiscing here.
The sun is finally rising.
Its rays stretch across the floor.
I hear my husband stirring
and the day begins once more.
I’ll capture moments of this day
and keep them till a time,
when I’ll recall it all again,
in an hour that is mine.
Fly Catcher
My little dog, a mongrel mutt,
stalks flies in her spare time.
She’s quick, with grace
and snapping jaws.
So terribly unkind!
The fly evades her gnashing teeth
and buzzes round her nose.
My dog observes with patience
as she watches where it goes.
She leaps about my living room,
chasing it until
she’s trapped the little nuisance
upon the window sill.
Trapped between the screen and dog,
she simply can’t be beaten!
My little dog is quite content
with the fly that she’s just eaten.
Old Brown Dog
(in memory of Heidi)
I let her sleep.
She seemed so peaceful on her blanket by our bed.
Like every morning all those years, I lightly scratched her head.
She blinked her eyes and raised her ears, acknowledging my touch.
I reflected how this old brown dog had come to mean so much.
She lingered longer in her rest than usual that day.
I knew her time was running out, but pushed the thought away.
By my second cup of coffee she was up and at my feet;
since puppy-hood, the ritual that prompted her a treat.
She gently took it from my hand then turned and climbed the stairs,
to hide it in a secret place that only she knew where.
By noon her breathing came too hard and we knew she’d wait no more.
I slipped the collar on her neck and she followed out the door.
As we drove I spoke of how much happier she’d be.
; She placed her chin upon my thigh as if to comfort me.
I held her closely to my heart and kissed her floppy ears.
It was only when I felt her’s stop, I let flow my burning tears.
Our house seems strangely quiet now. Her nails don’t click across the floor.
Her pleading eyes won’t beg for that last morsel any more.
Sometimes when cleaning I still find a hiding place or two;
her bones, a toy we thought she’d lost, a tennis ball half chewed.
We didn’t bring her body home, but her presence lingers on.
Sometimes we think we hear her bark, then realize she’s gone.
Her pale blue blanket undisturbed, is by our bed still kept,
in loving memory of where once our old brown dog
had slept.
Beauty
Consider how beauty is vain in appearance.
Blinding… our outward façade.
The mirror reflects only our faces,
but can’t reveal what lies beyond.
Years pass and the mirror we seek less and less,
for we know what we’ll find should we stare;
lines in our faces that weren’t there before,
and silver strands shine through our hair.
But there now that cannot be seen with our eyes,
is a richness that living life brings.
And mercy and love that is found in the heart,
are the truly immortal things.
For they cannot grow old like our bodies,
but by growing older we find,
that beauty not seen in the mirror
Is found only through passage of time.
Duffy
(In memory of Uncle Don)
Some measure success by the money they have;
fine homes and the labels they wear.
They hold down a management job where they work
and to ‘United Way’ give their fare share.
And they would look down on a man such as Duffy,
who possessed not a one of those things.
He towed cars for a living, a ‘grease monkey’ too
for the wages that jobs like those bring.
Eighth grade was as far as his schooling progressed,
but a student of life he remained.
His poems reflected a love for his God
and a son that he cherished the same.
He prided himself in the garden he grew
for his family and friends to enjoy.
His home was a room in a house not his own
where he lived for a time as a boy.
Cancer had taken the voice that we knew,
and the liquor he drank took its toll.
To some he may have appeared quite grotesque,
but not if they’d looked in his soul.
For there was a man so wealthy with love
that he gave every bit that he had.
His kindness and aid came with no strings attached.
Just to ask for his help made him glad.
Few knew of the heartache he carried inside;
of the family he once called his own.
Of the ex-wife he loved to the day that he died,
and the love for his son long since grown.
He enjoyed going fishing with Woody,
a treasured since boyhood friend.
How fitting it seems he was doing just that
when his earthly life came to an end.
I hope the good Lord let him take one last look
on the day that his service took place.
The hall was so full there were people outside,
and tears ran down everyone’s face.
They came from all over, some hundreds of miles
to say good-bye to this man.
I don’t think there’s too many money rich men
Who had friends such as Duffy had.
We can find comfort in knowing his heartache is done
and in his epitaph,
should be written, “He gave of his life to his friends”,
and that “He has gone home at last.”
