Another love song.

Unending Tendrils Of Love


and guns.

That’s where I come from.

Brought together in interminable endlesssness.


The Nuns.

They raised my Mother.

They talked to her of God and guilt and shiny shoes and arithmetic.

They pointed to their heart, the cross.

Answered unanswerable questions

with unending determinism.

The seed of spirituality 

planted deep beneath the soil

waiting for the rainy season

of nurturance.


The guns.

The war.

German soldiers drinking beer across the street.



My Father, a little boy, doesn’t know them but he sees them.

They return to him in his dreams

Fifty years down the pathway of time.

He sees them still sometimes with his eyes closed 

or his eyes open.

His Mother saw them and knew then and still she planted in her children

small seeds of love

hard work

heart work



They meet one day

he and she

far from the guns and nuns.

On a Country street.

Their hearts waver in recognition of each other

One wellspring

of love 

Meets another.

Their lives intertwine 

the seeds planted long ago beneath the deep brown soil are watered.

They unfurl and poke through and rise up toward  sunlight.

They prosper

grow strong.

Watered by the other and by God.


I come to them on a grey still day.

Bringing smiles and trials

and endless

sleepless nights.

Unwavering devotion.

They care for me together.

Through Seasons and harvests

of plenty and abundance

of drought and of flood.

They teach what they know.

Not of Nuns and of guns.

But of love and of hard work and kindness and God.

And family and love and of looking above

for the answers to questions that burst from our souls.

A daughter, just for them.

To share in their love.


One day his Season finds its end.

No more water.

No more guns.

And endless ending to his life here amongst his garden and family.

Returned to the God who gave him his life and his Mother, his wife

and his others.


She watched him and tended

She cared and she watered as his life left his eyes

and his cheeks sunken, 


His hands greyed

His voice staid.

She carefully tended each last flicker of life.

Carefully cared for as he left behind this life.


So there are some things, some fun things

I couldn’t tell my Mother. 

I couldn’t tell my Mother of the smallest mistakes she made

Because she tended my father in 

his last endless days.

With unending, tendrilling kindness.

Far away from the Nuns and Guns.


About eatmystreet

Join in the joie de vivre.
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