How many times
would I say to them,
“I love you”?
How many times? I wonder
as I lie awake tonight.
Hundreds of times,
thousands, as often as
spring rains thrum the earth?
How many times?If it would protect them
from all harm; if it would help
them honor themselves
to the end; if it would
exterminate the fears
that crawl under their doors and
ride the drafts that whisper
through their window frames…
I would go for the record,
of that you can be sure.© 2014 Dennis H. Ference
(Every Christmas I am visited by nostalgia for the simpler, “purer” time when my children
and, later, grandchildren were more enthralled with the wrappings than the gifts.)
Christmas Afterthought
does
a box lose its
magic or ribbon shed its
charm or is a child lured from won-
der and why does her angel not sound the
alarm
© 2006 Dennis Ference
My eight-year-old granddaughter, Elizabeth, and I were kicking back in her room and riding the drafts of imagination wherever they might fly. As this particular story unfolded, we were sitting next to her small desk and cutting up downy feathers from a craft variety pack of “stuff”. I, regrettably, was big-time antsy, a sciatic nerve challenging me to find a comfortable spot on an uncomfortable, child-sized chair. Nonetheless, I was enjoying the easy banter and the sudden twists and turns that often come when Elizabeth has taken the lead. We were cutting the feathers up into small bits, as I recall, to create a soft garment for the imaginary store we were “hired” to supply.
Well, the bag of feathers was large, and after a while, I thought that maybe we had cut enough for the purpose at hand, but she informed me that wasn’t the case, and so we continued our tedious task. A little later, again I raised the same possibility, plus maybe her room was getting a little messy, fluffy down, by then, flying everywhere I looked. I further threw in the thought that perhaps her parents would be unhappy if we cut up each and every feather she had. Not even bothering to look up at me, Elizabeth continued to cut. Finally, as we just about reached the bottom of the bag, and I had thrown out my last obsessive gambit, the philosopher in Elizabeth announced with thoughtful aplomb, “You know, Papa, life is more than feathers.” Amen, Elizabeth! Amen!
© 2014 Dennis Ference
(Written several years ago when my father came from a distant
state to reside in the nursing home where I worked at that time.)
I did not know him as a son
hopes to know a father.
That was my thought as
I laid him to rest
in his new bed and circumstances
at the nursing home
in which I labor
for daily bread and respect.
Though present throughout my childhood,
it was an impression of absence he
bequeathed,
relinquishing to mother
the dispensation of love and direction
and other childhood necessities.
And in her compliant shadow I grew
with no expectations of him,
only those secret longings
I could not name.
Now, he and his need,
with a minimum of warning,
have erased plotted distances
to reenter my life
like a dull thud,
disturbing what had been
a satisfying harmony
between family, job and benign
expectations for tomorrow.
And in a moment I taste it–
resentment flavored with
just a sliver of gratitude
for this intrusion
into
complacency.
© 1998 Dennis Ference
(First published in America.)
It is a sound most
sublime, rivaling
the song of angels,
the hallelujahs of temple
and church, brandishing
a power to bring
darkness to its knees,
and reminding us that
love and hope forever
flow like streams of light
through the recesses
of the heart.
© 2014 Dennis Ference
Little pink sock for her little pink toes,
Only a grandmother can really know
That this is why here you must stay:
To work your magic on those dark, lonely days.
© 2007 Dennis H. Ference (First posted on 7/31/14)
(For many, the love of a pet lights
a pathway to the Spirit. For that and all
you have meant to your family, Rhett,
thank you and rest in peace!)
He didn’t really like dogs—
at least that’s what he always
insisted to anyone who cared
to listen. Yet when his son’s
mutt would stand before him,
staring with black marble eyes,
tongue loosely flapping
with canine shivers, he never failed
to rub the dog’s head, stroke
under his jaw, pat his side,
scratch behind his ear.
And once in awhile when no one
was paying attention, and Rhett
lay some feet away, the old man would
softly snap his fingers, hand nearly
brushing the floor, and the dog
would come sit by his side
and patiently wait for him
to renew their tenuous affair.
© 2006 Dennis Ference
(Poem first posted 8/4/14.)
In my time of 70-plus years
falling deeply in love
has come with both joys and tears.
And I’ve fallen anew often in life,
each precious time,
with the same wonderful wife.
© 2015 Dennis Ference
Season your life generously
with the spice of gratitude,
making of it a savory banquet
for all who are called
or find their way
to your table.
© 2014 Dennis Ference
(Compassion is a salve with
power to heal our souls.)
She was the brightest star
in his darkest night,
first child of his youngest;
and though their stories
intersected in earnest
but a short time ago,
it was clear to all that
she now owned his heart.
Her visits straightened
his spine and swelled
his chest; and when she
kissed his bristly cheek and
intoned, I love you, Grandpa,
he heard again the old music
to which he once hummed and
danced an occasional
impromptu jig.
He decided to give her a gift,
though his station didn’t allow
for much: eighty-six, withering
parts, strangled assets, wringing
out his days in a home with
a hundred more like him.
But he hatched a plan,
executed it with equal parts
stealth and constancy,
and, when her next visit
was winding down,
anxiously steered her
to his dresser, splayed
the contents of his sock drawer
like Moses parting the Red Sea,
and removed a popcorn sack
with 49 packets of sugar
pilfered from the dining room:
breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
She received the gift
with a pooling in her eyes,
a thrumming in her heart,
and love for the old man
anchoring deep within
her soul.
Returning home
she carefully opened
the packets as in a sacred
rite and emptied them into
her grandmother’s sugar bowl,
bequeathed, shelved, and patient,
perhaps, for a day such as this.
She brewed a cup of tea,
sweetened it slowly,
and pondered how fortunate
she was to have stumbled upon
her own rainbow lavishly spilling
into a pot of gold.
© 2009 Dennis Ference
Merging Traffic 