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JackieMommy? Grandma?
Why are you crying?
Did I do something wrong?
No, Jackie. No, Punkin'.It's not you.We're crying for the bygones.
We're remembering Uncle Jack.Grandpa's trumpet was one of the things from home that he took along
with him into the war.The trumpet didn't come back, and neither did he.But you're here, so Uncle Jack will live on.©Mary Lee Hahn, 2016
Papa
It seems like just yesterday
my little girl was in ruffles and a bonnet,
then serious-faced with that long, long hair.
Our Lizzy was the observer.
She worshipped Lewis,
kept Jack out of more than his share
of trouble. She watched over Henry
like a mother hen.
She could beat me at checkers, fair and square.
Now I've given her away.
My little girl.
Take care of her, young man. Take good care.
©Mary Lee Hahn, 2016
I'm going to miss this family I've invented from random photographs and scraps of my own family's history. I plan to work on giving them a more proper storyline. Or perhaps I'll just collect them into an e-book. Time will tell. It always does, it seems.
LizzyFalling in love
with a race car driver
surprised me as much as it did you.
When the children come,
he has promised
to find a new,
safer line of work.
How many grandkids?
I think you can plan on two.
©Mary Lee Hahn, 2016
HenryDear Iva,
I couldn't be more sure.
But are you?
You'd give all that up for me?
For a life on this farm?
For a job at the school?
When I look at your face
in the photo you sent
I still can't believe it's true.
©Mary Lee Hahn, 2016
MotherThis picture haunts me.
It's as if
I sealed my fate
in a moment of silliness
prompted by the photographer.
The blind date
with the man who would be your father
was that same night.
I was blind indeed. And he didn't wait
a single minute for my good sense to return.
Almost before I realized it,
I was hitched and whisked away
to that wretched farm.
His conquest
was my doomsday.
I won't try to stop you, Iva.
Neither will I come rescue you.
It is your life to waste.
©Mary Lee Hahn, 2016
IvaI never knew Great Uncle.
When I turn twenty and can manage
the money he left for me
I will thank him for his hard work,
his thrift, and his service in the Great War.
Then I'll not hesitate to leave.
A life on the farm
was Mother's "terrible mistake."
It is my dream.
©Mary Lee Hahn, 2016
IvaDear Henry,
Yes, that's me --
on the outside.
Inside, I'm still the girl
who could out-race and out-spell you
with one arm tied
behind my back!
Keep sending your poems about the homeplace.
They're what's keeping the true me alive.
©Mary Lee Hahn, 2016
HenryAll right, Pa.
You want me to invent a better story?
Youngest son
grows up to becomethe world's first famousukulele musician.
Deprived of violin and trumpetby his older brothers,he discovers a musical passion
all his own. Deeply regretsmissing out on a life of farm work.How's that for invention?
The truth will be:
Youngest son inherits farm,
makes agriculture his ambition.
Finds fame
in cattle and crops.
His regrets? None.
©Mary Lee Hahn, 2016
Papa and HenryThere's my gallant Henry,
high on his steed,
ready to gallop into the sunset!
Tell the truth, Pa.
We both know
from the set
of Dolly's ears
what was about to happen.
I was lucky to get
out of that alive.
When Dolly went to live at the Dobler's
I was not upset.
Henry, my boy, what's stopping us
from inventing a better story
complete with some imaginary regrets?
©Mary Lee Hahn, 2016
Jama has the Poetry Friday Roundup this week at
Jama's Alphabet Soup.
HenryThere I am,
Jack's shadow.
I'm surprised he let me hold his precious bat.
Do you think he's okay?
Why haven't we heard from him?
Where's he at,
anyway? Why won't they tell you?
When will this war be over?
I want my hero back.
©Mary Lee Hahn, 2016
LizzyA note to my younger self:
Don't take the world so seriously.
You don't always have to do as you're told.
Snatch off that silly bonnet
and run towards freedom.
Make your move, and make it bold.
©Mary Lee Hahn, 2016
PapaI remember that day.
I did all my morning chores
up to my knees in mud,
came back to the house
to clean my boots up,
and there he was,
proud as punch
in my overshoes.
How could I begrudge his fun?
©Mary Lee Hahn, 2016
MamaWe went back to Nebraska
just that once.
My brother's wealth was hard
on your Pa.
All of it --
tidy barn, grass in the yard,
and Jack in hand-me-downs
holding tight
to that car,
not wanting to leave it
for our dry and dusty
struggle of a farm.
©Mary Lee Hahn, 2016
PapaJack was always a joker,
using the animals
for some prank or scheme,
but Lewis loved them
deep and hard.
They were a team:
Lewis,
his Bonnie dog,
and Queenie --
the old mare
who was so patient,
so gentle with Lizzy and Henry.
Jack's been gone nearly a year,
but whenever a car comes into the yard
they both look up hopefully.
©Mary Lee Hahn, 2016
MamaThis one takes me right back
to the day of my mama's funeral --
Lewis playing "Amazing Grace,"
sitting there in a kitchen chair
at the edge of her beloved garden.
The one place
in all this endless brown dryness
where there was color and life.
That's what her garden was -- an amazing grace.
