Thank you Larry. These poems certainly inspired my own thoughts of that we
leave behind. It would seem you are more than blessed with Susan still alive
within you forever.
Dust of Mine
I look around me
From eyes not mine,
But theirs.
Are these things
Touched with me?
Should I help
Those left behind
By marking which is
The Powdered dust of
Worthy memories of self?
Is there that?
Pass or return the
Collected Netsukes
that pleased my heart,
And handmade cane's
And sculpted gifts
And old oil paintings,
My maps and lessons
Done to teach color
And form, yet
Nothing part of self,
But knowledge and steady hand.
These Books, so many,
Could all be gone,
Except those written
By self, family and friends.
Those noble kin
Of the Newbery, and
Fellow of the Author's Guild, with
Keepsakes from literary wizards
Of Mystery Writers
And Educators of the "gifted",
Telling stories of our family,
With names changed
To protect the crazy.
Should we tell?
I move from room
To room spotting
Photographs in black and white
Of family they never knew.
And photos of self they never knew
But through songs and stories of
This actress and singer of yesteryears,
And earlier lives.
These albums of me they only
Now can hear on outdated
players no one makes,
Of 33's and 45's.
And boxes of 2" tapes
With forgotten songs recorded
From brain sprouts of years gone by,
These analog tapes in a digital world
Should I take them through their vintage world
And bring them back through this digital age,
Before I'm gone?
You only briefly knew these souls my dears,
But you have heard their sounds
And stories told during winter meals
And summer barbecues
And have seen the
Old movies and tv shows,
The plane crash and those 'gone too soons'.
Don't throw them away...not yet.
And here are the
Special crystals to heal the
Pains or ward off awful things.
The totems, bones, and silks and feathers,
Sun water, moon waters, and runes.
Some dulled by lack of use or faith.
The directions of use tucked away,
in my Book of Ways, all seven,
With rare few left to translate
Or those Masters left
To map the ways, if wanted,
Once I move on.
Seems there's much to do.
And silly things...
What to do with these
Little pillows made then stuffed
With grass and seeds and cedar,
Filled of Earth from places I have lived
And loved and carried with me for decades.
Perhaps they should go with me too,
Along with these special ashes;
The pretty wooden boxes filled with
Ashes of my beloved dogs of history.
They shall come with me. I say they must.
Long lost canine family here,
With carvings of each
That now sit on the mantel and chest
With poems and collars and
Pictures of their bright and
Vibrant lives.
What can be done with all of this and so much more.
I shake my head, troubled now, and
Take my little dog for a cold windy walk in the sun.
Sherrie, the LionPainter,
In North Carolina
February 2016
http://www.siennamuseum.com ;
"When one tugs at a single thing in nature, he finds it attached to the rest of
the world." --John Muir
Sent from my iPad
