On Saturday

On Saturday

Cream and coffee in hand,

opening my father’s aged-manila folders,

I discover a side of him I never

knew. Poetry. Kerouac streams.

Joyce-like images and tales of sadness.

Viewing his world through the windshield

of his uncle’s 1933 Buick., what he must

have felt as he watched from the car.

His mother married someone,

not his father. The funeral, it seemed,

was only yesterday.


Armed with his words, I walk into the world

and into my mind. He is ever closer,

17 years after his death.

Messages that bear resemblance

to the stories of the farm and the Iowa

green house. When he took only me,

I fell asleep on the couch tucked beneath

the staircase. My grandmother woke me

for ice cream, but I couldn’t. So, my father

carried me to the pink-quilted room.

It was the first time I heard chirping Cicadas

beneath my window while the white-lace

curtains billowed.


These are the memories that come,

when the weeds rise up, gentle wild

flowers shelter the walkway.

When the Midwestern landscapes cover

the day and invade my dreams, I discover a me

I never knew, Kerouac streams

Joyce-like images and tales of sweetness.

What I must have felt!  An unending journey

through books and a looking-glass world

where all was possible.

A butterfly rests.

How God must love her patterned wings

and Midwestern landscapes.

On Saturday.



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