Poetry Time !
One of my favourite blog posts are the Poetry Time series.
Published every 2-6 weeks, these posts allow us to take a break and delve into the concept of "Playing in the sandbox of words." :)
Today we have the honour of featuring Ken (Kenneth) Weene, who would like to invite you all to sample Coursing, his poetry collection published by Cyberwit.
Ken and I first connected back in March '22 after meeting in the Facebook group: Authors Supporting Authors.
Since then we have gotten to know each other fairly well. Ken co-hosts of the On The Brink podcast & the Writing Chats & Friends podcast. Ken has published numerous novels, plays, and short stories.
Drop by Ken's site at:
http://www.kennethweene.com & drop into Amazon to find his books.
"This particular poem," Ken explains, "was written for the first half of the collection, which is an exploration of his childhood and memories. It is based on his discovery at age seven of boxes of photographs in a store room in the attic of his parents’ home. And, yes, there were no photos or mention of Benjamin."
Boxes In The Attic
filled with photographs,
people I had never seen:
my parents, happy, in bathing costumes
on boardwalk Revere beach;
father smiling and his parents,
whom I never knew,
despite monthly visits
to be kissed with grandmother’s old-age musk.
No pictures of Benjamin,
father’s brother
who died young
and was never mentioned.
Memory of the dead is a luxury
we were taught to scorn.
Had he lived, perhaps the family rage
would have burned less hot.
If there had been time for tears,
perhaps father’s cries would have
extinguished the flames.
Hiding from mother’s protection,
I played solitaire with fading photographs.
Who went with whom?
Where did they go?
I never asked.
When they were dead,
the last casket mourned,
I asked cousins who recalled
a different grandmother,
one who gave love with food,
strudel and gefilte fish,
and sang bobeli Yiddish songs.
In the boxes of photographs
uncles and aunts
graduations and cousins
but no Benjamin.
There were no photographs of tears.
Only smiles
worn like new clothes
and stiff Sabbath shoes,
an un-kissed mezuzah.
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Thank you Ken for sharing this wonderful poem sharing family memories.
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