More poems by the author
Empty House
Three stories high
and six families short,
The empty house
at the bottom of the street
fades into its final century,
while the big yellow machinery watches nearby.
For those who knew its dark walls,
it is still a living house.
The sharp bang of radiators,
the whistle of winter winds,
the squeak of stairs under scruffy shoes,
the sighs of a thousand long sad looks out the window;
They will not be carried away
with splintered wood
and crumbled stone.
For those who care,
there is another house,
up the street
and around the corner,
with plywood nailed across the windows and doors,
as if blindfolded
for the execution.
Reunion
It used to snow
when we were kids,
all day, waist deep, pure white.
It would start with a few flakes
here and there
and grow into a windy swirl.
When I saw you
for the first time in forty years,
I remembered the snow,
You waiting at the top of the hill,
my eyes fixed on yours
as I pulled the sled behind me.
Grandfather
My mother crumbled
under the weight
of his grumbling words,
But I remember
sharing his silence
when Mozart played.
Townsfolk were annoyed
at his careless wanderings on private roads,
But I remember
discovering new places
on a Sunday drive.
I remember his violin,
his musical hands,
and dancing together to Peter And The Wolf
in his enormous living room,
Hot chocolate on Saturday mornings
at Woodburn’s Restaurant,
and riding around all day
making up silly songs.
Children —
when I lead you astray on country roads,
Grandfather is to blame.
When I hide in my room with Beethoven,
Grandfather is to blame.
When we dance together to Peter And The Wolf
in the living room,
Grandfather dances with us.
