Poems by Susan Vidd

I have experienced many things.
But, really, my life is quite ordinary.

I can talk, walk, dance and sing;
play sports, wear shorts and sport a ring.

I can trim a tree or cut the grass.
I can shovel the snow for you to pass.

I can drive a boat, a car, a truck and a van.
I can crimp some paper and make a fan.

I can cook and bake and clean a stove.
Once, from a platform of eight feet I dove.

I can put out a fire and perform CPR;
accurately identify a bird's call from afar.

I've been mothered and smothered and covered in dirt.
I've worn bug spray and sunscreen and an old tattered shirt.

I've climbed trees and caught bees and examined the bugs.
I played wembley peg with my fingers; changed tires with lugs.

I hopped a train as a kid and rode for a block.
I am totally fascinated by a plain simple rock.

I was able to sail on a boat made of teak;
had to pump out a boat when it sprouted a leak.

I wore a ball gown while being announced with a horn.
I once lived in a state that only grew corn.

I was chauffeured around Washington, D.C.
I felt so special "just look at me".

I can still ride a bike and raise my hand.
I can build a castle made out of white sand.

But before I forget, it is important to note.
There is a meaning to all that I wrote.

I am a mother, grandmother and devoted wife.
That is the extraordinary part of my ordinary life!

Under a dock over the sea
Nestled between a lake of debris,
The young swallow spreads out its coat
In desperation to stay afloat.

With concern I am asked to intercede;
To paddle my small craft among the reed
To attempt to reach the struggling bird.
I observe intently but utter no word.

Any attempt might be perilous;
To risk my craft simply careless.
I fear my attempts would be futile.
I weigh my options and wait a while.

I continued on my impromptu way
My plans to simply enjoy the day.
But I was blinded and could only see
The young swallow struggling not far from me.

Two hours had passed and I returned.
A small crowd had gathered and I quickly learned,
The little creature still afloat
But less active now as I untied my boat.

"Such a brave little bird"
Among the crowd was the word.
I believe I will give it a go
Into my boat, centering myself, crouching lower than low;

I was able to drift beneath the dock
Could get no closer blocked by a rock
About to give up before I hit sand
With drenched wings and determination he swam to my hand.

Under different circumstances he would move away
But the little swallow knew that I lay ---
Lay my hand down for him to retreat
To cheat death at that moment; the odds to be beat.

He was cold and tired in a weakened state;
Too vulnerable to be left there at any rate.
I swaddled him in my sweater's warm pocket
Close to my heart and my golden locket.

Together we traveled across the bay
Trying to capture the warmth of the ray.
Five miles we journeyed to the distant shore
Where my meager cottage could offer him more.

I placed him in a makeshift cage
While I searched for some food for him to engage.
Welcomed rest, warmth, security, food,
Was all that he needed to lighten his mood.

I picked him up and we looked eye to eye
"It's so nice to meet you my brave little guy."
Within two hours he seemed to recover;
From my hands he flew not bothering to hover.

I will never forget how he struggled to reach me;
An unnatural act of instinct to teach me
When events are dire and one holds out a hand,
Creature to creature we are all of one band.

The stillness is but a facade
Calm and peace fleeting
As I observe the clouds building
And the sound of my own heart beating.

Red sky this morning
Beauty to behold
To set sail now
Only for the bold.

Adrift we be
All is well
But winds increase
The waves now swell.

Too late to turn about
The point of no return,
Veterans of the sea
We never seem to learn.

From three to five
To seven and eight
Reef the sails
Before it is too late.

The clouds open
The rain cold like ice
Grab tight the helm
Our course now imprecise.

Wave after wave
Each third wave growing
The forces below
A ghostly vessel towing.

Keep the bow a 45 angle
Head straight on so as to wrangle,
Capture the tempestuous sea
Master the rhythm of windward and lee.

Remember the morning of red when set sail?
You departed recklessly with warning of gale.
Oh veteran sailor, will you ever learn?
Red sky in the morning, turn tail bow to stern!

He moved with deliberate motion
Each step a painful chore
His body bent and crippled
To the depths of his human core.

His skin so slight and fragile
His fingers bent and knobbed
His youth had passed so quickly
It was though he had been robbed.

One joy remained to soothe him
In his long and lonely life;
His family mostly gone now;
parents, children, wife.

To find the peace he desired
He struggled to pick a flower.
There was little else he could do
In this late and golden hour.

It would not be unusual
To pass him without a glance,
For time in youthful measure
Is a long enduring dance.

But if you took one moment
To stop and think of him;
Switch places as you ponder
And really delve within.

You would clearly notice
As he picked that flower near,
Upon his hollow sunken cheek
Was a single golden tear.

What will you remember
of the days we could not play?
When things were very different
from just the other day.
We had to stay apart.
It was all that we could do.
There was no other way
to help the world get through.

What will you remember
of the days we could not play?
Will you always please remember
we wished it all away.
It must have been confusing
with people wearing masks.
We washed and scrubbed our hands
after very simple tasks.

One day the schools are open.
The next day they are not.
Marks and lines are on the floors
to stand on your own spot.

What will you remember
of the days we could not play?
I hope you will remember
it would not always be that way.

Love,
Grandma March 2020

With gentle winds aloft preceding summer storm
Through open window dusk a woman sits forlorn

Amidst the earthy briny air a gentle breeze persists
Lace curtains gently shifting with hints of ocean mists

Dimly lit candles of paraffin and wick
Reflecting images on walls of wood and stone and brick.

She will sit and wait as has transpired in the past
With memories and experience of foreboding everlast.

A piece of bread, a drink of rye
with prayers to God there be no eye!

August 27 1856
The Florida Keys