Remember Me

Say no prayers for me when I am gone

but don't you dare forget me.

Even if all you can remember are

the less flattering moments of our time together--

even then, don't you dare forget me.

They say there's no such thing as bad publicity

and that's what I'm going for here: just remember.

It's little enough to ask.

 

We never, here on earth, fully know another,

so what you will recall of me—

whether good or bad—

is likely to be half true

and just an imagining of your mind.

You'll never be remembering the real me,

but always just a simulacrum, my stunt double.

But I don't care.

Right or wrong, hero or villain

or just plain ordinary schmuck,

I want to linger in your heart

and lie in the depths of your being.

Remember me.

 

 

Copyright © 2025 Ann Tudor
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com

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Caroling

Some went for tinsel and twinkling stars;

we went for song.

 

We celebrated what we'd been taught:

a little Lord Jesus

glory streaming

no crib for a bed

shepherds tending

holy nights

three kings

a star in the East.

We knew the drill.

 

Still children, we sang out

in Latin or English,

(Adeste or O come),

the words less important

than the occasions

for familiar harmony.

We sang.

 

Five to a car, six to a car,

we canvassed the town,

our carols a gift

to neighbours and friends.

We sang infants and mangers

baby born in December

flocks by night

all is calm, all is bright

and joy, joy, joy to the world.

Sang into the crisp clear air

of dark Indiana winter.

 

Some go for tinsel and twinkling lights,

but we went for song.

 

Two carloads, two families,

two fathers driving,

we crisscrossed the town

and spilled out onto snowy sidewalks.

We stood in two rows

before neighbours

belting out harmonies.

Innocents, sure of our goodness,

we sang in the solstice

pure song pouring from our

earnest and fervent pubescent hearts.

 

 

Some go for tinsel and twinkling lights

but we went for song.

 

Our four parts of harmony

rang at each door

and neighbours, cherished,

beamed in doorways to hear

our voices together once more.

 

When we were blessed with a snowfall,

tiny ice butterflies drifted onto our hats.

We opened our throats in frigid air

and warm golden melody flowed

into the ether.

 

 

Some go for tinsel and twinkling lights.

For us it was

always

all about song.

 

 

Copyright © 2024Ann Tudor

Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com

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The Crown of Light

I apparently think it's enough to have a favourite tree

            in High Park

to stop and admire it whenever I pass,

            recognizing its seasonal changes.

That'll suffice, I seem to think,

            as my (urban) connection to the natural world.

 

And thus I miss almost every time

the crown of light that blesses

            the most ordinary tree top,

the neighbourhood hawk making its rounds,

the gradual leaf change from green

            to very bright red.

 

I need to rethink.

One favourite tree, no matter how graceful,

is just the tip of the iceberg.

I could be watching the light,

could be lifting my eyes to the mystery of clouds.

 

I will myself to be a lover of all light's gifts.

 

 

 

Copyright © 2024 Ann Tudor
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com

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