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Mom

6/6/2010

There sits my Mom alone in the quiet
holding only my Dad’s smiling picture
Across from his chair where he often would sit
and seemed such a permanent fixture

Alone she sits now with memories,
a torrential cascading flood
The thoughts of all of her loneliness,
germinate, grow and they bud

The tears they fall on his sweater
with thoughts of his tender warm hands
Embracing and calming her tensions
easing life’s chilling demands

She looks through all of his keepsakes,
the treasures the stuff and the junk
Reminiscing of wonderful moments
now buried in memories trunk

Their hearts they were well knit together
some sixty years now have gone by
And boy did he really look handsome
especially when wearing this tie

And there is his dear old black bible
tattered and worn to the bone
With so many fine buried treasures
he labored to make all his own

This little box of small trinkets
from Italy, boot-camp and war
are now so inconsequential, to the
treasure he’s laid up in store

But Mom you’re still right here and with us,
this new phase has all just begun
Carry on with all of the courage
you’ve assembled beginning day one

Dad always loved that about you,,
when your kind heart he lovingly won
And he’s left you in the very good hands now,
of the Father and His capable Son

David Kettler, 8/13/09

I called my Mom and she was crying while going through Dad’s things. After I hung up, I wrote this poem while driving back to Bakersfield from Tulare. I felt like the first part would probably make her sad, but I hoped that the last part would give her encouragement to begin this next stage of her life. I thought about all the courage that it took Mom to go through nurse’s training all those years ago and now she would have to call on that courage again. It’s not like she ever lost it, just that she needs to make decisions on her own again without the help and support of Dad.

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Dads Gone

6/6/2010

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You tore a hole in my heart my dear old Dad
when you left and went away
The dreaded disease you bravely battled
refused to let you stay

The calls home now are not the same
your voice I cannot hear
However sometimes, I sense that you’re there
and standing very near

I picture your haircut, that timeless flattop
colored in wisdom’s gray
Your beautiful smile and those calloused old hands
gently pointing the way

I see your blue eyes so filled with love
and wonder when they turn my way
What do you see way down the road
and what are they trying to say?

Your words I hear as clear as a bell
though inaudible in my ear
I think of the things you would have said
when helping my path to steer

Dad, you’re gone yet you’re always right here
I carry you in my heart
Somewhere down the road we’ll join up again
when we never have to part

David Kettler, 7/31/09

One day driving home from down South, I very strongly felt Dad’s presence with me in the car. We had an inaudible make believe chat like we used to do. That started me thinking about this poem. I wrote it a few days later. It was kind of cool to call Mom and she told me that she had been experiencing some of the same feelings.

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Mother In Law

6/6/2010

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We don’t share the same blood but we share the same tears
Your daughter and my sons all share the same fears
We share the same joys we share the same hope
When things do turn tough, we all seem to cope

I love the strength you gave to my wife
I’m glad that you are a part of my life
So it’s true that we really don’t share the same genes
Where I’m coming from is so different it seems

If sometimes we’re playing for two different teams
Let’s never forget that we share the same dreams
I love my boys and you love them too
I love your sweet daughter as much as you do

My love for you, flows wide like a flood
We just happen… to not share the same blood

David Kettler, 4/14/09

I decided to write this for Carol’s birthday. I’ve always had a tough time calling my Mother and Father in law “Mom” and “Dad.” Part of it stems from confusion when you are talking to other people about mom or dad…they usually think of my “Mom” as in Betty or my “Dad” as in Ed. Another reason is because of the loser son-in-law who is often portrayed in the comics trying to cozy up to the new in-laws…usually much to their chagrin! In reality, I could not think of two other people besides my own parents who have meant so much to me over the years, and who I am very proud to think of as my Mom and Dad! I think Larry and I both knew that we could never fill the spot that Dean left in Lloyd and Carol’s life. We have both just wanted to do everything we could to be the best “substitute” sons that we could be. Now that I have lost my Dad, I feel very similar about Lloyd. He will never replace my dear old Dad but what wonderful back-up he has been in my life. So forget all the Mother-in-law jokes, in my case…it DNA. (does not apply)

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Dads Chair

6/6/2010

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I went to see Mom and I sat in Dad’s chair
I sat in the car seat where Dad used to steer
I sat at the table where they both would say grace
In the meeting I sat in what once was his space

We sang and we talked like she and Dad did
We remembered his jokes and how he would kid
I opened her door and held her kind arm
While walking down stairs, to keep her from harm

I kind of look like him, our eyes are the same
He gave me his humor and he gave me his name
The people who loved him are so nice to me
I remind them of him, and of what used to be

So I cheer up my Mom so she won’t get the blues
But I know oh so well, that I can’t fill his shoes

I wrote Dad’s chair when I was at Saginaw Convention with Mom. Between a couple of the meetings, I started it and then I finished it after we got back home that night. It was very impressive how many people came up to me and thanked me for being there with Mom. Also, many people came up and talked about Dad and how much they missed him. They would tell little stories about him and it was really special.

