Generations – a poem


Life flows, from year to year.

Many generations, come and go.

How many? I don’t know.

I, remember, seven.

Great-grandmother, a wise woman;

Dressed in the old style;

From Civil War, to men in space

She was content, with few smiles.

Grandfather, a victim of life’s ills,

Especially, winter chills.

Even lightning strikes, and WPA

Formed his rocky pathway.

Parents survived the Depression

and World War Two.

That heavy load, could only,

Lead to stern, determination

Turmoil, and Vietnam, were

Softened, by my three.

Tiny smiles erase harsh news.

Time to wash, who do I choose?

One, gave me two, who

brought perspective anew.

Life is about loving,

not crying and enduring.

They gave me three

Boys! – Can you believe it? – All boys!

Do I have, to learn sports?

Or how, to climb a tree?

As life comes, it also leaves.

Now the oldest, of four generations,

Some say, I’m matriarch.

What does, that mean?

Am I now, wise, kind, loving?

I can trust, only The One Source,

And those, who went, before;

To teach me, all I need to know.

© by Sharon Dillon, August 25, 2010


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