How many sunny Sunday mornings
have the pigeons
gathered for communion
in the piazza before the cathedral,

Centuries of socializing
with all who come to
sit or stand or kneel
to recieve with
outstretched hand
a piece of bread,
some wine,
this Holy place of meeting?

Pulling out old family photos,
What are we looking for?
Clues to our past in sepia tone.

Who were these people
with their arms outstretched?
How did they touch our lives?

We scour their faces
for likenesses of ourselves.
Maybe a secret will be revealed.

What would they tell us
if they walked in the room right now?
Would we know them in our bones?

Even though they were gone
before we were born,
the distance is not so long.

Memories of a grandparent
shape how we reach out
to a grandchild.

The span of five generations,
a hundred years,
is invisibly bridged.

We can almost touch their lives
through sepia tone.
An instant in time left for generations to ponder.

Searching Their Faces

Visiting the old folks
I strain forward in my seat,
trying to coax from them
stories of who they are,
where they’ve lived,
what they’re proud of.
Sadly, and too often,
pictures on the night stand
tell the only tale I’ll hear:
him in his uniform,
her in her wedding gown.
Sometimes, the best that I can do
is whisper in an ear,
“You’re beautiful,”
or pat a shoulder saying,
“I’m so proud to know you.”
Later, in the paper, I may read
of an extraordinary life
I never got to know.

Loss of memory, loss of self,
are barriers greater than time.

They’re within you…
whispering their
yes in your ears.

Keep going,
we’ll feed you

You can fly
with our wings
we no longer have

You give hope
to what
we couldn’t be

across seas
across time
becoming all

“May she
be the one
who breaks
the pattern…”

Dapper Daddy Doc
Buys his Precious Little Helen
Couture gowns from New York City
Nana Helen and Petey Boy stay home
Guarded carefully by the maid.

Dapper Daddy Doc
Speaks for Nana Helen
Daddy Doc always knows best
He is the king of their castle
He chooses furniture to gild the salon.

Before I knew her, Nana Helen whispered
To my other, more sensible grandmother
“I am really not like this, you know,
I was Phi Beta Kappa
At the University of Michigan.”

My Beautiful Nana Helen
Began to hiss and growl at fifty-eight
Roaring at me, clawing my skin
“Why does she hate me” I cried, silently.
A nine year old does not understand.

My Beautiful Nana Helen
Died, in silence, at sixty-two, leaving us memories of
A glamourous woman in couture satin
Tragic words, “I’m not really like this, you know…”
And of a lioness, imprisioned too long.