January 23, 2011
The following is some of the poetry I wrote through the years, usually inspired by my lovely children, or an event that touched my heart in some way.
This was written to my teenagers and preteens. Saturday was always the day we cleaned the house, stocked wood for the fire, and did out side chores as well. Besides not getting up before noon, they dragged their heavy feet to the best of their ability to prolong the agony they seemed to feel with every ounce of work. Amazingly, I can laugh about today, they are all incredible hard working people, industrious, well-educated and devoted parents. Whatever we did, Richard and I, manage to raise a great bunch of kids who have us proud. This is now, but that was then, so here it is etched by my pen!
To My Children:
Sharing the work
May seem like a quirk
But only a jerk doesn't know that work works
At making people
Better than a slum bum
and a sloth of a moth!
Sleeping too Late
Why must you tempt the dream
--- just one more time
Be up and Out!!
Throw back your lazy blanket and your sheet
The morning sun impatiently is heaped
Behind your noontime shades!
This poem was written to my son, Joshua, upon his graduation from High School:
Wish to my Graduating Son
Tomorrow's blazing dawn
Lies nestled tightly in your tender palm,
And like the lovely monarch fresh from birth
That quivers into burst of flight
To pierce the luring morning light
Your hearts now poised to soar new skies
Tomorrows dreams reflected in your eyes.
Son, here then is my wish to you:
May all your burning dreams come true,
As you propel above our sights
To dance in tune with truth and light,
To leap beyond this crowning day,
To tread on jewels along the way,
To touch with awe the distant stars,
To reach your goals that now seem far,
To hold tomorrows crimson suns,
And taste the sweet of victory won!
Joshua graduated 3rd in the class of 200 students. He went on to college and then became a fireman and paramedic. He is now married with two little girls of his own and holds a very responsible job in Utah at the Dugway Army Proving grounds. I see now that my wish for him came true.
Jan 22, 2011
Remembering Lynn
January 23, 2011
I lived for the first 17 years of my life in a little house at 26 Althea Road, Warwick, Rhode Island. After I was born in Providence Lion Inn Hospital, my mother bundled me up and brought me home to that address.
While living there I attended grammar school, jr. high, and high school. Every memory I have prior to the age of 18, was lived coming, going, or dwelling in that house.
On the other side of Althea Street, was another little house, owned by the Pearson family which consisted of Dave and Lena (mom and dad) and Gail and Lynn (two little girls).
Lynn and I became friends before I was 4 years old and during my life that friendship lasted, a bond that was to be like non other in my life. We were closer than sisters. So it was ironic, or perhaps it was destiny that it came on the day of her death she was spending time with me at my home in Virginia.
The details of her death were tragic and later put my life into a spin. But here I only want to leave this poem which I wrote a few weeks after her death, hoping that this reflection can be understood by others as a way for me to remember my best friend Lynn.
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Today while on my morning walk,
The scent of honeysuckle vine
Was in the air and stirred my melancholy heart.
I felt your presence once again,
My dearest, dearest friend.
Although you’ve crossed the golden bridge beyond
To dwell where God’s winged angels sail upon
The alabaster moons and silver stars
Which float in Heaven’s timeless space,
The scent of honeysuckle took me back
To childhood jaunts in greening woods
Where once we strolled together
Hand in hand amid the morning light.
We one day found a frothy brook
And stooped in giddy wonder there to spy
The miracles which God had placed
Beneath the swirling waters spilling by -
O’er rocks and twigs and fallen leaves.
That’s just one of many wonders
That we two shared,
While living out our tandem lives.
The vision’s etched in gold upon my heart
Entwined with other sacred memories there.
I see now as this honeysuckle clings to vines
Which lend it strength and shape its climb
You were to me my dearest friend,
And will be missed with every breath
Of air I breathe.
And every day that I remain
To tread upon this gray and misty earth
I shall not feel one minute slip beyond my reach
Nor walk one forward step alone,
Wherein I will not wistfully recall
The moments shared by our two sister souls.
But I shall keep them treasured in my breast-
Those hopes and dreams, the memories past
Although like visions in the night
They’ll dare fade out of touch and sight.
Jeri May,2000
If Every Guy Were Harry
If Every Guy Were Harry
Could you just imagine if the world were all the same?
What if every guy were Harry and each girl named Elaine!
Think of just how tasteless all your trips would be
If everyone were faceless or they looked exact like thee!
Do you think that you could stand it if when walking down your street
Every house was white with shingles and each the same square feet?
Suppose each home had in it just two parents and two kids,
a dog a cat, a fish bowl, and a white-haired Aunt name Midge?
Or, what if after shopping you walked out to find your car
And saw a thousand like it, so you searched for twenty hours?
