For a Child of 1918

My grandfather said to me
as we sat on the wagon seat,
"Be sure to remember to always
speak to everyone you meet."

We met a stranger on foot.
My grandfather's whip tapped his hat.
"Good day, sir. Good day. A fine day."
And I said it and bowed where I sat.

Then we overtook a boy we knew
with his big pet crow on his shoulder.
"Always offer everyone a ride;
don't forget that when you get older,"

my grandfather said. So *****
climbed up with us, but the crow
gave a "Caw!" and flew off. I was worried.
How would he know where to go?

But he flew a little way at a time
from fence post to fence post, ahead;
and when ***** whistled he answered.
"A fine bird," my grandfather said,

"and he's well brought up. See, he answers
nicely when he's spoken to.
Man or beast, that's good manners.
Be sure that you both always do."

When automobiles went by,
the dust hid the people's faces,
but we shouted "Good day! Good day!
Fine day!" at the top of our voices.

When we came to Hustler Hill,
he said that the mare was tired,
so we all got down and walked,
as our good manners required.

my dearest darling,
ce qui est à moi est à toi
and smell a flower and taste its sweetness and know that the world holds you in its belonging caress so that you are symbiotic and chaotic and live free and happily and loved.

Craving essences of inner thoughts
toward picturesque portraits,
to be created by soulful words--
The Artist lets emotions run rampant
through mystical sounds and touches'
delights--
A heartfelt design from a whirling frenzy
of mindful notions,
framed into a mosaic which carries this message:
"As long as life perseveres,
there will be fables following us
leading us out of the darkness."

Through your vision of lightness,
a miracle glows with brightness;
A collection of hearts define it,
reminding you who's behind it.

A ladder leads up to the sky,
you climb it as if you can fly;
Yet this face is a mere illusion,
so why deal with such confusion ?

Gone away in cloudless moments,
still haunting your memory's torments;
Of pain recalled from past times,
soon erased with poems that rhyme.

And all along this path to glory,
that measures a worthless story;
The face becomes an invisible token,
of fragile words no longer spoken.

my sis is my air
silent to let me be
but always around me
2/8/2021