where the writers are
Day 187

I who do not sing, sang with

my mother carols in the nursing home;  

tuneless croakings

proved my love

more surely, more bravely

than much I had done before.

The final Christmas ---

vacant stares and annoyances,

foul smells and pureed food

and fat unfestive nurses ---

so suddenly easy

(why not yesterday,

but finally then)

to at long last be kind,

to allow

my froglike voice to sing.


This poem is posted in gratitude for the kindness of Red Room member, Mary Walsh, a lady too modest to show her photograph, yet who generously lends her support to all.

2 Comment count
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Thank you, Mara!

It is official >>>my Daughters will be reluctant in the future to label me the Red Room stalker. They will be impressed that one of my favorite writers has expressed gratitude for my support. Although I am happy to admit that they enjoy and read your blogs as much as I do.

I am very grateful to be able to interact with writers of your caliber and to have access to your creativity and talent. That is the "whole truth"and nothing but the truth! See how corny I get when I get a compliment? Now you know why my Daughters groan sometimes.

Your poem is incredibly heartwarming. Thanks for sharing. My froglike spirit is soaring.

I can't wait to meet you at the book signing!It will happen!

Mary Walsh

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A stalker no longer

You can tell your daughters that for some of us you are more like a hovering guardian angel, flying in with just the right encouragement at just the right time.
This poem was special, personal, and certainly truthful, and I’m so glad you appreciated it.
Mary, you make me believe that the book signing will happen. When it does, your copy will be inscribed and waiting.
Have a lovely Mother’s Day. All best, Mara