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Poems Page 2 |
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THE RECORDING OF A CEMETERY |
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BY THELMA GREENE REAGAN |
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This is for all the people who give of their time to record the information from cemeteries before time takes away the names of our Ancestors. |
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Today we walked where others walked |
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On a lonely, windswept hill; |
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Today we talked where other cried |
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For Loved Ones whose lives are stilled. |
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Today our hearts were touched |
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By graves of tiny babies; |
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Snatched from the arms of loving kin, |
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In the heartbreak of the ages. |
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Today we saw where the grandparents lay |
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In the last sleep of their time; |
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Lying under the trees and clouds - |
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Their beds kissed by the sun and wind. |
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Today we wondered about an unmarked spot; |
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Who lies beneath this hollowed ground? |
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Was it a babe, child, young or old? |
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No indication could be found. |
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Today we saw where Mom and Dad lay. |
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We had been here once before |
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On a day we'd all like to forget, |
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But will remember forever more. |
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Today we recorded for kith and kin |
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The graves of ancestors past; |
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To be preserved for generations hence, |
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A record we hope will last. |
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Cherish it, my friend; preserve it, my friend, |
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For stones sometimes crumble to dust |
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And generations of folks yet to come |
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Will be grateful for your trust. |
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This was found in the genealogy notes of My Mother in law, Elsie Avis Lindow Card after her death. It must have been special for her to have saved it with her genealogy things. |
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Elsie Avis Lindow Card June 7, 1912 - February 27, 1994 |
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MAMA'S MAMAS DAY |
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"Mama's Mama, on a winter's day, milked the cows |
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and fed them hay; slopped the hogs, saddled |
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the mule and got the children off to school. |
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Did a washing, mopped the floors, |
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washed some windows and did some chores |
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Cooked a dish of home dried fruit, |
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pressed her husband's Sunday suit. |
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Swept the parlor, made the bed, |
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baked a dozen loaves of bread. |
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Split some firewood and lugged it in, |
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enough to fill the kitchen bin. |
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Cleaned the lamps and put oil in, stewed some apples |
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she thought might spoil. Churned the butter, baked |
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a cake, then exclaimed, |
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"For mercy's sake, the calves have got out of the pen." |
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Went out and chased them in again. |
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Gathered the eggs and locked the stable, |
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returned to the house and set the table, |
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cooked a supper that was delicious |
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and afterward washed all the dishes. |
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Fed the cat, sprinkled the clothes, |
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mended a basket full of hose. |
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Then she opened the organ and began to play - |
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"When you come to the end of a perfect day.!" |
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This Poem is for all my wonderful email friends who I have never met. Some of whom we removed from that list when we went onvacation last summer! You all mean a great deal to me. I always thought what good does getting the internet do? Why pay 20 dollars a month for that? I would never get my money's worth. Boy was I wrong! I have met so many wonderful people while researching Roger's family that I could now never give it up. |
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Lord, Please Bless |
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My Computer |
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Every night I lie in bed, |
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This little prayer indside my head. |
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God bless my mom and dad, |
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And bless my children, |
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And take care of my spouse, |
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Who brings me so much joy... |
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But, there's just one more thing, |
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I wish that you would do, |
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If you don't mind my asking, |
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To bless my computer, too? |
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Now I know that it's not normal, |
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To bless a small machine, |
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But listen just a second, |
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And I'll try to explain... |
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You see, that little metal box, |
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Holds more than odds and ends. |
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Inside those small components, |
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Rest a hundred loving friends. |
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Some it's true I've never seen, |
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And most Iv'e never met... |
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I've never even shaken hands or, |
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Ever truly hugged, and yet... |
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I know for sure they love me, |
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By the kindess that they give, |
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And this little scrap of metal, |
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Is how I get to where they live. |
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By faith is how I know them, |
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Much the same as I know You. |
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I share their life, it brings them, |
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So if it's OK with you... |
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Just take an extra minute, |
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From your duties up above... |
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To bless this little hunk of steel, |
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That's filled with so much love. |
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So god, Please Bless My computer.... |
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Author Unknown |
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Sent to me by Connie Weber |
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