My brother Sam sent another
story about my father in the army. What
we remember and what we don’t. (Someone
asked a few weeks ago: is every
story a poem?) A man named Hop
was in my father’s unit. Jew and Chinese
they became roommates. Hop
had a big knife that he brought with him
to the army. He used his knife for baking pies
and all through their time together Hop
baked them pies. My father said he’d never
eaten pies as good again.
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Let me tell you why I'm here, and why I hope you'll join me.
I am here to poem, to play with words, to tell stories when I can, and to ask you for yours. Words are what I love, how I see, and what I say. Words are how I know my life, and how I find my friends. I'm here to ask you to join me. Right here. To send me your stories, and your poems. And to read mine when you can.
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Esther, just wanted to let you know how I enjoy your poems. They are a daily enjoyment that I always look forward to.
Thanks smooch Dianne. Very grateful for your kind words