This is another of my Grandmother's poems. Short and beautiful, it expresses the universal desire in all of us to be remembered.
Think of Me
by Beverly Sims Moore
Think of me in the morning dawn
As the dew falls from awakening petals
and buds burst with life on fresh mowed lawns
While wild birds sing in the meadows
Think of me in the darkening dusk
Where shadows find retreat
And cool night winds dance in gusts
While the world is serene in sleep
It has been a long time since I published one of my grandmother's poems. My Grandmother, Beverly Sims Moore was a lovely woman with a talent for painting and for poetry. Although she made up silly songs to sing to us, I did not know she wrote poetry until after she passed away. In this poem, she writes about how she enjoyed the warmth and beauty of a fire.
The Old Log Fire
by Beverly Sims Moore
The wintery winds whistle and beat
Against my cottage door
But I relax in comfort
Stretched out on the floor
The old log fire makes me drowsy
As it crackles and it flames
And each dying ember seems
To call me by my name.
I love the complete relaxation
As I lay upon the floor
Burdens seem to lift from me
As I watch the log fire roar
Time is growing shorter
And it's getting very late
How I loathe to leave my log fire
Still burning in the grate.
My grandmother would visit once or twice a year. I enjoyed her visits for many reasons, but particularly because I got to stay up late. Whether the visit was summer or Christmas time, bed-time was a thing of myth and late night talks were the norm. She would tell stories and then listen to my stories. She would ask me deep, weighty questions and tell silly jokes.
She told me she used to like to pick on the neighborhood kids. She grew Chinese hot peppers, then she would bet the neighborhood boys a nickel that they could not eat a whole one. As the boy's head would figuratively burst in to flame, she would chuckle. To my knowledge, she never lost a nickel.
Flirtation
by Beverly Sims Moore
The wind whistled at a cloud passing by
Gently floating onward into the sky
The Moonbeams danced rapturously in a ray of light
And shining stars twinkled in secret delight
At this gay escapade of our friends by the night
As lady dawn comes into view
Fresh with the kiss of morning dew
The loveliness of the night
Slowly changed into day
And the sun laughed as it came out to play
I remember a story about my grandmother fishing. While sitting on a dock, she pulled up a small mason jar full of grey "something". She set the jar on the dock and considered how she should get her fishing hook out of it. Suddenly, she noticed movement. The grey goopy something in the jar began to expand into a large octopus that quickly slithered into the water and swam away. Although shocked at the time, this became a favorite story for laughs through the decades.
Memories are the best gifts we can give to those with whom we have a relationship.
I Remember You
by Beverly Simms Moore
I knew you when the freckles sprinked your childish face
And your front tooth missing formed sort of a weird looking space
Your funny little tilted nose you held high up in the air
And for some odd reason your skinny legs seemed to be everywhere.
Your pig tails were my secret passion to pull when the notion struck
But half the time you were too quick for me and I was out of luck
You are today a beauty and a grcious stately lady too
And it fills my heart with longing when I remember you.
Original artwork.
Bev, as she got older, was beset with rheumatoid arthritis. It crippled her hands and feet, curling her fingers into her palms. Where she wrote and painted in her youth, she was unable to as she got older. While I remember her for her sparkling humor, grandmotherly love and affection, and beautiful paintings, I never knew her poetry -- except for a silly rendition of Glow Little Glow Worm she sang to me when I was very young. That is a song for another day.
I imagine as she daily dealt with the crippling effects of RA, her thoughts brought her to better places and she dreamt of a life beyond life without pain, sorrow, crying, or dying.
Decades before I was born, she wrote a poem called Thoughts. It is a poem of carefree adventure. Somewhere in life beyond this life, I imagine she is roaming through a castle right now.
Thoughts
by Beverly Sims Moore
Down beside the babbling brook
My thoughts do like to stray
Into dream castles they do roam
And there they'd like to stay
They play along the castle wall
Looking for buried treasure
And finding all the pirates gold
They relax in enchanted leisure
A few years ago, my cousin lost her son in childbirth. The whole family was excited about this boy. He would be the second great-grandchild for my wife's grandmother. I prayed everyday during the pregnancy.
