Friday, May 19, 2017

A Home Song by Henry Van Dyke

This morning, my son-in-law drove by my old home. He took a picture with his cell phone and sent it to me. I loved that house--and my old neighborhood. Mike and I lived there for nearly forty years. I was sad to leave the home where my husband and I raised our daughter...and had spent most of our adult lives. I WAS happy to see that the new owners are taking good care of the place.

Last week, I posted a poem that I had written years ago about the home of my maternal grandparents. I didn't have time to write a poem about my old home this morning. Instead, I'm posting the following poem, which expresses my feelings better than I could at the moment:

A Home Song
by Henry Van Dyke

I read within a poet's book
A word that starred the page:
"Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage!"

Yes, that is true; and something more
You'll find, where'er you roam,
That marble floors and gilded walls
Can never make a home.

But every house where Love abides,
And Friendship is a guest,
Is surely home, and home-sweet-home:
For there the heart can rest.

Although I miss my old home, I am content now living next door to my daughter...and so happy that I can see my "grandgirls" every day!

Keisha has the Poetry Friday Roundup at Whispers from the Ridge.


Friday, May 12, 2017

For My Beloved Mother

This coming Sunday will be the first Mother's Day that I have celebrated without my beloved mother who passed away in January. My mother (Mary Stella Koziski Drabik) was the most selfless individual that I have ever known. She was devoted to her family.

As her dementia advanced, my mother would often tell me that she "wanted to go home." She wasn't talking about the house where my sister and I grew up. She was referring to the home where she was raised--along with her three younger siblings. That house was the place where my mother spent many of the happiest days of her life. It's also where my sister and I and our four first cousins spent many happy hours--celebrating holidays, visiting with each other, playing in the yard, picking vegetables and fruit in my grandparents' garden.

Many years ago I wrote a collection of poems about my Babci and Dzidzi--my maternal grandparents--and their place titled A Home for the Seasons. In memory of my mother, I'm sharing the first poem from the collection. I know the poem would touch her heart.


My grandparents’ house seems to hug their shady street.
A white duplex, its twin front doors
stand side by side
just three steps up from the sidewalk.
We always enter their house through the side door.
Stepping into the kitchen,
we find Babci sitting at the far end of the table
spooning filling onto circles of homemade dough
and making pierogis, crocheting afghans,
or snipping lacy designs from paper—
a traditional folk art she learned in Poland.
Sometimes we see her painting flowers on the cupboard doors
or hanging starched curtains she embroidered by hand.
The aroma of stuffed cabbage or babka baking in the oven
often greets us at the door.
Most days, Dzidzi spends outdoors tending to his garden
or painting the shutters green
or mending the picket fence
or building a backyard fireplace for summertime barbecues.
My grandparents always busy themselves
making their place a special place
for the family to gather throughout the year,
making it a home for all the seasons.


 Mom with Her Cousin Julia
 My Grandmother, Her Sister, and My Grandfather
 Cousin Julia, My Mother's Sister Helen, My Mother, and Her brother Benny
 Julia, Helen, and My Mother
 Helen and My Mother
 My Sister, My Mother, and I One Easter
 My Grandmother with her Four Children--Benny, Stanley, Helen, and My Mother
 My Maternal Grandparents
 My Mother with My Sister Virginia
 My Mother and My Father

I want to thank my grandnephew George Blaney for going to the trouble of putting our family photos on compact disks and sharing them with us. Love you, George!!!
My Mother's Last Mother's Day (2016)
Tara has the Poetry Friday Roundup at A Teaching Life.