Below are two memoir pieces by talented writers I've met through my creative writing classes. The first one is a poem with a sweet, cantering rhythm by artist/writer LAW Fraser. The second one is an ironic reminiscence (and mystery!) by Linda Burk.
Check here in the weeks to come for more inventive literary works by various Portland voices!
by LAW Fraser
by LAW Fraser
Every star that shined first,
every wishbone that I snapped,
I asked for my very own pony.
Every day that wish stayed the same.
When asked what I wanted for a gift,
I asked for my very own pony,
one I could sit on and ride,
I could gallop up hills and
run through streams,
I could rest in the green,
while my pony grazed.
I would sweep out his stall,
carry water and hay,
brush his mane then
polish his hooves.
All these things I could do
if my wish would come true.
All the places I could ride
if only my wish would come true.
I’m now past my prime, won’t ride anymore.
So I’m content to watch from afar,
but still wild ponies excite
this old heart.
by Linda Burk
We bought the old farm at an auction. It was located on a back road in the hills of Pennsylvania. There were no neighbors in sight. Our boys were young and we needed to live in the city near their school. The farm was a weekend retreat for us. We loved the orchards with several varieties of crisp juicy apples and sweet red cherries. The old yard still had a few strawberries that we enjoyed in the summer.
The house was formerly owned by an old man who lived alone and must have subsisted on sardines and beans according to the piles of cans we found in the back yard.
The living room walls were black with soot but there was no sign of a woodstove. We spent many weekends stripping the walls to the studs while the boys enjoyed playing in the nearby fields.
As winter approached we attached our large woodstove, which we brought with us from our farm in West Virginia. It was cozy and warm in the rooms as we worked.
Our weeks were busy with school and work and there was a month between visits to the old place. When we returned we walked into the living room. We stood there with our mouths open! The woodstove and pipes were gone! We asked the few neighbors but no one heard anything or saw anything. It was frustrating but what did we expect? The old farm was located in a rural area called Exchange.