I have often made reference to the first poem I ever wrote.
Poems come from hurt or love. Then Mom was alive standing next
to me. She had tissue in which to cry. It was pouring down rain.
I borrowed tissue and a pen. The ink running in the rain. In
Memorial to a friend.
A dismal day
Shall it rain into the night
Man should be buried
Least it be in sunlit Daylight
Drip--drip drip!
Our umbrellas held up high!
As it turns to showers falling from the sky
Now turned to a dark black moaning cry
Cadavers all around
More witnesses they mourne
This Indian Chief
His papooses men fully grown
Douglas, intelligent--scholarly known
A College professor the cap he had worn
Jim, second born, has his father's
rebellious pride--Somewhere in the world
There are adventures to be tried
Muggs, a fisherman, taking up his father's trade
In the deepest ocean this proud Indian would wade
Chooch now in heaven
Tears not falling from this proud Chief's eyes
There is pride of his children raised
The heart no longer pumping deep beneath his chest
So know his work is done
Chooch knows he can now in pride now rest
Some of this poem lost in the rain smeared words.
I understand all three sons had this poem engraved
in time sitting on their mantles.Written in the rain long ago.
When one sees someone holding on to a lost love let it
be understood that is what poetic words are for. Remembered
in words forever more.