Just Call Me

Just call me in the morning
Just call me when it rains
Just call me when you need me
And I’ll come back again

You can call with a whisper
You can call me with a shout
You can call me in your heart
I’ll be with you have no doubt

Though you cannot see me
You can feel me in your soul
Trust that I am always there
In your heart that's what you know

When your walking down the road
You are never really alone
I am always by your side
Guiding you to your home

Call me when you rise
And when you work and when you play
Call me where ever you are
I’ll be there at the end of each day.

I've Always Been A Writer

Well I've always been a writer
Though it seems to come and go
I love to put the words down
Letting them find a place to go

Like a composer at the piano
Finding notes that make a song
Like a painter at the easel
Moving colors around and along

Like an inventor at the work bench
Trying to make something new
Like a scientist in the lab
Find which theories are true

Like a chef in the kitchen
Mixing ingredients for the right taste
Like a sculptor with his tools
Carving carefully not in haste

Well I've always been a writer
Though it seems to come and go
I love to put the words down
And let them find a place to go

Embrace Me In Life

Embrace me in life
Don't just weep at my grave
Over the time that we lost
The moments we should have saved

Embrace me in life
Who knows what will comes
Share this life with me
Live our days one by one

Embrace me in life
Sing the songs we love to sing
Dance each minute with me
See what each day will bring

Embrace me in life
Let not a moment go to waste
Walk hand in hand with me
Do so slowly not in haste

Embrace me in life
Embrace me every day
Embrace me with all your heart
For that’s the only way

Embrace me in life
Don't just weep at my grave
Over the time that we lost
The moments we should have saved

Standing on the Edge

Tonight's personal writing assignment, motivated by watch a show about high school students trying to find their places, was to try to recreate some of the feelings I had at that age.


Well I’m standing on the edge
As I seem to always do
Yes I’m standing on the edge
Trying to find just what to do.

I want to dance with you
To a song that’s fast or slow
But I stand here in the corner
Till the last song signals the time to go.

I want to be the leader
But I’m never at the head the line
Instead I watch the others move forward
While I walk a few steps behind

I want to join in the circle
To grasp other hands in mine
But I stand on the outside
Perhaps it not my time

I wonder if it will happen
If I’ll ever quench my thirst
If the saying will come to be
And the last will be the first

But till then I’ll bide my time
As I seem to always do
Standing on the edge
Dreaming dreams that never come true

Mother's Day 2009

It’s Mother’s Day!
I wanted to call you, but I don’t have the number
I remember all the old phone numbers, 7257, 4298, 3402 and 0879
But I know you won’t answer
I know we won’t be able to have the conversations we used to have
Not the ones in recent years where I did all of the talking, repeating the same information with each conversation and during each conversation
Not the earlier ones, before Alzheimer’s, when there was give and take, when there were questions and answers, when there was sadness and laughter, when there was love expressed and silently known
I remember those calls.

It’s Mother’s Day!
I wanted to send you a card and flowers, but I don’t have the address
I remember all the old addresses, 5508, 5961, 9505 and 1554
But I know you aren’t there
I know you won’t be able to smile at the card and smell the flowers with delight
Not the way you did in recent years when you were able to appreciate them over and over not remembering that you had seen them moments before
Not the earlier ways, before Alzheimer’s, when you would call with joy in your voice, when you would express your appreciation, when you would speak of your own mother and how you missed her, when there was love expressed and silently known
I remember those times

It’s Mother’s Day!
I wanted to tell you that I love you, but I don’t know how
I remember all of the times that I did tell you
But I know those ways don’t work now
I know that you won’t be able to hear or see me, or to feel my love
Not the way you did in recent years when you were able to say “I love you with my life” and I was able to repeat those words to you.
Not the earlier ways, before Alzheimer’s, when I brought you the child’s hand drawn cards, when I made you the youngster’s breakfasts, when I bought you the teenager’s presents, when I sent you the young adult’s flowers, when I shared with you the father’s stories
I remember those ways

It’s Mother’s Day!
I wanted to do so much that I know I can no longer do
But I know that on this first Mother’s Day that you are not here to share
I still can have the conversations with the part of you that is a part of me
I still can see the beauty of the world through your eyes
I still can appreciate all I have with the lessons that you taught
I still can love my memories of you
I still can love my family “with my life”
And that is the best way to honor you on this Mother’s Day
As I remember you.

Golden Books

Rosebud symbolizes the loss of youthful innocence and happiness that Charles Foster Kane unknowingly searched in vain to recapture. Perhaps we each have our own personal Rosebud, a time of pure uncomplicated enjoyment. For me, that time was the time spent with The Little Golden Books into which I could transport myself and from which I learned the lessons that would serve me well throughout life, but I didn’t fully understand the lessons then.

Scuffy the Tugboat was not satisfied with the little world of the bathtub and full of self-confidence, Scuffy takes advantage of the first opportunity that presents itself to travel down a small stream. But, this venture turns out to be a step on a slippery slope and Scuffy finds himself on an unexpected voyage of discovery. After seeing the world from the various waterways, he is reunited with his family. We each set out from time to time on our Scuffy the Tugboat adventures and, in doing so, we expand our world and, if we are lucky, we find our way home and realize how special home is.

