Poems

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Poems Poems

Census

It was the first day of census,
And all through the land; the pollster
Was ready...a black book in hand.

He mounted his horse for a long dusty
Ride; His book and some quills were tucked
Close by his side.

A long winding ride down a road barely there ;
Toward the smell of fresh bread wafting up
Through the air.

The woman was tired, with lines on her
Face; and wisps of brown hair she tucked
Back into place.

She gave him some water...as they sat at
the table; and answered his question...the
She was able.

He asked of her children...yes she had quite
a few; the oldest was twenty, the youngest
Not yet two.

She held up a toddler with cheeks round and
Red; his sister, she whispered, was napping
In bed.

She noted each person who lived there with
Pride; and she felt the faint stirrings of the
Wee one inside. He noted the sex, the color,
the age...

The marks of the quill soon filled up the page,
At the number of children, she nodded
Her head; and saw her lips quiver of the
Three that were dead.

The place of birth she "never forgot";
Was it Kansas?or Utah?or Oregon...
Or not?

They came from Scotland, of that she was clear ;
but she wasn't quite sure how long they'd been
Here. They spoke of employment, of schooling
And such; they could read and write some....
Though not really much.

When the questions were answered, his job
There was done, he mounted his horse and rode
Toward the sun.

We can imagine his voice loud and clear
"May God Bless you all for another ten years.
Now Picture a time warp...
It’s now you and me... as we search for
The people on our family tree.

We squint at the census and scroll down
As we search for that entry from long
Ago day; that the entries they would
Effect us this way?

If they knew, would the wonder at the
Yearning we feel; and the searching that
Makes them so increasingly real.

We can hear if we listen the words they
Impart; through their blood in our veins
And their voice in our heart.

Genealogists

There is a new disease these days
For which they have no cure
So if it gets a grip on you
“You’ve had it” that’s for sure

This Genealogists.
(At least that’s what I call it)
Has no vaccination that
Can ever forestall it.

It strikes the rich, its strikes
The poor, the old and young alike
When the bug begins to strike
In fact, I’m stricken
With it myself.

I know where of I
speak.

This stuff has kept progressing
Till it almost leaves me weak.

Some symptoms of this dreaded
Disease are buying up old books,
You find yourself in graveyards
And dusty attic nooks.

You write all kinds of letters
No Stone is left unturned
Sometimes for only a postage
Stamp a gold mine is returned.

Just let me say in closing that
When all is said and done
This malady has brought me
Joy and such a lot of fun.

Author Unknown

This poem has nothing to do with genealogy,but when I saw it in the newspaper I
knew it would be good to put on my Web page.
I try to live by it everyday.

Remember me

My name is Gossip
I have no respect for Justice.
I maim without Killing.
I break hearts and ruin lives.
I am cunning and malicious
And gather strength with age.
The more I am quoted the
More I am believed.
I flourish at every level of society.
My victims are helpless.
They cannot protect themselves
againts me because I have
No name and face.
To track me down is impossible.
The harder you try the more elusive
I become.
I am nobody's friend.
Once I tarnish a reputation,
It is never the same.
I topple governments and wreck
Marriages.
I ruin careers, cause sleepless nights,
And indigestion.
I spawn suspicion and generated grief.
I make innocent people cry in their pillows.
Even my name is hisses.
I am called Gossip.
Office Gossip,
Shop Gossip,
Party Gossip.
I make headlines and head aches.
Before you repeat a story ask yourself?