Poems by Marie Fischer and Eunice J. Miles

I was recently going through my mother's scrapbook, and I found two poems that I thought I'd like to share. I don't know how much exposure these two poets had during their lifetimes, but I'd like to extend their reach a bit.

The first was published in the Salt Lake Tribune, I would guess in the late 1950's.  I know why my mother kept it, as it reminds me of my grandmother and tugs at my heart reading it now.



THE FINAL GIFT
by Eunice J. Miles

This lace-trimmed, printed apron,
With a pocket and a bow,
Was made for me by Mother
From a bit of calico.
She fashioned it so neatly,
Her smile, as always, cheery,
I could not know her heartbreak,
Nor guess herr feet were weary.
I took the gift so carelessly,
As if it were my due.
That it would prove a final one
From her, I never knew.
Now Mother's hands are quiet.
They can no longer sew
A dainty lace-trimmed apron
Of printed calico.

The second poem is one my mother typed out.  I love the character the old manual typewriters gave to the printing. They were like fingerprints, as no two typewriters printed the letters exactly the same. On this one, the lower case o doesn't print on the bottom of the arc. You can see it in the picture at the bottom.

Before I begin, I need to define the word samite as it's used in the second stanza.  According to Wikipedia, Samite was a luxurious and heavy silk fabric worn in the Middle Ages, of a twill- type weave, often including gold or silver thread. I didn't know the word before today.

PINES IN THE WIND
By Marie Fischer

The pines are reeling galleons
Tossed on windy nights,
Their singing masts strung with stars
For swinging signal lights.

The pines are phantom galleons
Adrift through samite mists,
Their wriath-like sails the floating clouds
By ghostly moonbeams kissed.

The pines are pirate galleon,
Their chant a weird rune;
Their treasure-holds with silver filled
Stolen from the moon.

The pines are cargoed galleon
Laden with sweet spices;
The God of the trees built them so
And launched with beauty thrice--

With music, fragrance, form,
Pine galleons ride the storm.

I can almost hear my mother reading each of these poems, even though she's been gone over twenty years.













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