The death was due to malpractice. My cousin went into labor Halloween night. She had to go to the E.R. No OB-GYN's were on staff at the hospital and her OB took his time leaving a party to meet her at the hospital. When he arrived, he was intoxicated. The birth was mis-handled and the baby was lost. My wife was able to fly out to attend the funeral, but I was not. The following poem was born out of the grief of the moment:
A Thousand Miles Away
by Steve Williams
A thousand miles away
I sit beside you
And hold you in my arms
And cry with you.
What words can comfort
A mother’s heart?
How can you ease
A father’s pain?
When their precious baby
Is taken away too soon.
When have I cried so much
Or grieved so loudly?
It is because I love you
And feel powerless
To help you.
I can’t help but remember
When I listened for my own son
And felt him kick
Inside his mother’s womb.
The hopes and dreams we had.
The many times we thought
We might lose him.
I know your son is safe
And secure in the arms
Of a good and loving God.
A God who understands
Because He lost His son too.
But how could this happen?
It is not supposed to be this way.
Not for a baby
A precious beautiful boy.
Why did this happen?
Hate wells within me.
I hate this cruel world
And I long for the one
That comes after.
Where there are no tears.
Where there is no dying.
When have I spilled
So many tears?
When have my groanings
Been so strong
To shake my entire body?
And all I can do
Is sit here beside you
A thousand miles away
And tell you that I love you.
original picture borrowed from the Daily Green
Of the poems my grandmother wrote, only a few survive. Of the extant poems, the most endearing is a poem she wrote about her oldest daughter. When asked about the poem, my Aunt said:
"Mom said she wrote that when I was just a little girl, curious about her makeup and the Chanel # 5 perfume (with the gold thread around the neck of the bottle) that I was not suppose to touch!!!"
Portrait of My Daughter
by Beverly Sims Moore
Sitting beside the mirror, silently approving of herself
A chubby hand steals behind me, to the powder on the shelf
Mysteriously the lipstick is missing from its usual place
To be found again on my daughter's knowing little face.
The rouge stands out in blotches, a glowing brilliant red
Baby curls are piled high atop her cocky little head
Eyes blinking with mascara and brows are drawn into wings
You'd never think she knew the uses of such things
The cold cream is now in progress, the better to erase
the store-bought beauty painted on that tiny little face
Looking into the mirror approving of make-up deft
She wonders how many more cosmetics in the drawer she left.
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I remember years ago as a young boy when Bev was visiting us one Christmas. My brother and I got ahold of some cologne. We sprayed a few squirts on and ran out to Bev who, of course, told us we smelled delightful. Once she complimented us, we would tell her it was body odor. She scrunched up her nose and exclaimed, "Ooooooh, stinky." As we ran away, she would laugh and laugh.
My brother and I would run back and spray more cologne and repeat the procedure. I am not certain if we were spraying the same cologne over and over or mixing different colognes, but I am certain we smelled like a French brothel. It was no stretch for her to pretend we carried a noisome odor. We must have looked like Pigpen from Peanuts, and that only made the joke funnier to Bev.
Photo credits: Marilyn Monroe / Chanel #5 picture found on TheBagForum.com, Pigpen is sourced from Wikipedia.
My Grandmother, Beverly Sims Moore (Bev, to me), was a lovely, graceful woman with a fierce sense of humor. In the eyes of her grandson, she was witty, sharp, insightful, and fun. She encouraged me to learn and listened to me as though I knew what I was talking about, even when I was just a small boy.
Years after she passed away, I was given a collection of poems that she wrote. Reading them, I want to know the story behind them, unfortunately, it is too late for me to ask her. Nevertheless, I have decided to publish her poems here.
This first poem could have been written for her if it had not been written by her.
The Song You Wrote for Me
by Beverly Sims Moore
You are gone but the song you wrote for me
Is mine alone tho the world shares the melody
The words are like wings of strength destroying gloom
That lifts me high above the sadness in my room.
You are to me a melodious song in the twilight
The gentle whisper of golden autumn at its height
You are gone yet here in an endearing rhapsody of love
You will remain in the pattern of the life you wove.