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My Sons Shoes

6/6/2010

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I fit in my son’s shoes, though I’m not in the Navy
My hair is receding, not all thick and wavy
Wasn’t long ago that he clomped around in my old boots
His little legs pushing with shoving and scoots

Now he’s a size thirteen just like me
No longer at home, he’s long gone and free
All his life, he’s dreamed of filling my shoes
Growing up, being a man, paying his very own dues

Funny thing though I might fit in his size
He’s gone way beyond in schooling and wise
This little guy’s on a trail that I’ve never known
Blasted like a rocket ever since he left home

Top of his class, king of the hill
Soaring to heights that I never will
I’m not jealous, no not one little bit
Just so proud that my shirt’s about to split

This Navy mans shoes that I slipped on to wear
Brings a smile to this old mans face, along with a tear
As I think of my dad’s shoes now put away for good
And how I’d like one last walk in them if only I could

But his footprints walk on, in the sands of yesteryear
When the next dad tries…his son’s shoes to wear

This poem came about when I slipped Doug’s old running shoes on to work in the yard one Saturday. I just found it amazing to think that they are the same size as mine. The rest of the poem pretty much is self-explanatory.

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Empty Bedrooms

6/6/2010

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I walk past empty bedrooms that once held my boys
the beds made so perfect, the absence of noise
Books there on the bookshelf and not upon the floor
no ear-splitting music, no slamming the door

It’s eerily quiet now these once busy dens
these bunkers of bustle with brothers and friends
They’re off to college now the closet’s are clean
they only come home now on days in between

The weeks of the study the homework and toil
with loads of their laundry all dirty with soil
These nice empty bedrooms so tidy and neat
just aren’t the same in their pristine retreat

As when the sneakers are thrown in a corner
the fridge it is drained like an unwilling donor
The noise and the smell of exercised teens
showing off muscles with biceps and spleens

Banging a cupboard while toasting some bread
at three in the morning before heading to bed
Now some dorm at the coast, in some far away place
or corner of frat-house who’s presence they grace

Our bedrooms are empty the rooms nice and quiet
the sheets all in place and the fridge on a diet
But once in a while it all comes to life
things they are back to the brotherly strife

Rooms not so tidy and sharp as a knife
as when we’re alone…just me and my wife

I was walking past the boys bedrooms the other day and noticed the nice made beds with pillows right in place. Also how clean and tidy they were reminded me that the boys far from lived there now! They were both home in March of 09 and things were right back to normal very quick. Within a couple days, you could barely tell what color the carpet was in their rooms where the floor was covered with clothes and junk. Anyway, it’s nice to have Brett still at home so he can give us some semblance of normality.

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My Dads Hands

6/6/2010

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Bedtime came we were settling down, I was holding one of my lads

As I grasped him so tight I saw a strange sight, my hands…they looked like my dads!

I remember them well those old gnarled hooks, there was always a cracked nail or two

And thanks to a hammer that strayed from its mark, his thumb was a beautiful blue!

They were rough I remember, incredibly tough, as strong as a carpenters vice

But holding a scared little boy at night, they seemed to me awfully nice.

The sight of those hands-how impressive it was, in the eyes of his little boy

Other dads’ hands were cleaner it seemed, the effects of their office employ

I gave little thought in my formative years, of the reason for dad’s raspy mitts

The love in the toil, the dirt and the oil, rusty plumbing that gave those hands fits!

Thinking back, misty-eyed, and thinking ahead…when one day my time is done

The torch of love in my own wrinkled hands, will pass on to the hands of my son

I don’t mind the bruises, the scars here and there, or the hammer that just seemed to slip

I want most of all when my son takes my hand, to feel that love lies in the grip

This was the first poem that I ever had published in anything other than a coffee table book of poetry. My Dad’s Hands was published in Chicken Soup for the Soul part 5. Chicken soup also used it in one of their calendars. It’s kind of cool to also find this poem on many websites especially around Fathers day. I don’t remember the date that I wrote it. I think it was in the late Eighties. It’s hard to believe that now I have two adult sons and one fourteen year old. My oldest, Doug would now have hands that resembled mine when I wrote this poem…probably while holding him as a lad. If he was 2 years old at the time, that would have been around 1989. Dad will be 85 next month in March 2009. His hands have gotten pretty rough with sores brought on by his cancer. My brother Mark and I are going to try and go see Mom and Dad at their home in Eugene Oregon next month.

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The Beauty Queen

6/6/2010

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As I looked at you this morning I saw sparkling eyes so fine, your hair done up so pretty and that smile that seemed to shine

I said to myself, “wow, what a catch!” can all of this be mine?!

“Why?” I had to wonder, as my thoughts I jotted down, did the beauty queen in this circus of life, decide to marry the clown?

You really are a queen sweetheart, I realized it again this morning. But I know it’s easy for you to forget, when you’re so busy performing

Three rings you have all going, abuzz with noise and lights! You the skillful leader, wowing the crowd with sights

The crowd they see the show, and applaud with all their might. But me, I see the queen…collapse into bed at night

Me? I’m just the clown, enjoying all the fun! Working the crowd, making them laugh, skipping off when the show is done!

But isn’t that what you loved about me, with your quiet thoughtful way…just laughing and playing , forgetting the trouble…if only for a day??

Honey, I can now understand, it’s not all games and fun. The castle we live in is a labor of love, till the going down of the sun

There never seems to be an end to the work that we call life. But my, how much easier to do when it’s shared by husband and wife!

So I tip my hat to you my love, the beauty queen of the town…but let’s not forget to have a little fun…says I the happy clown!

I’m not sure when I wrote this poem for Brenda. It’s pretty cool that It could have been any year in our almost 30 years together. She is still the love of my life. I love how the circus theme captures our relationship on so many levels. The three rings for our three sons, her… the driver / analytical ring master, and me the goofy clown. The thing that attracted us to each other was the difference we saw in each other. I loved her quiet thoughtful togetherness. She was always well put together, organized and classy. She loved me because I was just a shade dangerous, not so put together and funny.

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