©Mary Lee Hahn, 2016
LizzyWhen Lewis' first model plane
took off like a dream on the first try,
is that when you knew
he'd be a pilot someday?
How he loved to tell that story.
Now, whenever a plane goes buzzing through,
I look up and imagine him there,
beyond "the surly bonds of Earth,"
"Up, up the long delirious burning blue..."
©Mary Lee Hahn, 2016
(with a hat tip to John Magee's "
High Flight")
If you're new to my National Poetry Month project, you can go back to April 1, 2016 and read forward to catch the story line. Or you can go
here and click on the link(s) under the pictures.
Michelle has the Poetry Friday Roundup this week at
Today's Little Ditty.
PapaYes, indeed.
That's me.
Star of the team.
Valedictorian of my class, too.
If you work hard,
I believe you can succeed
at whatever
you aim for.
Of course, when it comes to wheat
a farmer can work his tail off
and the weather decides
what will be.
©Mary Lee Hahn, 2016
Henry and LizzyWho's that, Mama?
The one in the middle
marked with an X?
He's so young
and handsome!
Tell us how you met!
I never knew
that once upon a time
Papa played trumpet!
Did he bring you
flowers? Candy?
...How could you forget?!?
Can I have it?
May I have it?
Pleeeeease, may I have it?
Papa gave it to Jack
when he enlisted?
...I guess that's best...
MamaI've got enough work
to fill three days,
but here I sit,
mooning over the photo book.
Mama, I wish you'd look up
from your prize houseplants and chat a bit.
Help me figure out how to go on --
my two big boys gone to war --
one on a ship, one in a cockpit --
my little girl suddenly a woman, and lovesick --
the youngest just trying to find his way,
figuring out where he fits in all this.
©Mary Lee Hahn, 2016
PapaThat Jack.
He pestered me
like a horsefly
on a mule.
Just had to have my picture.
Stood me beside
the car, but made sure
the mistake he made after the dance
was hidden behind.
I was madder than a hornet that night.
Reckless, ungrateful son-of-a-gun.
But I can't help myself. He makes me smile.
©Mary Lee Hahn, 2016
MamaGot a photo postcard today
from my brother who stayed
back on the old place
north of Concordia
when he rest of us moved to Colorado.
Looks like they've got no complaints.
"Richard on Eds shoulder,he couldn't look out. Mrs. and myselfin our oats field, it made 62 bu."We watch the clouds build up in the west,
watch them pass by our fields,
watch them continue east to deliver their rain.
It's sure enough dry here -- nearly desert.
But there's a beauty in it, and we are learning
to lean into the wind and weather. We'll stay.
©Mary Lee Hahn, 2016
JackMama gave me my own camera
for my eighteenth birthday.
She seems to believe
that I could profit from studying the world
instead of always trying to get the world
to look at me.
Your plot backfired, Mama.
The herefords are watching.
And behind the shed, so's Henry.
©Mary Lee Hahn, 2016
HenryDear Iva,
I didn't think Mama
would miss just one.
Guess she knows her flock
better'n I thought.
It sure was fun
to see that photographer's face.
If I hadn't started laughing,
no one would have known I done it.
©Mary Lee Hahn, 2016
A note to my readers: these stories and these characters are works of fiction. With very few exceptions, I have no idea who the people are in these photos. The names of many of the characters come from my ancestors and their friends. Other names are ones I chose to fit the character. The settings are real. My mom is from Denver and my dad grew up on a farm in Eastern Colorado (although some of these photos could be of ancestors/family friends further back who lived in Nebraska and Kansas). If we could sit down together for a cup of tea and a scone, I'd tell you all the little bits of truth I've woven into this fiction. I'd tell you the biggest surprises I've had, and the poems that took the most/fewest drafts. Like Amy LV commented, sometimes I feel like these people are talking through my pencil.
I did not have this all planned out before Poetry Month began, except that I grouped the photos in sets of seven to have ready to load onto the main page for the project. I had no idea I would be telling a story in verse this month. I'm as surprised and thrilled as you are. I expected to be frustrated by the challenge of writing a variety of poems, and instead, I look forward (and often can't stop myself from writing forward) as I discover the story and figure out ways to fill in the gaps. How will it end? No idea. Stay tuned. (If you want to read from the beginning, go back to the poem for April 1, and read forward to today.)
Over at
Poetrepository, I have added (with permission) poems that Steve Peterson and Carol Wilcox have written that seem to me to fit with the flow of the story I've got in my mind. Carol Varsalona has also written some fabulous partner poems using these photos. You can find them
here.Happy Poetry Month Poetry Friday! Laura has the roundup at
Writing the World for Kids.
MotherIva, I made this move
for your own good.
You will become
a proper lady.
I let Auntie down,
but you will overcome
growing up on that wretched farm.
You will rise in society
to the level you are from.
You can squirm all you want,
but I've got you firmly
under my thumb.
©Mary Lee Hahn, 2016
IvaDear Henry,
I found this picture of Mother
in Great Uncle's attic.
Wishing I could send you
that dead coyote.
Bet it would be worth more than
all those skunks you trapped
last summer
when you hatched that plan
to get rich quick.
Let me tell you,
rich ain't always grand.
©Mary Lee Hahn, 2016
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