Joanne Ashe

Remembering....

I've always had this knack for remembering those things
most important to me....a favorite poem.."I was born in
the Congo, I walked to the fertile crescent and built the
Sphinx..." (Nikki is still bad, ain't she?)
 
I've, invariably, possessed this uncanny ability, to reduce
anything that meant anything, to memory,
Such as...telephone numbers of those truly, intellectual, poet-type brothers
back in the day....Hell, I can remember Gary Byrd's
phone number, when he was on WWRL..
 
Even birthdays of those people, who may have touched my life,
only in passing, seem to become an integral part of my data banks..
Humph...I can recall the date, time and day of the week that my
FIFTH cousin on my mother's father's side was born...
 
And even though I may slip-up, every now and then, and forget a
name...ANY face, that's even, fleetingly, been captured by one
or both of my occular lenses...will be forever etched into
immortality...
 
Indeed....the most minute gesture..a smile...a handshake...a sincere
(or insincere) hug...all seem incapable of escaping this memory of
mine...I don't know...it's like the neurons in my gray matter, all
fused together to comprise this truly, awesome, mental rolodex...
 
But you know, that's what has me so perplexed...
I mean...I've known your PAIN...your SADNESS
your JOYS and TRIUMPHS....your CHILDREN....
and still....I CAN'T remember why it is, that I EVER....loved you.... 
 

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OUR BACK PORCH…

Our back porch was heaven on hot days…
     Two stories up…it swayed if the wind spoke too loudly,
But when it whispered, it drizzled butter on our tongues
     like Grandma’s homemade rolls.

We often leaned over (never too far)
     just far enough to see hopscotch sidewalks painted in chalk,
        and train tracks that reached to Egypt and back…

But when dinner-time dictated that a table and chairs
       be positioned out there…Our back porch became filled with
          friends and neighbors and stories and smiles
              and a whispering wind that drizzled butter on our tongues,
                     like Grandma’s homemade rolls…