I wanted to do something extra special for my brother on his birthday, something that would express my continual love for him throughout our years. And I thought perhaps that bond of love we share as sister and brother would best be described in poetry...it's quite difficult to compress fifty decades into a few lines, but I tried my best to do so; and my brother, well ... he has a copy of this poem framed and it is displayed proudly in his home. As his older sister, I know I will always cherish the memories I have of ... holding my little brothers'hand!
Holding My Brothers’ Hand
Thoughts of his warm unpretentious smile set her heart aglow,
like candlelight illuminating softness on an amber parchment folio.
Playful, brown, and shadowy eyes peeked
back over shouldered time and winked:
She lost all sense of present mind and drifted slowly
into nineteen hundred fifty three.
Boyish fingers squirmed desperate to be freed—
In a snap, they slipped faraway from sisters’ abandoned hand.
“Walk, don’t run,” she shouted to the intrepid lad, wearing itchy feet—
it seemed to her as if they were charged with mystic energy!
En route to wanderlust, a precocious child mocked impending destiny:
little cowboy mounted on a brightly painted horse soon hit the manhood trail;
silver cap guns tumbled from his tiny-holstered waist
Cut-off blue jeans and dark loose hair escorted a rebellious teen
chasing vanished heroes on loud tumultuous streets.
Vietnam wove a khaki suit on his young man frame; stark handsomeness enhanced
as he thrashed inside a jungle maze, and warred valiantly against maturity.
It gashed the soldiers wounded soul; boyhood surrendered reluctantly,
and roamed for years to come, in quest of revival in a mid-life man.
Brightly colored ribbons swayed on a polished robe of black:
dazzled all those in attendance with its grand display!
The college professor flashed a boyish grin her way, and marched forward
to receive gold medallion wins.
Sturdy fingers firmly grip a master storywriters’ pen:
callused tips brush fluid memoirs spilling from a brilliant inner man,
like graceful wax dissolving off a blazing candlewick.
Recently, he mused to her, “Our past is never really past at all!”
Soulful, brown, and tender eyes kissed sisters’ aging face, and winked.
Secretly she pondered: “Should I let him know?
Within my heart, within my mind, and my very soul:
I’m still holding…
my brothers’ restless little hand.”
© 2008 Carolyn Taylor White
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