Mary's Eyes

The following poem is about Mary, a woman well into her 90's living in Seaside, Oregon

Mary’s Eyes I do not see her as often as I use to, Mary broke a leg, required therapy, Mary has Alzheimer’s, She does not remember breaking her leg, the time of day, or the weather…is it sunny or gray, or that it’s me. I am not offended that Mary does not remember me, She has good reason, just the other day, She asked her daughter, Cheryl, “Where are we going?” Cheryl replied with a little giggle under her breathe … “To the brink, Mother, to the brink!” However, what she really said was: “To the bathroom mother, to the bathroom!” Not long ago I saw Mary at a function, Walked up to her, Took her hand, Said “Hi Mary” She looked frightened, Mary looked beyond my eyes, I could not tell for sure how far she could see, Or, on the other hand, what she saw. Mary turned her head to Cheryl and said, “Who is this strange person?” I was not offended. I have often, been referred to, by even my dearest of friends as ‘very strange.’ “Dan, Mother, its Dan! Don’t you remember, we see him all the time at Riley’s” (A watering hole in Seaside, Oregon) Mary had a slight glimmer in her eyes and asked Cheryl, “What is Riley’s?” As if on cue, Cheryl and I smiled, rolled our eyes, we understood.

I have been busy getting ready to publish my second book...here is a sample of what you will find..

Several years ago while riding around Portland on Tri-Met, I met two very interesting young men. One I met on Tuesday, the other I met on Wednesday, on Thursday I sat down and wrote...

Two Boys on The Bus Two boys traveled on the bus. One, Tuesday’s Boy, The other, Wednesday’s lad, Each carried burdens deeply hidden away. Tuesday’s Boy spent his life in a chair, with wheels that rolled him up and on the bus. Another set of wheels churned away inside his head. He spoke with his crooked fingers going in mayhem’s direction  He touched his caregiver, first on her side, then trying in vain to stroke her short blond hair. She shied from his advances with a warning, 'behave, stay away!'. Could he tell, did he know, was he aware, did he really care? Or did he crave the need to touch and be touched and held and loved? Wednesday’s Boy jumped on the bus, He greeted the driver with a handshake and hello. Hong, a Vietnamese lad of maybe 23, Sat next to me and first shook my hand then from nowhere he wrapped his arms around my neck and hugged me, “Where you from?” he asked “Chicago” is what I said. “I’m from Miami, you go to Miami?” “I’ve never been there, but would like to go.” “Go…you have fun in Miami…where you go now?” “Home” is all I said… Hong said, “Me too” his head hung low, followed by his sudden but quiet reply.  He went from friendly, outgoing, full of life… to sullen. It seemed as if Hong had retreated to a deeper, darker place…a place only he could go to...Hong got off the bus somewhere on Milwaukie "Avenue… just past QFC. As he prepared to leave I said “Good-bye Hong,” he nodded and pleadingly stared right through me. Two boys traveled on the bus. One was Tuesday’s Boy, The other, Wednesday’s lad, Each carried burdens deeply hidden away.