Home Sweet Home
The Widow Willoughby knows worms
... better than most
she knows they are patient
and ticklish
she admires their resolve
I remember dear Gammy ... the old cottage where she raised us. The world wasn't allowed inside, only us. She had the keenest toys and the best stories.
I never knew my mommy, only the tale my father told.
Stockings hung by the fireplace
treasures untold
reside inside
as long as
you don't peek ...
Gammy told a different story. I believed her; Father was mean. He said mommy didn't care about us, ran off, never looked back. Gammy says he made her disappear and that was all she could tell us. She said mommy loved us and to never believe anything else. Father died when we were all visiting Gammy. We were asleep and he was taken away before we woke up. That was fine with us. He was mean. Gammy said, he just up and died. Poof.
a street urchin
hides behind a tree
in a city park
watching a family
have a picnic
he sighs ...
but he doesn't know
a damn thing
We became orphans for a moment ... then we became Gammy's. Grandpa died before we were born. "He's in his garden", Gammy would say. "dancing with the worms". Then she'd laugh, and we'd laugh too, since it tickled her so.
Mr. Willoughboy's garden
was his prideful joy
but a garden can be
an evil
deceitful place
fragrance in abundance
may cover a stink
blankets
of morning glories
to greet the day
can make festive
a house of horrors
rows and rows
of riotous coloured flowers
an excuse
to dice and impale
industrious worms
with a sharpened spade
endlessly tilling the soil
A young girl, newly found to womanhood, feels the blossoming surge through her. Her mind tries to understand what it all means. Sometimes a young lad will take her fishing in a canoe on the river. Other times an older gentleman will show her how to catch a fish, clean it, cook it and serve it to a man.
Raphe Willoughby
offered many a
deep red rose
to the frequent
blushing nubile
passersby
"Mind the prickers"
he'd hiss
with surly charm
The Misses would not dare
cry out
no, the repercussions
were unthinkable
whimpering
became the music
ot the Willoughby household
and silence
its counterpoint
an unnoticed dirge
even the birth of a son
barely drew a cry
from her breath
fear often looks
brave
A trembling pair of hands accepts a new life. It is placed gently therein and begins to cry. "I am your father" a man says as he looks in astonishment at this small creature in his hands. Echoes of screams fill his head and the feeling of helplessness begins to lessen. He looks at the women rising up from the bed to approach him. She grasps the child from his hands with supreme confidence and a loving smile. He backs up in awe. He can't fathom what it takes to be her.
sons learn
and become husbands
and whimpering
is contagious it seems
the dirge continues
The Mrs. found her own use
for the garden
the soil was
always well tilled
and turned--
ripe
for an easy
planting
First
Mr. Willoughby
then
The Widower Willoughby Jr.
Both
found themselves
in partnership--
secretly in cahoots
with vengeful worms
tickles can titillate
or delight
or torture
even a worm knows
the difference
*****************************************
And now there were
stories to read
to grandchildren
snug and secure
surrounded by the loving arms
of the one person
who cared without restriction
who loved
and made sure
love won the day
the fire
crackled and giggled
with kindling of bloody clothes
and smelly tobacco pipes
and memories
memories are like stories
by a warm hearth
when life is good
or they can be tales
of horror
when
alone
abandoned
ghosts of
gardeners
whose garden
now embraced them
hovered in the smoke
but did not haunt
anymore
home was now
sweet home
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