(response to yesterday’s prompt
for national poetry month)

~

paisley in golden rod,
the only name for
a fabric this fright'ning,
remembered all too well.
by siblings one and all.
short one for little brother.
long one for a father, tall.
each has tried to forget
this, a night of infamy
gone wrong, a season's greeting
in the middle of the sixties.
when one from distant shore
thought to add to
our family this lore,
and sent as Christmas gift,
what's not on ANY child's list;
now tis burned indelibly,
etched far too deep in memory
for sure this gaffe
they thought a boon.
till disappointed children's sighs
their echoed groans
'cross living room,
this boon a bust revealed!
for whatever possessed
this he or she?
who, but pure insanity,
would conjour up this spirit
of unholy, living terror?
for this was no gift in living color;
no... this instead,
t'was the night before Christmas,
when hell incarnate
dropped in for a visit,
and dressed children six,
with a mum and their dad
in matching paisly,
pajamas of golden rod;
still a distressing memory
forever in infamy fixed!

~

post script.

yes, there are pics and there's even a home movie; six siblings are still trying to unearth and shred every copy!

The brightest smile of the day
Is early morning sunshine

                                            By Phil Roberts

If I could draw it -
but I was never an artist.
What a picture that would be -
my family.

And maybe if I could trace the lines
I could better understand
how I came to be--me.

But I can't separate the smells
and sounds
and touch of it,
pencils can only go so far.

And there are the scenes
that I can only imagine.
The ones that happened
decades before me.
I see my grandpa's smiling face.
I don't remember him
as a brawling drunk
terrorizing his family
after world war II.

Granny smelled like powder
and liked men
though she would never admit it.
She talked a lot
but I don't remember ever
hearing any thing worthwhile.

The one I can't name.
He hurt me in the dark.

Mom Glass, the bootlegger,
who took her grandaughters
on Sunday trips up the mountain
to buy moonshine.
She wore red underdrawers
and she didn't care who knew.

Mammaw, who gave me words.
Who didn't know I was a refugee
but always welcomed me warmly.
She taught me the beauty
of being earthy.
No prim or proper uppity
girls fishin in the creek.
That one brought tears.
I miss her smile.

There are so many faces.

Voices.

Memories.

All contributed something
to the poem
I haven't written yet.

Poetry until the end
and the end
is surely
poetry.