Grandma's Daddy

(10/30/2018)

Grandma said her daddy, Joe, died in 1902 of TB.

She felt bad that she didn't remember him,

but she was only three when he died.

She knew all about him, taught all his family names to me,

so when I grew up and settled down, I started doing genealogy.

His name was Joe W. and I couldn't find his grave anywhere I looked.

I couldn't find it on LDS films or in county history books.

I figured he was buried in an unmarked grave

which didn't make a lot of sense,

since his parents and siblings tombstones were

in a little family cemetery, with a special little fence.

I looked at newspaper articles and only one other Joe W. could I find,

a man who murdered someone in another part of the state.

He killed a man in 96' and was hung in 97'.

Grandma was born in 99', so that didn't fit.

Then along came autosomal DNA tests which

lifted me out of my genealogical pit.

I found those W. family names, just like Grandma had said,

but right next to those W. names were C. names.

I was matching C. names in all time and space.

There were matches with C. names all over the place.

Then, I found Joe's cousin, Jesse W.,

whose mother was a C.,

and a light of recognition glowed like an epiphany!

I think Joe W. might have been hung in ninety-seven,

and later his cousin stopped by to console the widow and tell her

that occasionally maybe even murderers might make it into Heaven.

What more can I say? With all that consoling, it wasn't long

before there was a baby on the way.

But Jesse was married with kids, so great-grandma did

what resourceful women do. She made up a story or two.

She'd lost a daughter to TB, so she said Daddy Joe died that way too.

And just because I put it in a poem

doesn't mean it's true.

Graveyard

(1/25/2019

We'd meet, a group of us, on a week night, usually Tuesday,

just inside the gates of the graveyard, where we hoped nobody saw.

Then, we'd find a freshly dug grave, usually someone we knew,

and sit around it, holding hands, asking the newly dead to talk to us

and tell us how things were in the afterlife so far.

If no one started giggling or crying, the night was almost a success.

If we lit a candle and it went out, we credited spirits, not the wind,

and an owl flying hooting or flying over was definite proof of the afterlife.

When we got cold or tired or bored, we'd quit and call it a success,

with plans to do it again the next time someone died

or do it next week or next month, whichever came first.

We'd part, everyone saying we should bring a pizza next time

and each of us knowing we never would.

Local News

(1/25/2019)

I saw a video of anchors around the country who work for the same organization,

telling the same story with the same words.

News anchors chanting in unison;

a choir of those who should remain neutral,

but who fail to recognize

the dangers they, themselves, impart.

Sounds like a drum beat, rum-pum-pum,

Sounds like propaganda, rum-pum-pum,

straight from the mind of another, rum-pum-pum,

certainly not from the heart.

Look at them. Are they on your local news

and what do you think you see?

They look nice, smiling, and they all sound the same.

Looks like something that just might be

Dangerous to democracy!

Not Exactly Psychic

(2/26/2019)

There are feelings some of us experience

that we know are correct about things.

No, my psychic inclinations do not include

the lottery or horse races, or other things that

might benefit me financially.

They concern evil, like that time two years ago

when I knew the rental truck that I met on the two-lane road

had some evil happenings going on inside it, so I just

parked by the side of the road and shivered, then cried.

You see, you can't call the police to report hunches you have,

or feelings. They don't investigate those, so it's

better not to have them, I suppose.

But if you're stuck with the feelings, try to get by,

or pull over to the side of the road and shiver, then cry.