I have just now written a grampa poem based on perusal of photo-archives and remembered stories from relatives. It could be a ballad if I could rhyme things oftener, but I'm happy with it. Hope you are too. --Geo.
Oh dear, what shall I do, and what good will It do when I do it? Grampa took a train As far as he could, Hired a boat by the bay. He made his way through Thoroughfares, Bedlam, Where squares became Parallelograms --in defeat, Buildings lunged onto streets. He found my great aunt Ann, And likewise uncle Joe, Gave them cash, food, wine. So they got though it fine. Grampa was a good man, As angels grade themselves. He never spoke of his good works Then died when I was twelve.
I stepped out of the Pumphouse (it was a Million o'clock in The morning) and drew The door behind me, Confused in light and Dew --I remembered you. An early investigation In this young nation of Fields and farms: I went Wisely to the school- Marm and asked, "What's Billy The Kid's middle name?" You said, "A definite article." I said, "'The?'!" You said "Duh!" "How does he outrun the law?" "With a modifier --always did. Fools everybody -- it's 'Billy The Other Kid'!" I said,"You're right, of course." As I fell off my horse but Did not fail to mention she Should return with me to My century as it really Could use her attention.
Future is at best a Dappled thing --time Dancing, light, leaves-- That retrieves Starlit sky from Focus in early Westbound blur On an east wall. Amnestic reel calls, Spins where Norma is. A new day begins.