This is a blog post which I actually found when editing a new post to come. I'm not really sure how I forgot to publish this post, but alas I did. While this post may be a bit over a year and a half late, I hope you enjoy it:
"So, for about three weeks, I have developed an interest in poetry. I credit to a local poet in Jackson, TN, by the name of James E. Cherry. Cherry, a Union grad, came to Barefoot's Joe for a reading from his nominated book of poetry, Honoring the Ancestors. For some reason, the simplicity and the passion blended beautifuly in my mind. I have never been able to really enjoy poetry before. However, his words changed that. Something about his words have influenced me to alter my opinions and give poetry a shot. I had always discounted it; I thought it was too vague or whatever excuse I had at the time. Cherry's poetry was pure passion and emotion in text and verse. Even his simplest poems that I have been reading have sparked ideas in my own developing mind. The poem "Chicken Sandwhich Blues" has challenged me to look at everyday things differently, appreciate them, cherish them. The poem that has had the greatest impact on me so far in my very short jaunt into poetry would have to be "Mother's Day." His poem has inspired the writing of the following poem. My writing looks back at how I lost one who was very close to me. Please, read and react. Let me know your take on this piece of vers. Enjoy."
By Nathan Fisher
They were simple times – my younger years.
Time when pleas for play were answered
With words of “Yes dear, but I get the red car.”
Simple times with simple pleasures,
Times with toy cars and my wonderful Grandma DuMont.
The family kitchen table, and occasionally the living
Room, was home to drag races, city blocks, and vast parking lots.
Around and around we went in our circular world.
These simple times with toy cars and my Grandma DuMont.
One day the request for play was not returned as it always was.
In its place I received a blank look and silence.
I hurried to get my mother for help; I was scared.
I had not felt a fear like this before in my short life.
Frantic dialing and distraught words soon followed.
The still silence of the evening was filled with shouts as I
Was rushed next door to my aunt’s half of the duplex.
My four-year-old mind could not comprehend what
Was happening to my best friend in the world.
The rhythmic flashing of red and blue soothed me for a time.
Once the comforting lights left, my young mind raced with questions.
Panic then began to overcome me. What happened to her?
Of all the questions I have, only one was answered.
My grandmother, my best friend, died of a stroke.
My father told me God needed a friend to play with cars.
I couldn’t let her leave me unprepared.
At her funeral, I placed our favorite car in the casket with her.
She needed a car, the red one, to play in heaven.
Being the age I was, I wasn’t very eloquent with words.
All I could say, the last thing I said to her, was “Play nice.”
Oh, the simple times with toy cars and my Grandma DuMont.