Prologue
(June 1986)
I had flown to Richmond, VA from West Palm Beach, FL to be with my father for a few days after he had just undergone triple by-pass heart surgery. My mother picked me up from the airport where we proceeded to McGuire VA hospital to visit Dad. I had waited a few days after his surgery to see him, as it was felt that too many of us converging at one time would cause him more stress than he was already experiencing, and didn’t want him to think, “Oh my God! Everyone’s flying up to see me. I must be going to die!” It was an extremely hot summer that year, and the air conditioning had gone out in their car just a day or two before the surgery. Since Mom and Dad’s home was a two hour drive, the decision was made to transport him home in the pre-dawn hours before the heat set in. We were both too tired to drive, so after Dad’s discharge from the hospital the previous evening, we rented a motel room with one king sized bed. We all squeezed in together with Dad tucked safely in between Mom and I. It was a rough night. Besides being conscious of Dad’s delicate condition, he also suffered from severe sleep apnia. Dad would snore and then stop, and then Mom and I would hold our breath waiting for him to breath again. Early the next morning, with him resting comfortably in the back seat and all the windows open, we headed toward Piney River, a tiny little town and their home. What would have normally taken two hours in daylight, took three. The distance took us over narrow mountain roads used by logging trucks, and we were ever vigilant of deer, bear and other furry creatures that might spring in front of our headlights.
I remained with them for three days, but then had to return back to work. The day before I left, Mom felt it safe enough to leave Dad in the care of their neighbor and friend, and Mom and I drove to Waynesboro to get the air conditioner fixed. It became an all day event as we waited in the repair shop (with no air-conditioning), thumbing through outdated magazines that were tailored for the masculine reader, munching on candy bars and sodas from the vending machines.
After several hours it was fixed and we started back “Over the mountain” literally, as Mom would always say. She seemed insistent that we stop for a quick visit to her brother and their uncle’s house. Uncle Don was living with their 93 year old uncle, who raised them for a time as children. I was extremely tired and really had no desire to stop. Uncle Don would complain about Uncle Lyn (Lynwood) and visa-a-versa. Though elderly, Uncle Lyn was quick minded and sometimes sharp with his criticism of family and neighbors. He would also want to regale us with his violin. He only knew 3 tunes which he scratched out to his enjoyment, and our reluctant ears. Uncle Don was difficult to understand, having lost his larynx to throat cancer a few years prior. His drinking had also taken a heavy toll on his body. His stomach was grotesquely bloated due to what we believed a diseased liver. To my shame, I felt uncomfortable around him because of his appearance, and having to continually ask him to repeat himself when he spoke. Mom continued to the point of badgering, and I capitulated. When we pulled into the driveway, Uncle Lyn was there in the yard. We exchanged loving greetings, as befitting a niece and grand uncle who hadn’t seen each other in a few years. Mom bantered with Uncle Lyn, while I sought out Uncle Don. He was in the kitchen, apparently sulking after a tiff with Uncle Lyn, and sucking on a cigarette he swore he didn’t inhale. He was delighted to see me, being his first and favorite niece. I sat across the small country kitchen table from him in the late afternoon, listening as he related the day’s events with Uncle Lyn. In truth, Uncle Don took excellent care of his aging uncle who was not big on praise and I believe, saw himself as being the great benefactor for
letting Uncle Don live in his home. I struggled to hear what he was saying, but this time, didn’t interrupt him with “Sorry Uncle Don, I didn’t understand. Could you say that again?” I watch his mouth intently and found I could understand him better if I tried to lip read as well. As we went from subject to subject, he then amazed me by pulling out his poetry! I wasn’t aware that he was a poet in any sense of the word, but there before me was some of the most beautiful verses I had ever read, by anyone! My Uncle Don, who barely had an eighth grade education, and worked as a laborer all his life! He, more than any of his other siblings resembled their mother, with his dark brown eyes and curly once dark hair. It was wonderful to discover he had inherited his mother’s gift for words as well. Their mother did indeed, live on through her children.
Twilight was approaching, and Mom wanted to get home not too much after dark, and she had become anxious about being away from Dad for so long. I embraced Uncle Don especially close and told him how much I enjoyed our visit (and I truly did), embraced Uncle Lyn and we left. On the way home, I told Mom how glad I was that she kept on me about stopping. The following morning, Mom drove me to Richmond and I caught my flight back home.
I was outside in the front yard one early evening that August, when my husband called me into the house. He had my mother on the line, and I was caught by his sad expression. Mom relayed to me that Uncle Don died that afternoon. He had been fishing with an old friend in one of the local reservoirs there, when his line caught on a tree branch. In his effort to dislodge it, he fell into the water and drowned. Do to his physical condition, the family felt that he wasn’t too long for this world, and took some comfort in knowing that he died doing what he truly loved to do, fish.