Poinsettias & carnations sprout,
grave by grave, in my old hometown.
My parents. Doc Johnny.
The boy I had a crush on,
sixth grade.
Carlton
Skeet
Ella Ruth
Malley
A roll call of breathless days
I thought I could wrap in tinsel,
hold tight in my fist, but
hey, I'm just an aging ex-hippie now,
searching for one more mistletoe kiss.
10 comments:
From one aging ex-hippie to another, "I got the mistletoe". Do we smoke that before we kiss, I just can't remember...
Hay Pris
who needs mistletoe?
Hi Pat
I think we eat the berries:-)
Mike
The mistletoe's a backup!!
i like this bittersweet poem with a touch og lightness in the last two lines.
Thanks, Polona.
hi Pris, very cool. I like this poem, it has a nice natural flowing feel to it.
Thanks, both of you...moon, i've missed you!
... "hey, I'm just an aging ex-hippie now,
searching for one more mistletoe kiss"
Wow. I have recognized there myself, and it was so unexpectedly and it has made me speechless. You have created the miracle.
Thank you for the wonderful poetry that has awakened the days of my youth.
Hi Thomas, thanks and welcome. I love your blog.
I have a wonderful photo of my father kissing my mother on the cheek when they were in their seventies under the mistletoe. When mother had moved down here for the last years of her life, then died, she was cremated and a memorial service held in the church she'd been a member of all those years before (I wasn't able to travel, so Steve drove her ashes up). Cousins stayed with Pageland friends and her friends gathered for a memorial service. I had that photo blown up to sit next to her urn during the service. It was perfect!
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