Starting around the 22nd of November I have been very ill. Too ill to write, most days even too ill to read. I am getting better. Give me a couple of weeks and I’ll be back to myself, whatever that is. If not before Christmas, then I wish all of you the best that life can provide.
© 2019 Barbara Grace Lake
By far most frequently he asks
Of every life, why am I here?
Is there a reason for my being?
Or purpose I have yet to fill?
A mother young will seldom ask
Her children upmost in her mind
Its when the helpless ones are grown
And imprint of their youth declines
She wonders then, why am I here?
As fathers work to shelter them
To nourish both their bodies, minds
He grapples daily, then it’s gone
Retirement sees as waiting game
In which he asks why am I here?
What’s now the purpose of my life
He sees his children donning garb
He daily wore in working life
As they succumb to older years
They, too, then ask why am I here?
Our years begin creating life
In time, sustaining, keeping safe
Our children then to carry on
As life belongs to them we ask
Have I a purpose yet to fill
The answer sounds, resounds again
I gave to you a part of me
When born your value infinite
Your purpose is continued growth
For giving others wisdom, love
And smaller yet her fingers, toes
Proportioned like a tiny doll
Alive she is too soon to grow
But let one finger down to touch
So tightly held her tiny fist
Imprisoned digit as my heart
Its texture smooth with lifelike veins
Bright sun so fragile, colorless
Throughout the day a varied green
The twig leafs out, arrayed in green
Matured to branch new buds erupt
As life is changing always on
© ca 1959 Barbara Grace Lake
When his plans for the day he will share
Making sure that she truly does care
Though he knows she would rather not bother
Without threatening a scolding from Father
But is sure he will vex her in pleasure
Or a child that another might treasure
Be so noisy and boisterous at night
His restive demand for a fight
From morning in some dusty cranny
And will argue with skill that’s uncanny
He so softly then asks for his Mother
To a marvelous tale or another
In the very young world that he knows
In affection that too seldom shows
So intense that it seems hard to bear
When both day and his life he can share.
Of Beloved Aunt Winifred Wells
© August, 1959, Barbara Grace Lake
[My cousin found this among some papers
that my grandmother apparently saved. I’m
happy she saved this one]
for I have gone –
I now have found and it
embraces me –
worldly life are merely shadows
of meaningless memories –
to mingle with the ashes and dust
of that which sheltered me –
shall cross from life
to greater life –
Don’t grieve for me.
© Barbara Grace Lake
Vignettes of persons passing by?
Astride grey horses snorting fire?
Across the sun, behind the moon
They’re going on. I want to go.
Beside my cousins Brenda, Bets
How gracefully they sit their mounts
Dense fogs are rising, I can’t see
They’re going on. They tell me no.
As faces riding ghostly steeds
Dissolving as I try to see
They left a gift, a fragrant breath
They have gone on. Their time had come.
Each actor melts into the clouds
But just as these have parts still here
My role’s to live and love and give
It isn’t time to fly away,
© 2019 Barbara Grace Lake
She’d never answer knowing that
Adults who ask would simply laugh
For children never know their minds
That lonely child who couldn’t say
She’d want her father home at night
Both parents snug her tightly in
She wouldn’t answer knowing that
If more than book t’was way too dear
Another year, another day
That girl away in boarding school?
She wanted more than life could give
A home in which to live. A home.
She wanted clothes, the latest styles.
Her gifts were seconds, last year’s rack
Not fitting quite her size or life
All felt they knew her mind quite well
She had career, they could not guess
What she’d most want if they should ask
A home, a home in which to live.
So woman married, children came
A life ideal thought all she knew
Of sanctity and marriage vows
Alone again, the questions rose
What will you, can you do alone
Through heartache, blessing even love
Though not again a sensual kind.
Her needs the same as when at 10
A home to share in which to live.
Now home she shares with caring child
Those final questions answered, done.
I just received notification that I have 200 hundred followers! Perhaps not all that much when so many have several to dozens of hundreds more, but it is a huge milestone to me. Thank you so much, all of you who have read and even possibly like my poetry. I am deeply grateful.
“If a free society cannot help the many who are poor, it cannot save the few who are rich.”
John F. Kennedy