SuziCate's Musings

Posts tagged ‘family’

From the Mountain Top

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My assurance sometimes dangled like a tattered leaf,

hanging by a filament and blowing in the wind. Those questions,

such difficult ones I was not experienced to answer, consumed me

as I stumbled over rocks and briar foraging my way

through the dense forests of your childhood. And so

we grew up together, nomads in search of answers to life.

We were not lost souls, merely students who learned

to birth our own sunshine and balance our own truths

between the cardinal’s throat and the space where his song

meets the air of least resistance. Flesh and breath became

promise.  With every candle blown out, this tribe created

from the wisdom within me ushers me into another scarlet

autumn more beautiful than the last.

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From One Generation Of Men To Another

Father and son, cruising the manuals

Of cars and life. The older man rolls beneath

The car while his son hands him tools.

One man is approaching the hill,

The other descending.

Greasy handed, one passes parts

And the other wisdom.

They talk oil, filters, and women;

The nuts and bolts of living and loving.

The father knows it’s important to rev

The engine, go for a test drive.

He instructs the son to drive

Around the block a time or two.

One tosses granules on the oil

On the driveway and the other words

into the still afternoon air,

both absorb as intended.

Together, they wash away the grime

And sweat of the day’s work.

They share a beer and few more hours.

More is said within the pauses

And passing glances until

The younger man gets behind the wheel.

One thing the older man knows is

The ride is over way too soon.

This Old House

From the livestock to the gardens and fields of slumbered hay,

they were faced with more work than given hours in each day.

This old house has felt the footsteps of weary trodden men

who rested but a bit to get up and head to the fields again.

It is the place where women rocked their dreams into night,

only to rise when the rooster crowed in early morning light.

Ceilings echo screams of endless labor and laughter of life.

This home is no stranger to birth, death, love, joy, and strife.

Multiple generational life has absorbed within it’s walls,

as families of children walked away to follow their calls.

Changing times, they struggled to keep the farm in pace.

My father was the last child born at the old home place.

Circumstances of time and weather exercised it’s toll

on sore backs, blistered fingers and exhausted souls.

The farm has turned into a respite, a place to convene,

augmenting freedom and possibility; a place to dream.

A Childhood Home Revisited

Once upon a time there was a grand estate

Built for the plant manager in that day

And through the years, as is one’s fate

The luster and prestige time wore away

 

The proper and regal style of Queen Anne

With three porches and gabled roof of slate

Gave way to hide and seek and kick the can

With various occupants from 1890 to date

 

Intricate carved mantles and floors of wood

Marble counters and bedroom window seats

All the years of growing up, bad and good

And everything in between that life repeats

 

Once a home to Doc and Skeleton Joe

With treasures hidden in attic walls

And stories no one will ever know

And spookiness of creaks and calls

 

Daffodil lined sidewalk made of soapstone

That scraped knees and absorbed tears

And many hours one sat there all alone

Spilling the secrets of private teenage years

 

A parented-fortress for those who lived inside

Iron guarded fortress for those who wanted in

For each generation, a new set of rules to abide

A place for living, loving, and laughter to begin

 

Just a building into a home people made

A place for a family to convene and rest

Little by little, the pieces begin to fade

No lilacs nor daffodils survived time’s test

 

Now a monument of memories childhood

A reflection of us forging through the years

And hanging on to values for which we stood

A collection of our blood, sweat, and tears

****This is my childhood home up until about age ten. I visited it as an adult. I must say things look quite different through an adults eyes…not nearly as such from the memory of a child. things no longer seemed as large or scary. I can can only wonder how much of my memory is real and how much is imagined.

Monday’s Poetry Potluck theme: “Fortresses, Buildings, and Monuments”

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