remembering brings them to life…


this illustration and poem are from my friend and famous poet, David Harrison.

It expresses perfectly our gratitude to our veterans and families.

in Old October, all things on earth point home…


Thomas Wolfe wrote, “All things on earth point home in old October; sailors to sea, travellers to walls and fences, hunters to field and hollow and the long voice of the hounds, the lover to the love he has forsaken.

Especially those in the military long for the peaceful fire of the hearth and family

My Father Was a Young Man Then

by Maria Mazziotti Gillan

Only 16, when he came from Italy alone,

moved into the Riverside neighborhood

full of Italians from Cilento—all of whom

 spoke the same dialect, so it was as though

they had transported those mountain villagers

to Paterson. At first, America was terrifying,

English, a language they could not master,

but my father was a young man

and he became friends with other young people

and they learned how to take buses and trains

or to borrow a car, and off they’d go

on the weekend to Rye Brook or Coney Island,

free from their factory jobs on the weekends,

reveling in the strength of their bodies,

the laughter and music and the company.

My father was a young man then,

and even when he died at 92

he never lost the happiness

that bubbled up in him,

the irrepressible joy of being alive,

the love of being with friends.

I imagine him in that time

before he married my mother,

before we were born,

before he had a tumor on his spine

that left him with a limp.

Imagine him with his broad smile,

his booming laugh, his generous spirit,

his sharp intelligence,

imagine him as a young man,

his head full of dreams,

his love of politics and math,

all the way into old age,

though his legs failed him,

though his body grew trembling and frail,

his mind never did.

When I’d arrive at the house

all those years after mom died, he’d smile
 at me with real pleasure,

the young man he was at 16 would emerge,

sit in the room with us

and laugh.
“My Father Was a Young Man Then” by Maria Mazziotti Gillan from What Blooms in Winter. © NYQ Books, 2016. Reprinted with permission.


Quenby 1975


two photos of Quenby born in 1975


The light changes from dramatic to subdued

from bold to tints of color

neither looks like the Windsor & Newton watercolor pinks I used

on the watercolor paper

for time has left its footprint

space has come closer

and human perception matured.

My daughter has left her footprints, come closer, and matured.

Now she mothers grand-cats,

dramatic, colorful, with pink tongues, footprints, closer, and maturing.

I’m scared


I’m scared

I’m scared
of letting go of my
moves me
Imagination flies me off
the ground.
status puffs me up with fluff.
If I let the Creator take over
His mystery will bring ambivalence.
And so
I’m scared.
Did you say: “start to trust him?”
I am not a child.
Or maybe, to Him I am.
Christ  and Sanctifier,
show me the Father.
And the Mother
and the adult child that is me.
Just for today.

This poem is about: 

Tue, 02/26/2019 – 10:41 written for PowerPoetry– jeannepoland

e a r t h


artist: J Byron Schachner


e  a  r  t  h

ear to hear
eat to grow
heat to warm
hare to jump into my lap
that’s what e a r t h gives to me.

heart rate
hat to shelter
eat to taste
hate to warn me
that’s what e a r t h gives to me.

it’s a mother
it’s a father
it’s a sibling too.
most of all, a god like me
that’s what e a r t h brings to me!

Archetype 2


from Pinterest

he’s not heavy; he’s

my brother, sister, mother,

father, family

Your Children


Your children are your

letters dignified and poised-

dancing A through Z!

Maud Gonne

In response to one of WBYeats’ many marriage proposals, Maud Gonne told him: “You would not be happy with me. … You make beautiful poetry out of what you call your unhappiness and you are happy in that. Marriage would be such a dull affair. Poets should never marry.”

In 1911, she wrote a letter to WBYeats and said, “Our children were your poems of which I was the father sowing the unrest & storm which made them possible & you the mother who brought them forth in suffering & in the highest beauty.”

Riddle#24 Who is My Family?

Who is my Family?

back to the past.
the way of the ancestors,
Grand Spirit Guides.

Bread of Angels, refresh me!

Grass inherited

Grace through the generations

“I am His Father and He is my Son…Let all the angels of God worship Him…Angels swift as the wind; servants made of flaming fire.” (Hebrews 1:5)

From God, to Mother to Son
The Spirit Messengers fly;
Flaming fire to cleanse,
Protect the chosen from high

The Spirit Messengers fly;
Swift as the wind
To those who sinned.

Flaming fire to cleanse,
Refresh with grace
Face to face!

Protect the chosen from high
The Father ministers
To earth’s youngsters.

%d bloggers like this: