Middle brother Dave recently came upon a poem our Grandma Cassidy mailed to him in 1975. Since this is World Poetry Day and Grandma’s birthday, we must share: Not that I would ever critique someone’s handwriting, but in case you need help with the above … “To Joan” Our Poet Your words of JoyThat your message bringsGives my heart a lift as it softly sings. Sadness and Strife can bring much blissIf we hold God’s hand, we cannot missThe Wonders…
I thought of Matt the other day. We were great friends in college – both performers in the Singing Hoosiers (think Glee, but in college). I can hear his booming bass voice to this day. Just this past Saturday, there was a note online that it was actor Michael Caine’s 93rd birthday. There was a story about how he and Quincy Jones, working together on The Italian Job movie, suddenly realized they were born on the same day – making…
Our siblings and cousins are checking in this afternoon, asking each other how the blizzard is treating them. Here in southern Indiana, we did not have snow in the forecast. Yet, yesterday and today, a few flakes managed to blow around. Very few. Connecticut and New York are getting hit hard, with heavy snow and high winds. True to form, Harry’s wife, Linda, good-naturedly grumbled about only getting a few inches in Maine. This doesn’t exactly meet the “historic proportions”…
Who’s afraid of poetry? Good question! Mom asked this half a century ago. The answers may well be the same today: Four Tell Who’s afraid of poetry?Not I, said the football player.I don’t understand it, butthe words are kind of pretty. Who’s afraid of poetry?Not I, said the busy housewife.I even write some. It’s not goodbut it makes me feel good. Who’s afraid of poetry?Not I, said the dilettante.I never was. But I don’t like this sharing;it’s getting to be…
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…
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…
The anxieties and worries of the past few months bring me to wonder about another time of national crisis. In the early 1970s, there was war to worry about. And a draft. With three sons, two of them approaching the age to be called up, Mom and Dad must have been concerned beyond belief. We’d just moved to Fairfield, Connecticut. Richard Nixon was president. And Vietnam was on fire. Here are some of Mom’s raw war poems from that time:…
“The Hundred Acre Wood got floodier and floodier.” How lucky am I to have married a man who can quote Winnie the Pooh?! Farmer Gary and I were driving home after a wonderful weekend with James. Our youngest son lives exactly 250 miles from us, so it’s a bit of a haul, but always worthwhile. James cooked for us several times and took us to our first cat cafe. My favorite moment was just as we walked into the special…
Mom had a good friend named Ruth. She was a teacher and a writer. Once they met, they were friends for life. I’m pretty sure that’s who this poem is about, as apparently Ruth was 11 years older than Mom and passed away in 1996. Tribute I remember us both Ruthputting on perfumegirding for grace in the restless classroom This morning I anoint myself for gritin emptying our kitchen cabinetsI think of you posting my poemslike royal proclamations on your…