Memorial Day

She adjusted her pearls in the mirror as the sounds of her family gathering below flowed over her like the smell of her favorite perfume.  It’s been so long since we’ve been together, she thought, now everyone is home.  She tugged at her blouse one last time and turned to go downstairs to join the family.  Standing in the door watching her was Jed Delaney, her sweet Jed, her beloved husband of over thirty-five years.

“Martha, you look radiant as usual,” Jed said as he took her hand, “the gang’s all here, are you ready?”

“Yes, darling,” she said as she pecked him on the cheek. They descended the stairs into the front parlor, a crackling fire welcoming them.

At the bottom step waiting on them was their oldest son, Michael, who had arrived just a few moments before. Michael grabbed Martha and gave her a big bear hug, “Mom, it is so good to see you and dad, I’ve missed you so much.” Beside Michael was Jackie O, as they called her, a nice Irish girl named Jaclyn Katharine O’Reily before she became Michael’s bride and mother to their two sons, Matthew and Mark, and yes, they are working on Luke and John.

Mary Beth, the only daughter, sat in the overstuffed leather wing chair, looking like the princess she was.  As her mother approached, she rose and they embraced, communicating as only a mother and daughter could.  Mary Beth hooked her arms through Martha’s and they turned toward Ross.

Ross was the baby of the family and Martha mothered over him as he grew up. Often Martha refused to let him join in with his friends, “They’re such a rowdy bunch,” but Ross never really would mind as he knew Martha would make it up to him somehow, usually in the form of fresh baked cookies or pie.  Martha walked over to Ross and adjusted his tie, “A man in uniform can’t have a crooked tie,” she said. “You look so handsome in your dress blues.” She reached down and put a letter in his hand. “You can read it later, it’s just mushy mom stuff.” She looked at Mary Beth and together they straightened the flag that draped Ross’ coffin, Martha looked back at Ross. “Welcome home baby boy, now the family is all together once again.”

Why I Don't Write Poetry 2013-1

Haven't written in a while,
I've gone a few feet - even miles.
The muse really isn't much use,
A fragile thing easily beaten and bruised.
Waiting on it to inspire
To write words you'd admire,
But instead this is all I've gotten,
A missive, easily forgotten.

Still I hold out all hope,
That I don't sound like I'm smokin' dope.
Waiting on the words to come together,
Wound together like on a tether.
Instead all I get is tripe,
But really, who am I to gripe?
At least I've gotten a tickle,
From that muse, so temperamental, so fickle.