Your Time was Done Right




To each a time and place

        no apologies for past

       nor responsibility for future.


Slavery, the Slaughter at Wounded Knee,

       and many black outlined newspaper stories

       were in someone else's time.


Your life calendar time

       marked a new century, baby innocent,

       turning to haunting times.


Born in a CF&I coal camp no longer there

       beat the strike of 1913 but

        visitied Ludlow days before the massacre.


Poor was not poverty

       just short of money,

       long on needs.


They marched off

       to Save the World for Democracy

       and gave a lung or leg.


A teen seeing flappers

       having risky fun

       bootleg booze and razz ma tazz jazz.


Poor is fertile ground to grow

        great work ethics,

       frugal tracking and careful planning.


School smarts shelved too soon,

       work smarts rolled out,

       paraded around the office.


No latch key boys,

        tended  and hot-fed while others

       coped with the Great Depression.


Husband too old

       boys too young to Save again,

       serve  with  ration books and meatless days.


Once more  parade of survivors

       empty sleeves and worn uniforms

       looking for their prize of peace.


Loud shouts of beat poetry

       did not  turn your head

       from the tasks of tending boys.


Tended, hot-fed boys

       to live out your unfinished goals

       got a work ethic as your gift of tools.


School and not the work

       of the poor birthed

       all the degrees missed.


Before you, there was shame

       not yours, as you coped

       with your given time slot.


After you, there will be more shame

       not yours but mine as I try

       to remember how you did your time.


Doug Minnis



I often think that my mothers telling of her life has meant that it has become part of my history. So it should be that one generations time blends into the next as seamless as possible. The pictures of my mother in Kit Carson Park are so much a part of me that I can taste the lemonade.







Resulting from reorganizing some old letters and found some notes for a poem about my mother's times. Love to remember the stories told,