Live singing and playing my old 1920s Mahogany Baritone uke.
Our Old Farmhouse
Our old farmhouse
stands silent and still.
not filled with children’s voices,
teeth marks on the window sill
Pencil marks on the kitchen doorframe
where daddy measured our growth spurts
a worn out spot on the kitchen floor where mama ironed his shirts.
Faded flowered wallpaper
peeling in the hall
sound of children’s footsteps... racing down the hall
Mama’s old chifforobe is still standing there.
Filled with worn and well washed aprons, sewn with such great care.
A box of photos in the attic, all tattered and brown and torn.
Newspaper clippings announcing, the day that I was born.
First communion, Confirmation, their beautiful wedding day.
Just some paper memories that I can’t throw away.
I still cry for you
mama and daddy I’m missing you
all your loving and gentle ways
I live in faith it seems....that I’ll see you in my dreams
And hope we will be united again someday…
Our old wooden farmhouse
so shabby and rundown...
Is collapsing and decaying
Just like the rest of this once prosperous town