For Sooki, The Saggy Baggy Elephant, life’s challenges seemed overwhelming as he viewed himself as one of a kind, alone in the world, like no other, and this belief was reinforced by a parrot’s mocking of his large floppy ears, long nose and wrinkled skin so that this saggy baggy elephant lost all self-confidence. But, this feeling rapidly vanishes when Sooki’s search ends with his meeting of others who look just like him and, in celebration, he explodes with a “one-two-three-kick.” We each have times when we feel that we are alone in the world, that no one shares our thoughts and dreams, but by searching both in and out, if we are lucky, we find others who are like us and realize how special that connection is.

The Poky Little Puppy always seemed to be a step behind his siblings and so, when the others snuck out to frolic, the Poky Little Puppy lagged behind not because of his inability to keep up, but because he observes his world. His action is rewarded when the other puppies, having escaped from their yard by digging under the fence, are caught. While the other puppies are scolded and sent to bed, the Poky Little Puppy gets rice pudding and then, when a similar incident happens, he gets chocolate custard for dessert. Rewarded twice and feeling quite proud of himself, the table turn when the other puppies sneak out, fill the hole under the fence and are rewarded with strawberry shortcake while the Poky Little Puppy arrives too late, has to squeeze through the fence boards, and goes to bed hungry and feeling "very sorry for himself." We each have times when we have met with some success and find ourselves self-assured and certain of future success if we follow the same path, but, with experience, we learn that we have to move beyond observance to action, and to be too full of ourselves.

The Little Golden Books, read to me with love, had so much to offer in a time of innocence and endless possibility.

Getting Ready For Dinner

Gazing into the mirror, all he could see was his silk bow tie . . . cross, down, around, up the rabbit hole, pull, loop, through the whole, pull, straighten. How many times had he performed this ritual that his father had painstakingly taught him so many years ago. How many times had he created this faux barrier between his head and his body, between his mind and his heart.

Stepping back, pieces of his reflection came into view. His beard, which has been his face’s companion for half a century, no longer held any trace of the earth-brown that it had been in the beginning or the salt and pepper that it had been for so many years, for now it was a simple, uniform white. Still, he like it and, although over the years he had often thought of shaving it off to give his chin and jaw its time in the sun, he had never done so. Perhaps it was the reaction of his wife who, having never known him with a naked face, feigned agreement whenever he threatened to do the deed, but in reality, he could no more lose his beard than he could walk naked in the street for it gave him a certain protection and comfort.

Beneath the beard, he clenched his facial muscles ever so slightly so that his lips pulled outward to form that semi-smile that, at some point many years ago, had replaced the full-toothed grin of his youth. He liked to think of it as his modified, without the teeth showing, Cheshire cat grin, that conveyed a wisdom that had been earned through years or experience, but in reality, he had never liked his teeth for although he had not been a smoker, they were more yellow than white (his doctor having told him once that his bones probably were the same color, but he never would know if that was the case), and they were full of spaces and sharp points rather than the uniform soldiers found in so many other mouths.

With a subtle shift of position, he was able to see his nose that looked as if it had been taken from a different batch of clay and plopped onto his face for its was always redder than the surrounding territory. He alternated between being fascinated by the ever- changing shades of red displayed on his nose to being saddened by the peaks and valleys that formed and vanished from time to time.

Another slight shift brought his eyes into view. At least they had not been drained of their blue color although areas of earthy brown continued to expand. Perhaps that was a sign of becoming more grounded with age, but just as likely it was a sign that his mind’s eyes spent less time soaring into sky and more time contemplating the reality of life on the ground. Though he often thought of looking skyward more often, daily life required a focus at ground level just for survival.

With one more backward movement, he could see his entire head. As a young child, his head had been covered with a thin layer of crew cut hair over which he could run his hand to create a feeling of electricity. Later, he had let it grow to shoulder length, as was the style for so many who wanted to show independence and rejection of standards, only later to realize that it simply was an acceptance of other standards. Then, sometimes after having conformed to the adult business standard, the hair war had begun with some strands surrendering their color first to silver-grey and then to white, and some strands simply choosing to leave and in doing so expose the surface.

Then, with a slight tilt and nod of the head, and a half wink-like approving smile, he turned and walked away for it was dinner time and he long ago had made it a practice not to be late for dinner. He thought about the thousands of dinners of his life. As a young child, the time for dinner was signaled by his suited father walking into the house with a newspaper under his arm and a Jack-In-The-Beanstalk giant bellow of “I’m home, I’m hungry and what’s for dinner?” always followed by a smile, a laugh, a kiss for mother and a hug for the children. Later, dinner was a catch as catch can affair, but those were the days when mealtime was just an interruption in a busy day’s schedule. That had changed with the addition of children for dinner that became the window to the ever-changing landscape of daily life, and the joy and laughter of being surrounded by family and youthful laughter. And when the children were gone, dinner became a time of reflection on the day and on the earlier years, and a time for thinking about the days to come.

And now, dinner had become the focus of the day for it offered familiar faces and connection, but only when one was timely. So, with a hunched shuffle that had long ago replaced the child’s gleeful skipping, the teen’s cool sauntering, the man’s upright, prideful walk, he left his alleyway home and moved to the back of the line of life storied, forgotten men forming at the door to the homeless center food mission.