morning
fridays
he was an interruption
hovering pensively
unobtrusively
in the pattern
repetition
routine of my hours
funny
he did not mean to indent
my schedule
funny
i never gave thought
that he would
or that he could
or should
but he has . . . with these
our few minutes mixing paths
. . . and oh
how I ramble
funny
if you stay
it may be worth your while
. . . while
as chance would play it
he was sitting there
i was standing near
greetings given
from a crisp british tongue
a nod and a smile
a bewitching beguile
from a face some eighty years turned
~ yesterday i had my last treatment . . .
of chemotherapy he spoke
to me
a stranger
he shares a confidence
a brightly lit hope
and he swashbuckles the fear
with his swift lilting faith
and I stay
and I listen
as he rambles on
till an apology for taking my time
time given
not taken
oh
how I ramble
funny
how he held my heart
flashing pictures of my father
~ i’m going to beat this, i will . . .
my father’s words
resting on the lips of another gentle man
and I wondered if this gentle man
has a gentle daughter
who would grieve
. . . i grieve
but do not wade in flim flam
and i found
that my father’s soul knew the journey
even if my father did not
in my father’s brown eyes
in the blue eyes of this man
i see
i saw the wandering questions
making for their way home
how I ramble
time given
not taken
funny. . .
these
numbered some six, maybe seven
friday mornings
we’ve had our moments chat
still sticking to the topic
on which this journey began
~you have a wonderful smile . . .
i let him know
and the blush was bright
in his old cheeks
~i’ll see you again next friday, perhaps….i said
~i’ll see you again next friday….perhaps…..he replied
his interuption ceased
hovering pensively
unobtrusively
in the pattern
repetition
routine of my hours
just
to have seen him sitting there next friday
to ramble on
it may have been worth my while
Copyright Jeanne Renè Watson
... converstaions accompained by sights, sounds and smells of an old bowling alley.
I'm glad this total stranger connects with you. Perhaps you had made him think about his daughter too.
Not all strangers would accept us. After my dad passed away I was totally lost without him. I walked through the mall everyday looking for strangers who would look like him. I've found a couple in the food court the guy looks like my father. He was the same height and wore a baseball cap too as my dad did. I walked up to them and tried to make conversation to befriend them, they looked at me as if I was a scammer up to something. I knew it was inappropriate for me to have done what I did, but I missed my dad so much so I wanted to befriend the one who looks like him. In my heart, I already knew I should not have done that. I don't blame them for being cautious. After all, they were quite old, and they needed to protect themselves from strangers.
Well, that was my story. Your poem made me think of that day.
An interesting piece…
Having been in a similar situation,
I have often pondered that these
‘Mixing paths’ with strangers are
often part of a process of what is
being endured…human exchanges
at these times to, help get us through…
Swashbuckling the fear…
WHISPERS OF THE HEART is artist and author J. Allen Wilson's second book of poetry.It can be autographed and shipped within 48 hours of order. NO LONGER AVAILABLE.
Selected poems from previous & forthcoming collections together with Q&R apps on each page to enable audio rendition simultaneously with the written text
This is my personal inspirational book of poetry. It contains many poems written for family, friends, and relevant life situations. Hopefully you will find some that will encourage and inpsire you in whatever arena you are found in your circle of l
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Not all strangers would accept us. After my dad passed away I was totally lost without him. I walked through the mall everyday looking for strangers who would look like him. I've found a couple in the food court the guy looks like my father. He was the same height and wore a baseball cap too as my dad did. I walked up to them and tried to make conversation to befriend them, they looked at me as if I was a scammer up to something. I knew it was inappropriate for me to have done what I did, but I missed my dad so much so I wanted to befriend the one who looks like him. In my heart, I already knew I should not have done that. I don't blame them for being cautious. After all, they were quite old, and they needed to protect themselves from strangers.
Well, that was my story. Your poem made me think of that day.
Sandie
Having been in a similar situation,
I have often pondered that these
‘Mixing paths’ with strangers are
often part of a process of what is
being endured…human exchanges
at these times to, help get us through…
Swashbuckling the fear…
A very touching and thought
provoking poem…
Diana…
🍃