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.
I heard from Mom’s cousin Patty this week. She lives in New Hampshire and emailed that they were under a weather alert to watch for tornados. Tornadoes in New England. Crazy stuff! Here in southern Indiana, we had some wicked thunderstorms a few days later. It’s been very hot and those pop-up storms came and went all night. “That Mother Nature – she’s sure in a mood!” I might have said to Farmer Gary more than once. As a Tiller…
I’ve been thinking a lot about Mom and Dad these past several days, knowing they were just 14 years old when D-Day occurred on June 6, 1944. The 80th anniversary of D-Day commemoration brought tears to my eyes, watching news coverage of the war veterans – some of whom had stormed the beaches of Normandy – honored and paying tribute to those who filled the cemeteries after the horrific battles. While reading The Longest Day by Cornelius Ryan over the…
I can’t help but wonder what life would have been like if social media was in full force back in the 1960s. More specifically, if The Beatles could have used the internet as they released each new album. Just the thought gives me a bit of a shiver … But that was then and this is now. And every time I hear or see the name of Taylor Swift’s new album: The Tortured Poets Department, I think about my poet…
In the last few days before today’s total solar eclipse, I couldn’t resist checking to see if Mom had ever written a poem about this all-too-rare occasion in nature. Sure enough, she had. But, as often as she wrote about the moon, that’s not what this poem from 1971 was about. Eclipse I saw two wagons passing by the sea:one full of letters from my love to me.The other held a cargo of such strange designthat I could only pray…
Today is Mom’s birthday. She was born 94 years ago, giving her mom bragging rights to winning the great competition. During her teens, Mom penned this poem. Writing in first person as an octogenarian, the lovely green-eyed redhead tried to imagine what life would be like so many years in the future: Passing Phase of an Octogenarian Today is my birthday. And when they think I do not hearThey whisper I am old. They say that I have had my…
Now that we have a sunroom, Farmer Gary and I notice daily we have several new patches of disturbed earth outside. It’s time to decide what to plant there. We brought up the topic while visiting with John, Aubrie, and Cameron last week. Aubrie loves to garden and is always great with gentle advice – be it regarding fruit, vegetables, or flowers. It’s always fun for John and me to observe our spouses dig in and discuss fertilizer, alkaline levels…
Mom was an apron wearer. She wasn’t a messy cook. Not at all. The wearing of the apron may have come to pass due to a combination of tradition and an attempt at preserving her clothes from showing wear as she leaned against the edges of kitchen counters and tables. I think she also liked finding interesting designs and patterns. Mom had a Christmas apron or two, plus at least one apron to represent each season of the year. Apparently,…
We moved around a lot when I was a kid. Frankly, I never got attached to any particular home or community. Not attached enough, anyway, to consider any of the houses a homestead. In these past several years as I’ve sifted through generations of family photos, I’ve seen my maternal grandmother’s handwriting referring to her parents’ New Haven house as a homestead. That was technically correct, as the Lombard Street property included a house, a barn, and an outbuilding or…
There is something about the English language that is so delightful, yet infuriating. In particular, I mean the sometimes opposite definitions we Americans place on a British word. (One example, which I won’t detail completely, involved me complimenting a TV producer’s fanny pack. Well, she and the executive producer were fresh off the plane from England. They enjoyed a fine giggle at my stunned expense.) Here’s another example: Scheme. Scheme is a perfectly fine word in England, and presumably the…
It was close to midnight the other evening when I heard it. A train whistle. In the far-off distance. I love the sound of a train, especially at night. It’s so comforting. I asked my musical brother Dave if he knew exactly what chord the whistle plays. Here’s his reply: I’ve heard a lot of different chords from train whistles, but my favorite (which I’ve heard quite a bit) is a major chord with an added 6th, like F-A-C-D. The add-6 chord…