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I envy the simple life my grandparents lived in the 1950s raising my father and uncle.
Many days I wish I could raise my children in a world like that.
1950
small county,
BIG COUNTRY.
doors locked at night
to let in the land.
people smiled more then
i should wish at me,
because i'd freeze it and
jealously keep them hidden.
the time is gone and
my heart aches so...
deep, pending reality pains
strike chords of resentment.
what do men know?
saying that time is relative!
that nothing ever changes,
as if rain doesn't level furrows.
the small people living
small lives,
hot nights, with broken screens,
1950.
i close my eyes and
i can taste it!
i missed my chance,
tragically, i missed it...
these people were for me, as
roots outlive the leaves
lonely train whistles signal
melancholy season changes.
I missed it.
The smell lingers
In the air like some
Musty forgotten attic.
I missed it,
Didn't even exist
Couldn't possibly understand
What I didn't live.
But I do understand.
My grandparents, still,
Live in these places,
And I will too.
Somehow!
1950.
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This
old man can still be seen sitting on his porch, if you happen to drive by the right house
in Cumberland territory.
Advice
The Old man has memories.
I have fresh marks.
Wounds from the world.
His advice:
"Slow down
Until you can hear
the insects buzzing near the porch."
From his perch he has seen
The Ways of the World,
Watched flies land on the warm brick
Then disappear in the hazy heat.
He has tilled the ground
And studied the people
That will someday return to
Heaven dirt.
He says:
"In life
You must heal your wounds,
But keep all of your memories."
The old man has his memories.
I have yet to find them,
My wounds heal so slowly. ### |