The Poetry of Life

“Man does not control his own fate. The women in his life do that for him.”
                                                                                        -Groucho Marx

To me, life is often felt as a poem might be felt. Life is poetry in motion and I often feel poetry in my heart and soul; as I feel life. How about you, and how do you feel life?

Often my morning time as the remnants of night is still with me, is a time when I feel poetry move within me. I have what I call my morning window, an east facing window overlooking my yard and trees and the neighborhood. I sit there first thing in the morning as I watch the sun rise or move on its path across the sky, and I meditate, or write, and spend time communing with my soul. I look out my morning window and depth of feeling; usually inspired by nature wells up in me. An example of what wells up in me is below.

The Golden Morning:

The sun’s rays roll over the leaves and branches casting golden hues through the tangles of leaves.
My mind playfully tosses words around in communion with the joyful riot of shapes and colors coloring my day with gladness and tickling my tummy with the happiness of life.

One of the things I have in common with my father is my love of writing and especially writing poems. He loved to write poems. As I am inspired by nature, he was inspired by limericks. As he was growing up he learned a lot of “dirty” limericks which he took great pleasure in reciting and singing. When as a family we would take road trips to places like Chicago to visit his family he would sing as he drove and we all learned many of those limericks. When we, his children, grew up and had children of our own, he loved to sing them to his grandchildren especially as they were going to sleep. They grew up on those nights he put them to bed, with those sounds in their ears as they went off to sleep. My niece remembers many of them verbatim and recited one in tribute to him at her wedding.

As a result of his love of limericks, he grew into writing poetry in the form of limericks. Here is a couple of limericks he wrote.

Fifty Eight is Truly Great

You entered a world full of troubles
From tornados to bursting bubbles.
We left Topeka twice
A place we found so nice
Then settled in St. Louis with all its snobles

Yet as much as you struggled
You never ceased feeling snuggled
The years came and flew by
You raised a wonderful child without being shy
Found a mate who was thrilled to get unchuggled

In the past there were doubts
Unmistaken terrible shouts
This time it is cleared
There is nothing but to be cheered
Anything feared has disappeared.

I would love it if any of you are so moved to share one of your poems with me, or a story as to how one of your parents’s influenced you.

As we remember things we like about our parents, more of our memories can surface.

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