A collection of poems by Joan Cassidy Vayo (1930-2019).
A lyric poet, Joan (aka Mom) wrote poetry from her grade school years until just before her death at age 89.
Her work was published in Seventeen magazine, Yankee, America, and others. She self-published a collection of her poetry, titled when in the rain a snow.
Family blog posts tagged with Poems include her poems, plus writing from a few other family members.
The mercury hit 57 today and may make it even higher tomorrow. That is what you call a January Thaw! Thing is, there’s nothing to thaw. No snow since last month, and even then, not much to brag about here in southern Indiana. No doubt that will change in the coming weeks and I’ll eat my words, crunching on icicles all the while. Growing up in western Massachusetts, we had a January thaw each year. The best part (next to…
Judging from Mom’s poem below, I’m guessing she and Dad had just returned from a trip to The Hemingway Home in Key West, Florida, when she wrote this: Picasso’s Cat whichever life it wasdiscarded broken to the boxthe nine were not exhausted in Hemingway’s housethe cat Picasso madeemerges whole on the high chestout of Mexicohe tops it like a santothe house guides and the garden cats below pay homage ~ joan vayo ~ January 31, 1996 There are numerous stories…
This poem didn’t appear until its subject matter reached 41 years old. Mom, God bless her and keep her, may well have taken till then to get a good night’s sleep! Solstice 1955 Our son slept in the circle of my armsthat winter afternoon we drovethrough little towns in Massachusettssnow fell on the streetsand in the toy storewhere the china stars were sold ~ joan vayo ~ August 13, 1996 Sorry, Harry – I guess Mom and I just gave…
On the sad anniversary of Sandy Hook and the day after the Brown University shooting, I’ll just leave this here: “AMERICAN GOTHIC – Nineteen-Sixties” ©1971 Joan Vayo. All rights reserved. Binoculars photo courtesy Alan Levine. Please subscribe here and we’ll send an email notice with each new story:
We all were prone to red cheeks in the wintertime. Even inside the house: One teacher in junior high loudly proclaimed I looked like one of the Campbell Kids when I arrived at school, winded, after bicycling to school. That last hill was long and steep. Had I not been still out of breath, I’d have sassed the bum. Mom loved the reds of winter, and wrote this poem a quarter century ago. Winter Red Clap for colorholly winterberrycome caps…
It’s been sitting on a shelf in our house’s only walk-in closet. Ah, priorities. Family archives are far more important than clothes and shoes. When Gary and I packed up Mom and Dad’s kitchen in 2021, most of the cookbooks went to Becky, Dave’s culinary daughter supreme. But one cookbook I remembered well from childhood. It was in a large ziploc bag, as the cover was no longer attached. That one, I took home. Dad had filled me in that…
Have you been following the rediscovery of our Kelly family roots in County Antrim, Northern Ireland? It started with a visit Mom‘s cousin Betsy made to their grandmother’s Irish homestead in 1958. She kept good notes, some of which I used in this story about the Kelly clan. The twist to the tale was Dad’s father painted a portrait of the cottage in 1972. He used a photo from that trip. I always loved that painting, knowing it married Dad’s…
She started at midnight one night 50 years ago. A twig poem. Two days later, Mom finished her series of twigs: Is “twig” a type of poem, just three or four lines long? I’ve looked online (deliberately ignoring that pesky AI) but haven’t found a twig genre. Sonnets and limericks and haiku, but not a mention of twigs. If anyone knows, please post a comment to educate me. Oh, and include which of Mom’s twigs is your favorite and I’ll…
A Hallowe’en treat from Mom, dated 1999. Best read out loud, I think: The Man Who Kept Watch Over Pumpkins He dubbed them Tweedledum and Tweedledeeand dreamed them huge as harvest moonsone he would carve into a castlethe other would be laughing Jack O’Lantern Extravaganza! he would cryinciting them to growhe knew their seed and soil were paramountwith sun and rainthey nursed inside the earthand bloomed above it Protecting them from thieves and varmintsthe old man guarded them in day…
Philip Cassidy didn’t start out as a member of the Royal Dublin Fusiliers. When he volunteered to serve in The Great War, he was a member of the 16th Division Army Cyclist Corps. Surely Philip wore this badge on his uniform cap with pride: Philip Markey Cassidy was born in Dublin, Ireland, on October 12, 1895. He was the fourth of seven children born to Daniel and Mary Jane. “Markey” was Mary Jane’s maiden name. Philip’s father, Daniel, was the…