we tried to keep track: this caring personcalled at the house this one sent flowers this one brought food this one wrote, e-mailed, phoned, this one prayed or chanted or arranged a meditation which li
For six years I’ve written poems for this publication. Many have included my daughter, Damaris Lee Jackson, born Jan. 15, 1954, in Oxford, England. She lived with me these past two years, while
my brother-in-law listened toa life-weary friend of many years.“Have you learned to love yourself?”my brother-in-law asked.“I try,” said the friend, “but Idon’t suc
deep dusk I gaze down from thelittle cessna at the california roadsnow strings of bright moving beadsthe little towns puddles of lightthe big ones their mall areas awash spaced streetlamps tiny points
I tell our grieving guest, I like that youcall us all “dear heart” that’s what mymother called me talie says. I say my momcalled us “lambkin” or “lambie,” and
There once was a fellow named Mitch,whose traveling story was rich!While riding in a foghe picked up a frogAnd now they can’t tell which is which! There once was a critter named Frogwho wa
We’ve had several poemsby Xavier in this column.He lost his grandma,Carol Manley, familiar toIT readers, a year ago.He loved Demi and wrotea book for us, a line andpicture on each page.“Fo
ok folks laugh but this houseIS on the enos park house touroctober 2 noon to 5 will weclean it well sorta at least sweepthe kitchen floor tidy it wellsorta but there’ll be a sign enterat your ow
in england after my first child was bornI wrote my parents about the baby blueshow I felt totally skinless as thoughevery nerve was outside exposedpaining stinging maybe it was explainedhormonally eve