And So It Goes

Many times since his death I’ve heard it said

That he was a storyteller, not particularly well read

Strangers in a bar, stopped me to say

That they enjoyed his stories, most every day


I hadn’t known that fact, though I heard many a tale

From Locomotive Engines, to boats without a sail

Although I was included in a few of his stories

But hardly did he repeat those, in my presence, of my glory


Not that it mattered, he had plenty of others to tell

And more often than not, they told of where he fell

A wrong move there, his misstep over here

Many were the tales, told over a cold beer


He seemed to me quiet, gathering them, not spreading

Was it me he was holding back from, but never quite forgetting?

He told many of them to me, many times over the years

Especially just before he passed over, just before the tears


So now that I know this, it comes to me as a surprise

Suddenly I can see things, through his passing eyes

Little did I know that I was continuing his tales

Though the media changed, I have new wind in my sails


I know that we both have, had much to say

But just as he held back, I have been the same way

I confessed so little of my need to tell my stories

Of our many truthful, and sometimes imagined glories


But when I wasn’t there, it seems he burst through the dam

And I held for fifty years, the author that I truly am

And as his stories aren’t likely, to be left behind by me

I only hope that from up there, my stories, he’ll be able to see.


Barbara Blackcinder

About Barbara Blackcinder

I am a poet/writer with a need for words. There are so many out there that I haven't used yet. They define all reality and mine when you read those from me.
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2 Responses to And So It Goes

  1. Oh, he is watching, Barb, and sending other-worldly love and encouragement 🙂

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