With a distant light as my guide
I stumble through the darkest night.
Fear grips my inner soul while I move
Slowly, step by step, towards the promise
Of that light, but when nearly there
The light seems to shrink as I can
I see it is but one small candle.
How bright it seemed in that black eyed day
Yet here it is just one small, pale-yellow flame.
The promise in that light is clear to me now.
The darkest, most fearful night can be braved
If only one small candle lights the way.
I saw a man build a dream.
At first I could not believe
But when I tried to awaken
I was already too wide awake.
Suddenly it seemed all too real, true.
Just as if I was really there
Taking my place in that man’s dream.
Everything we did seemed so real
I felt as if I had always
Been there in that man’s dream
But it was not a dream—was it?
For there is a place of dreams
And they do come to life sometimes
For those who believe in dreams.
Early twilight had arrived
The sun had dipped into West
Trailing sunset washed away
By the incoming blue of the night
The evening breeze was so soft
That it caressed all in the world below
Such simple pleasures to these old eyes
Sitting on the porch above the land
Seeing life’s renewal just below
As a mother duck with three behind
Crossed through the meadow in such majesty
Now the night sky puts on its show
When nightfall blacks out all light
But the septillion distant stars
Sleep deeply now my gentle soul
For a beauty of life is all around.
As she sits there
Head bowed, arms folded
Asleep, as if going back
To a youth now faded
Yet, an awareness is still there
And her hair now shines
With the glory of age
Badge of a life well lived
Her years of service framed
In my need of her heart
One more moment to treasure
When the First World War began, my mother was not yet two years old. When it ended, she was six. Her father and both his brothers had enlisted in the Marines during this war. Only one served outside the US, her father’s younger brother Nile.
Though she never was sure where exactly he served, my mother fondly remembered Nile calling her his “little chiquita,” a term he had learned while he was away. I have since learned he was stationed as a lowly orderly serving in the officers’ mess in Cuba. Nile died in 1919 not long after the war ended, but not of injuries.
If it surprises you that Cuba figured in the strategies of the First World War, you are like me. Neutral for much of the war, their Red Cross served on the European battlefront for some time. Finally after a many futile protests sent to the German government about the continued indiscriminate sinking of the ships of non-combatant countries by German submarines, the island nation finally declared war April 7, 1917
Cuba had diseases for which a young man from West Virginia was unprepared. Nile contracted a recurring fever while there which plagued the days of his return home after the war. Before the war Nile often performed as a singer at local events. He sang everywhere. At home he sang along with the performers on the radio and would often sing the arias of opera from the records in the family’s collection.
One Friday, he was singing just for fun on a street corner. A car passed near carrying a talent scout from the New York Metropolitan Opera on his way to Pittsburgh. He stopped to give Nile his card and set up an audition for the following Monday. It was just three days away, but it was an appointment Nile could not keep, for on Saturday his fever returned and he lost this last battle.
Such strange events happen on Hallows’ Eve:
Garden gates taking flight to land on roofs,
Large farm wagons standing on their ends,
Strange symbols appearing on our windows.
Sometimes a noise at the door,
But there is never anyone there
Except when those witches, goblins
And ogres shout, “Trick or Treat!”
Then stand and wait.
At times, after the midnight games, I can hear
The ghosts or ogres and goblins wailing.
There, do you hear that wild cry?
Could that be a banshee in the meadow?
Hurry, lock the doors, pull down the shades,
Turn off all the lights and quickly hide.
Then came the rattling of chains on the porch,
But when Dad opened the door,
It was just our neighbors come to party
For the rest of All Hallows’ Evening.
When your birthday comes
I think of train whistles
Far off on the night air
Echoing down the valley
The taste of fresh fallen snow
Of winter raindrops falling
A spring flower, fall leaves
Of a heart so gentle
It grieves even small loss
A soul that reaches out
Easing someone else’s hurt
May your day glow as old gold
And bask itself in my love
Shadows and colors flit about the walls
As the sun shifts west and twilight comes.
Even the wind seems to be part of the show.
Reds, yellows, grays and yes, even blacks
Moving like rivers along the walls in here.
As the sunlight switches from East to West
To catch this array of colors is as easy
As catching the early morn mist by hand—
It is already gone when you open your hand.
Only the eye can hold the color display.
Our memory has problems retaining the changes.
So much so that only by visiting here
Every other year, or two will you know
How truly exciting and great your visit
To our Grand Canyon will be for you.
Every time you are here, something new
And different each time you see the show.
The uniform, at best, described as nondescript
Carries the lowest rank in all of the services.
Close order drills usually happen at night
When someone is ill, or just needs some comforting.
No medal was ever struck for one of this rank
Never had bunting draped,
flag waving parades in honor.
The war wounds are not the kind that show—
They are all inside and almost never heal.
A strip of cleaning rag serves as a campaign ribbon.
The marksman medal is for the pancake flip.
Is there a memorial crested anywhere for them?
They represent all that man has ever endured,
In the firefights of an open war to save.
Intensely dedicated to humble duties,
Designated as just a housewife
As though that were such a minor operation
That almost any fool could do it easily.
Let’s give her a new title and rank,
Household Superintendent, Source of Civilization.
Now, since a small increase in pay is indicated,
Set aside one day each week free of cares.
Grant two weeks of vacation each year.
But only wherever she wants to spend her time.
Are all of you really ready for this?
Somewhere the wind blows clear and sweet
The sky is the palest of blue forever
There is the fresh smell of flowers in bloom
The ground is cushioned by a carpet of grass
Where I can walk though a forest of trees
And picture my fantasies in a sky of clouds
When it rains, it is like a freshening
As though having a new growth of skin to feel
That the world is somehow new again.
Perhaps I can walk through the rain
Or feel the light touch of a snowflake upon my face
I can lower my face into a cool clear stream
To enjoy the thrilling taste of pure sweet water
and I can hope it is all still there