Post by tomWYO on Apr 11, 2013 19:39:12 GMT
Items on the Table
Heirlooms on the table, that old worn and much marked one
things from yesteryear, that I found today,
Innocuous things, of no value, so sentimental to me
things from their home since 1903
So dark, so small, so blah it seems today
but, yes but for over a century, suck a warm and lovely place.
Dusty old wax apple, remains of an old fruit bowl
bar of soap in the wrapper, brought from the great war
back in 17, when grandpa got gassed.
Trivial little nothings, oh the history they can tell
stories, history of the family, things that make you smile and bring tears.
Aunt Mable’s rolling pen, marble, she got it at the world’s fair,
a dried up old tea bag, brought back from World War II.
Simple and plain things, oh the meaning they have
for in this house I was raised, after my parents passed away.
Memories of generations, things left in their place
items that makes one remember, remember their history.
Pick up Granpa’s pocket watch, still ticks if wound,
the gold plating worn off, he was a railroad man.
Standard of the US he would say as he pulled it out
we children would gather, just to hear it chime.
Now who do I give it to?
A small oil painting, bought on the streets of New Yawk,
just a glass of milk and slice of bread, there on an
oil clothed table. Bought back during the war,
an affair with the unknown artist.
Look at the items on the table, look around the room.
How many biscuits made and bake in that big old stove,
how many thousand meals?
Remnants of the past, history of our family,
things of the past, things I have inherited.
I wipe the dust away, look about and with a smile
close the door and walk back down the lane
to my home, smiling and
remembering those wonderful days of yore.
tomWYO, 040913
Heirlooms on the table, that old worn and much marked one
things from yesteryear, that I found today,
Innocuous things, of no value, so sentimental to me
things from their home since 1903
So dark, so small, so blah it seems today
but, yes but for over a century, suck a warm and lovely place.
Dusty old wax apple, remains of an old fruit bowl
bar of soap in the wrapper, brought from the great war
back in 17, when grandpa got gassed.
Trivial little nothings, oh the history they can tell
stories, history of the family, things that make you smile and bring tears.
Aunt Mable’s rolling pen, marble, she got it at the world’s fair,
a dried up old tea bag, brought back from World War II.
Simple and plain things, oh the meaning they have
for in this house I was raised, after my parents passed away.
Memories of generations, things left in their place
items that makes one remember, remember their history.
Pick up Granpa’s pocket watch, still ticks if wound,
the gold plating worn off, he was a railroad man.
Standard of the US he would say as he pulled it out
we children would gather, just to hear it chime.
Now who do I give it to?
A small oil painting, bought on the streets of New Yawk,
just a glass of milk and slice of bread, there on an
oil clothed table. Bought back during the war,
an affair with the unknown artist.
Look at the items on the table, look around the room.
How many biscuits made and bake in that big old stove,
how many thousand meals?
Remnants of the past, history of our family,
things of the past, things I have inherited.
I wipe the dust away, look about and with a smile
close the door and walk back down the lane
to my home, smiling and
remembering those wonderful days of yore.
tomWYO, 040913
