GRACE WHERE THE HELL ARE MY GLASSES by Roy Richard

Never got to “KNOW” this man,

                Mother’s father.

One time coal miner, blaster,

                Turned auto assembly line worker.

 

Union militant, enforcer,

                Quick to violence,

Beer swelling, whiskey consuming,

                Hunter, angler.

 

He left the coal mines in Pennsylvania,

                An explosive expert,

A mine accident left him unable to work,

So he brought his family to Michigan for work.

               

Now this is the story I’ve been told,

                But I remember no disfigurement; old photos show no trace of pain,

So I ask myself “Why did he leave that land?”

Was there scandal or shame? Guess I’ll never know.

 

He died just after I turned five.

                And only two memories of him survive,

Buried in the recesses of my mind,

No hugs or love or soft spoken words, only these two.

 

I was sitting by his chair playing,

                He was seated, reclining.

Hams beer on the table,

                Newspaper in hand.

 

His glasses shoved up on his forehead.

                When suddenly the silence was broken,

“Grace where the hell are my glasses?”

                I ran crying to find my mother.

 

I was told that he died, had gone away.

                Of course I didn’t understand, only a child of five,

So I pulled a chair to the coffin, to look down on him,

                Only these two memories survive.

 

I have heard stories and tales,

                His favorite pointer was bred by a mutt,

The puppies were placed into a sack,

                Tossed into a rain barrel to drown.

 

When a dog would “no longer hunt”,

                He shot them dead in the woods,

What good is a dog that won’t hunt?

                Not worth the food to keep them alive.

 

Enforcing his caucus in the union.

                Strong arming a vote,

Breaking the legs of a vocal dissident,

                Support his cause or else.

 

A son injured in a sledding accident,

                Almost scalping himself,

Can’t waste the money on a doctor or medical care,

                Held him down and sowed it back in place,

               

A son who wouldn’t leave the other boys “alone” at night,

                He would tie his hands behind back and make him sleep like that

Missed my parents wedding because of work,

                Trying and (failing) to outdrink my Dad,

 

Like I said I never “KNEW” him,

                These are the tales I was told,

Funny though how no one spoke good things,

                Of their father, grandfather, brother.

 

Suddenly after all these years,

                He begins to haunt me,

I wish he would go away,

                He still scares me.

 

Roy Richard

September 2022

 

Copyright Roy Richard

A CONFIRMATION NOTE TO A LITTLE GIRL I SPONSERED by Gaylia Kenslow – Stogsdill

May your life be rich in blessings –

Your heart be full of love –

Your acts always reflect beauty and honesty –

Your faith in God be endless –

And as your future unfolds –

Mold it in the likeness of a rose –

Remembering always –

                                Few roses are perfect –

                                But all are beautiful.

 

Gaylia Kenslow – Stogsdill

 

Copyright Roy Richard

BACK TO THE FARM by Katherine Carey-Place 1878-1934

You may talk about your city,

                With its hurry, strife and noise,

Its great white ways and theatres,

                Its social life and joys.

The place you dine, the temple grand,

                The club you proudly boast,

The hurry and confusion,

                And the things you like the most.

 

But I am here to tell you,

                If you want to taste real charm,

Just turn you back on cities,

                Make a visit to the farm,

Why you’re going to have the pleasure,

                Where ever it may be,

Of knowing real enjoyment,

                And hospitality.

 

You’re going to get a welcome,

                And a handclasp that is true,

Not weighted by clothes nor money,

                Nor the kind of work you do,

But a real old-fashioned greeting,

                Full of pleasure and food fare,

That will thrill you o’er and o’er,

                The while you visit there.

 

You’re going to know the gladness,

                Of a real old-fashioned rest,

And taste the old-time cooking,

                That you used to like the best,

The chicken fried in golden brown,

                With biscuits light and neat,

A swimming in the gravy,

                That no city chef can beat.

 

With golden corn, right on the ear,

                And early fresh green peas,

Potatoes in a snowy heap.

                And honey made from bees.

A welcome that renews your years,

                With its simple grace and charm,

If you want to taste these pleasures,

                Make a visit to the farm.

 

Katherine Carey-Place 1878-1934

 

Copyright Roy Richard

40 by Gaylia Kenslow – Stogsdill

 

Oh say can “Thou” see what has happened to “Thee”?

Why, just overnight – it has happened – Oh me!

I can’t understand “Thy” thinning hair –

And it seems “thy” waistline has drifted somewhere.

Now yesterday “Thou” was dapper and sporty!

Is this what happens when “Thy” turns 40?

 

Gaylia Kenslow – Stogsdill

Written for Howard Bishop on his 40^th birthday

 

Copyright Roy Richard

AUTUMN by Katherine Carey-Place 1878-1934

 

Oh, Autumn, in gorgeous raiment,

                What artist is the blame?

He has daubled his colors here and there,

                In one great glory of color and prayer,

Till the woods are all aflame.

 

There are browns and deepest crimsons,

                Orange and sunny tans,

Scarlet and dim old yellows,

                Done by a Master’s hand,

It is spread for eyes to feast on,

                And it helps to understand.

 

Katherine Carey-Place 1878-1934

October 1915

 

Copyright Roy Richard

40? by Gaylia Kenslow – Stogsdill

Sweet “16” – long time gone –

“21” – has rolled along –

“29” – well, it’s gone too –

Though we’re not late models, we’re good as new,

The chassis, she ain’t what she once was I know –

But at times she can really get up and go.

A look to the future – what’s in store?

They say “40” is better than what’s been before!

So thinking back on the things we have done –

If “40” is better, we’re just getting ready to run,

By the looks of us now, as “40” draws near –

Who knows what happens in our “80^th” year!

                Cheer up!

 

Gaylia Kenslow – Stogsdill

Written for Geneva Mosbey on her 40^th birthday.

 

Copyright Roy Richard

AUNT MARY’S VISIT by Katherine Carey-Place 1878-1934

 

She came to visit us at last,

                Aunt Mary sweet and dear,

How we planned to make her stay,

                A time of joy and cheer.

 

The sky was blue with, fleecy clouds,

                The bird sang loud and clear,

As if to tell Aunt Mary,

                They were happy she was here.

 

She came from out the golden west,

                Back to her girlhood home,

Once again to see the hills,

                And o’er the fields to roam,

 

To meet and greet the loved ones,

                And renew old friendships o’er,

To clasp their hands in greetings,

                As in olden days of yore.

 

Dear Aunt Mary,

                How we love her,

How we’ll miss her smile and cheer,

                How we wish that we might keep her,

Always hold her with us here.

 

For we need her wit and laughter,

                We need her understanding heart,

If we could we would not let her,

                From our home or life depart.

 

And the lessons which she taught us,

                Of patience, faith and love,

Shall be a beacon light to us,

                When she shall rest above.

 

Katherine Carey-Place 1878-1934

August 12, 1931

 

Copyright Roy Richard