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.
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”…
Growing up, storytime with Mom wasn’t so much about princes and princesses. The theme was more witches, black cats, and cauldrons. Yet in 2005, as a grandmother of seven, she wrote about the princes who came to visit one day. The Suitors The princes came Somehow she stayed awakeenduring flattery and flufftheir mouths were coffersfull of father lips were tired of smilingof eyes of searchingnot one would she wishto rule beside her They left at lastshe walked into her garden…
Had I studied four of the dozen books of the Aeneid – in Latin, no less! – I do believe I’d have spent the rest of my life complaining about it. Not Mom, though … a high-school senior, she wrote Virgil a fan letter. It was in the style of his epic poem, of course: On Completing Book Four of the Aeneid Farewell, proud poet of a thousand years,Thou instigator of our common tears –Thou prompter of the midnight oils…
I was really hoping to find out “turnabout is fair play” was coined by William Shakespeare. Alas, its earliest application may be lost to history, but Abraham Lincoln was an early user of the phrase, so we’ll keep it in play with today’s story. As you may recall, my father‘s entire life of home ownership was tortured by squirrels (see Nuts to you! from 2019). He and Mom loved to feed the birds in their many backyards, from Massachusetts to…
Mary Catherine Schmitt turned 16 on March 31, 1936. Her teacher sent her this note. A birthday greeting in verse, actually: Mary Catherine was a top student at Jasper High School here in Indiana. She was having a good month. Just a few weeks earlier, her name appeared twice in the local newspaper, showing her place in the sophomore class’s rankings. Here’s the Honor Roll announcement: Mary Catherine was the fourth born of the ten Schmitt children. Her father, Henry,…
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…
Yesterday morning, what may well have been a murmuration of starlings came racing through our back woods like a blinding blizzard. I just happened to be perched in my comfy chair in the sunroom, with a wide-eyed panoramic view of the squall. It was wild! Farmer Gary later explained to me the birds are rather frantic this time of year, looking for food and a bit of warmth. They flew in from the northwest and crowded in the tree branches…
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…