My dad was a whisper whistler.
You know the kind.
Instead of puckering up your lips
into a little oh,
you put your tongue between your teeth
sort of in a smile, and then you blow.
Anyone can do it.
Except most people don’t.
He’d come walking down the hall,
the whisper whistler,
to the tune of Hail Hail the Gang’s All Here,
and how I wish they were.
Cherished
Steps of Old
In this place
we lived life without reins
walked quickly, surefooted and headstrong
enjoyed the sleep of youth, less but deep
savored black coffee and devoured Kierkegaard.
This hill
tread so many times
landscape changed, more green, more lush
more steps, surely higher, climb to a different space
new buildings rise above refurbished old.
The trees are bigger, the shade more dense
as we seek the shadows of our past.
Cul de Sac Season
She sits on a faded brocade chair
brown age spots and blue veins
eyes clouded by cataracts
lace curtain pulled back.
Her house is on a cul de sac,
last one on the end curve.
Yard swings, long quiet
moved wistfully in summer winds
now shrouded in new-fallen snow.
Nearby holiday displays
draw a slow parade of cars
like moths drawn to light.
Cold drive-by strangers
slip past the lone dark house.
Her solitary reading lamp
turned off at seven
A Christmas Carol splayed open
on the wood planked floor.
Bisque: cherished series, opus 8
china bisque faced doll
my aunt’s when she was young
a twin, that’s two, but not really
the second was a boy
christmas tree with big lights
not twinkling like miniature strobes
not like stars on top of Cadillac Mountain
where you waved blueberry stained fingers
mine were smudged from ink
postcards and letters sent back home
left out the sad parts
the stained and smudged parts
bisque fragile life
still beautiful
without the sparkle
Photo: my aunt’s beautiful bride doll. China bisque face with kid leather body.
Magical Place: cherished series, opus 7
Everyone has a house, but not like 5018.
We took many a long voyage
at that address, sailing the seas
within basement walls.
Grampa was a Swedish immigrant
young idealist and painter by trade.
He sailed across the Atlantic
right into the heart of America.
Years later, he painted the scene.
Ceiling sky cerulean blue
dipped to meet the walls’ horizon
forever brightened by invisible sun.
Gulls soared in place
their cries imagined real
through misshapen clouds
fluffy white, no rain in sight.
Waves rolled with white caps
dabs of paint that never splashed.
Life preserver, hung lifeless
unused and not quite round.
Dry mops swabbed the decks
while lookouts watched for land
till dreaded words Time to go home
drifted down from too real stairs.
We abandoned ship to heed the call
packed into four-door cars
rode through busy honking streets
back to everyday landlocked homes.
Emptiness Beside Me – cherished series, opus 6
We looked like that.
Proud nine year old, awkward
holding three month me, a treasure
until five years later
pest to your teenage hormones.
You, proud new daddy
me, awkward gawky sister,
new aunt in braces
and lollipop bra.
You, my tuxedo handsome usher
black shiny shoes on white sheeted aisle.
Me, excited oh-so-young bride
barely noticed your proud eyes and smile.
You, father of five
tee ball games and packed full car.
Held your newborn niece,
gentleness on your face.
No photos last time
you so cold and me so flushed.
In front of multitudes
you absolutely still, I wept you.
Pictures stopped. Not you with me,
no you with anyone.
Not in anger, joy or silliness,
just stopped.
Death’s reality lives
in happy photo albums.
Same people, changed by age,
with no you.
My brother, nine years older than me. Lost suddenly, too soon at 51.
“Not to worry” he’d say on the phone. Love these pictures. Love his family.
Memories Attached: cherished series, opus 5
Her dresser, the last to dismantle.
Birthday figurine, two fingers chipped
sits on a dusty mirrored tray.
Sweater sets and pedal pushers,
one lacey veil, bobby pins still attached
yellow cotton gloves, last worn many Easters past.
Hankies with hand stitched pansies
on delicate tatted corners,
peek from a small silk purse.
Sachet bags tied in faded ribbons
tucked in corners, sweetness long spent.
And then, there they were.
Red glass beads with silver crucifix
nestled on a small satin cushion,
third drawer front.
Ready for gnarled fingers
to move from stone to stone
haunted by her whispered words,
Hail Mary, full of grace.
Now hailed by millions,
minus one.
Discarded Memories: cherished series, opus 4
Our family bible was leather bound with gilt edges, like a large coffee-table book, except it sat on an out-of-the-way end table. Mother listened raptly to the door-to-door salesman and agreed. Books you own are a sign of pedigree. And then she filed away the precious threads of her life between its pages.
I used to sit fingering the bits and pieces of family history. Poems on scraps of paper with her handwriting: 1944 ~ Bud this is how much I love you. There was yellowed newsprint: Arthur Petitclair, dead at 58 with the smiling face of my grandfather staring out at me. A fragile, stained news clipping introduced Butch, the cousin I never met. …tragically found dead in his bed on Tuesday morning, at age eight, by his mother, Helvie Petitclair. There were holy cards of Mary and Saint Francis, and handmade cards drawn in those primary color thick crayons we had in grade school.
My parents called. We sold the house and everything in it to a nice young family. Everything? Everything. We just want to move on.
A nice young family? I suppose they held the bible upside down and shook out all those scraps of history. They probably sit and read the real text inside the leather cover.
The Framed Dream: cherished series, opus 3
NaPoWriMo Day 17 without a prompt. A constant in everyone’s life is the ability to dream. In your sleep and in your waking time. But what do we do when that dream is unfulfilled – stopped dead in its tracks? Sometimes by a conscious choice, sometimes by circumstances that present themselves, wanted or not.
The Framed Dream
It was a short notice: Helen is predeceased by Bud
and Charles Gruenwald Jr, her husband and son.
God knows, she’d lived the last eight years
impatiently waiting to join them.
It moved with her when she was left alone.
An eight by ten picture from a 1930s
Life Magazine: young nurse in white cap
surrounded by glowing light.
Her nurses training lasted six months.
Instead of earning a nurse’s pin
she eloped and eight months later
put my brother to her breast.
The room was empty when I took it down.
Water-stained backing, script barely readable
My dearest Helen, No one can take this away
from you. Sister Everista 1937 For sixty years,
she’d kept her dream in a plastic frame.
The Table: cherished series, opus 2
Celebrate National Poetry Writing Month NaPoWriMo Writing Prompt Day 7: a poem about something that has value or worth.
Cherished items, people, and places live in our memories. And because we lead transient lives, their meaning and clarity can evolve over time. Old photos call forth recollections.
The Table
She found the table at Marshall Fields
in nineteen forty-nine, and pictured
her family at exactly half-past six each night
four plates, four forks, knives and spoons.
White oak, the Illinois state tree
with tight growth rings
durable, resilient, and
carved with artisan’s care.
Emotions buffed artfully into lustrous patina
over years marred by scratches, chips and burns
tuna-noodle-pea casseroles set forgetfully upon the wood
and forks slammed down in anger.
Keeping up with Rita, Gwen, and Claire
teflon pans and a formica table-topper
emotions erupt on modernity as leftovers
disappear in a single swipe of the hand.
lillian the home poet 
