Welcome to the next post in the series Letters from America 1985 -1987 that I wrote home to my parents in the UK. My father kept them all in a folder…Smorgasbord Posts from My Archives – Letters from America 1985-1987 – October 1985 – Trip to Seattle – Mountains and State Park by Sally Cronin
From where we stand at the edge we can see the ruins of the mountain, its scars slowly filling with dust…A Place Once Holy — The Light is On
Hans Remembers- Sunday August 30, 1970- 50 Years Ago. Sometimes the ordinary obscure person is involved an event that they will be remembered by the world forever for- on November 22, 1963 that happened to a Russian-Ukrainian born-American clothing manufacturer with a home movie camera. Abraham Zapruder was his name- at the time he was […]HANS REMEMBERS- SUNDAY AUGUST 30, 1970- 50 YEARS AGO — slicethelife
The forgotten worlds
And how long will our world last
Memories are short
copyright Francis Barker 2020
Our loft, apart from being a mess, can sometimes turn out to be a proverbial treasure trove. Well, not exactly!
We all love to look and dream about red sports cars, especially an iconic red Corvette, naturally, don’t we?
I look at this red Corvette most days, pick it up and look at the lines, imagining I’m somewhere in the Mid West cruising along Route 66, or some long open highway with only mesas, inselbergs and the odd raptor for company, the shapes of distant mountains blue in the background.
One day our dreams may become come to fruition.
Copyright Francis Barker 2020
When you told me the story
I could see the fire in your eyes.
How do you live with those memories?
How do you push all that
to the back of your mind
and move to another land
where you’re hated and vilified
simply for being who you are,
by people who have no idea
of what happened to you,
to your family who you left behind –
dead in the city which was once your home
copyright Francis Barker 2019
The rose coloured memories
all done and dusted
A lost world that won’t return
but a world where I belonged
copyright Francis barker 2019
My father has been dead a long time now, but I’ve never stopped missing him.
I was brought up in an agricultural community of intensive farming, but with just enough ‘real nature’ around us to appreciate the clean air (usually), the silence, the freedom. I virtually grew up on a bike and cars were relatively rare down our road.
Through all that time my father seemed to be in the background, always there, but quiet, shy. He’d had various jobs before retirement, a butcher, farm labourer mainly, but he was an intelligent man of few words.
And I feel I never really knew or understood him.
I wish I’d asked more questions, about his early life, his family. But we never know or ask enough, do we? We take it for granted that our family are there. For us.
Then one day, one of them is not. It’s too late. Yes, of course, I’m stating the obvious, but most often we ignore the obvious all around us, don’t we?
My abiding memory is of my father on his piece land at the back of our house, digging, simply digging the rich soil, surrounded by the vast fertile fields and eyed by hungry, inquisitive birds.
copyright Leofwine Tanner 2019
We set out one morning
after the rain had cleared.
Not a breath of wind,
loose clothes sticking to my skin.
Our intention was to search
the shallow beach,
stretching so far ahead of us
towards lights on low, murky cliffs—
baleful beacons through the mist.
“Stop there!” you said
and took that picture of me,
my trousers rolled up;
never the most fetching sight.
“Walking on water,” that’s
what you called it right away:
Maybe this was the closest
we ever got to heaven
poem and image © copyright df barker 2012