Poems | Griefambassador

My father was a great lover of poetry and wrote many of his own. His real love was of cinquains.

"Poetry is an an act of peace.

Peace goes into the making of a poet

as flour goes into

the making of bread"

~Pablo Neruda~

Fund Raising (a cinquain)

If the

Mayo Clinic

Isn’t now supported

By Hellmann’s, it most surely ought

To be

WRB 02.03.13

Following the Plowman

Grandpa plowed with two horses

And a single-share plow.

Both hands had to grip the plow

He usually smoked a pipe or cigar,

Impossible when plowing.

His fall-back was loose-leaf chewing tobacco

Like Mail Ouch, Silver Cup, Beechnut or Red Man

(Remember the big ads painted on barns?)

Before starting a furrow, a big pinch of tobacco

Went from pouch to mouth.

While plowing he spat brown saliva,

Cursed in Czech if the plow

Hit a rock or a groundhog hole.

I at age 5 or 6 like to follow Grandpa

As he plowed.

My chewing toabcco was a pocketful

Of wintergreen leaves.

I don't know how I learned

That wintergreen wasn't poisnous.

WRB 5.23.2016

My father was a great lover of poetry and wrote many of his own. His real love was of cinquains.

"Poetry is an an act of peace.

Peace goes into the making of a poet

as flour goes into

the making of bread"

~Pablo Neruda~

Grief Ambassador

Contact

My father was a great lover of poetry and wrote many of his own. His real love was of cinquains.

​

"Poetry is an an act of peace.

Peace goes into the making of a poet

as flour goes into

the making of bread"

​

~Pablo Neruda~

Grief Ambassador

Contact