It was my Father's old leather bound poem book that was the catalyst for this blog. Over the last few months I have posted many of his works, some dating back 80 years.
As I read the poems and writings in his book, I wish so much that he was alive today so that I could ask him questions about his thoughts and feelings.
None of the writings stirred more curiosity in me than the following entry that I transcribe verbatim from the yellowed pages of my father's book.
(The last time I saw Mrs. Campbell was in Washington. She was very weary of life, having carried 76 years of it on here rounded shoulders. Her existence centered upon a lingering hope that someday she might return to her England, land of her birth, her early happiness and later grief. She asked me to write a poem about loneliness, which I did.)
Slowly and softly and silently passing,
Moving the same old way.
Moments are dragging and ceaselessly stacking
And forming another day.
When things are so sad is there wonder I'm glad
To call back days that passed.
In that long, long ago...so far away,
The days that went so fast?
Dusty and gloomy and everything stuffy...
Everything seems to be.
And I remember when people were gentle
And lovely and kind to me.
But it hurts so much when i even touch
Those folded souvenirs,
I want to forget...but if I forget
What is there left...but years.
Time is so awkward and hopelessly clumsy
When such as this must be,
Joy is but bygone, the future is empty
And what is there left for me?
Forbid this despair and let me forebear,
Stifle my anguished cry,
Moments are ages; days are like aeons...
How long, oh Lord, and why?
Robert Mendte.
...oOo...
The best gate of a man is not to be born; the second best is to die early....
Silenus.
1 comments:
That was a beautiful poem Larry, you should have all of your dad and grandfather's poems published into a book. It might sell like hot cakes.
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