Suppose you had a sickness and strolled down to see the Doc,
But each door said Doctor Johnson --then you'd know not where to knock.
What if your son were fighting with the bully kid next door
Yet you'd know not who to punish or to drag home through your door.
If your daughter's name were Gerry and her friend was Gerry too
And each one had a boyfriend by the name of Gerry too!
And say you called the baker to deliver up some pies
But when you rang the doorbell you saw yourself before your eyes!!
Oh my, it would be crazy if the world were all the same
With every guy called Harry and each girl named Elaine!!
But wasn't God so clever, cause He made us each unique
Tall or short or fat or thin or with size 11 feet!
So when inclined to censor everyone you know
Be thankful that if your name is Butch and his is just plain Joe.
Jeri Milici Mork
written May 2003
Could you just imagine if the world were all the same?
What if every guy were Harry and each girl named Elaine!
Think of just how tasteless all your trips would be
If everyone were faceless or they looked exact like thee!
Do you think that you could stand it if when walking down your street
Every house was white with shingles and each the same square feet?
Suppose each home had in it just two parents and two kids,
a dog a cat, a fish bowl, and a white-haired Aunt name Midge?
Or, what if after shopping you walked out to find your car
And saw a thousand like it, so you searched for twenty hours?
Suppose you had a sickness and strolled down to see the Doc,
But each door said Doctor Johnson --then you'd know not where to knock.
What if your son were fighting with the bully kid next door
Yet you'd know not who to punish or to drag home through your door.
If your daughter's name were Gerry and her friend was Gerry too
And each one had a boyfriend by the name of Gerry too!
And say you called the baker to deliver up some pies
But when you rang the doorbell you saw yourself before your eyes!!
Oh my, it would be crazy if the world were all the same
With every guy called Harry and each girl named Elaine!!
But wasn't God so clever, cause He made us each unique
Tall or short or fat or thin or with size 11 feet!
So when inclined to censor everyone you know
Be thankful that if your name is Butch and his is just plain Joe.
Jeri Milici Mork
written May 2003
September 11th tribute
January 22, 2011
It has been over ten years now and yet the storys of the heartache and sorrow of that day are still being told. This one I found on FB today touched my heart because of the letter this father wrote to his little girl.
http://www.legacy.com/Sept11/Story.aspx?PersonID=122602&location=1
World Trade Center
The other night, after Sophia Rose Amoroso had her bath, she looked at her tiny hands, wrinkled from the bath water, and told her mother, Jaime, "I have Daddy's fingers."
Her father, Christopher C. Amoroso, used to tell his wife that two of his favorite things in the world were taking their 19-month-old baby for a walk, and bathing her, and he used to wiggle his wrinkly fingers at Sophia Rose.
The baby is too young to understand that her father, 29, a Port Authority police officer, died when he went back into the World Trade Center's north tower after leading a group of people to safety. She will not remember the thousands of people, including hundreds of police officers, who spilled out of Our Lady Star of the Sea Church in Staten Island for his memorial service.
But she will always have the letter he wrote her when she was 10 weeks old: "Sometimes it makes me cry, as I am overwhelmed by the joy I've been given by you and your mother. I want you to know that I consider myself the luckiest man to ever walk the face of this earth. If anything were to happen to me, I could honestly say I've known true love and happiness in my life. I've known that because of your mother and now you."
Profile published in THE NEW YORK TIMES on October 30, 2001.
It has been over ten years now and yet the storys of the heartache and sorrow of that day are still being told. This one I found on FB today touched my heart because of the letter this father wrote to his little girl.
http://www.legacy.com/Sept11/Story.aspx?PersonID=122602&location=1
Christopher C. Amoroso
A Letter to Sophia Rose
The other night, after Sophia Rose Amoroso had her bath, she looked at her tiny hands, wrinkled from the bath water, and told her mother, Jaime, "I have Daddy's fingers."
Her father, Christopher C. Amoroso, used to tell his wife that two of his favorite things in the world were taking their 19-month-old baby for a walk, and bathing her, and he used to wiggle his wrinkly fingers at Sophia Rose.
The baby is too young to understand that her father, 29, a Port Authority police officer, died when he went back into the World Trade Center's north tower after leading a group of people to safety. She will not remember the thousands of people, including hundreds of police officers, who spilled out of Our Lady Star of the Sea Church in Staten Island for his memorial service.
But she will always have the letter he wrote her when she was 10 weeks old: "Sometimes it makes me cry, as I am overwhelmed by the joy I've been given by you and your mother. I want you to know that I consider myself the luckiest man to ever walk the face of this earth. If anything were to happen to me, I could honestly say I've known true love and happiness in my life. I've known that because of your mother and now you."
Profile published in THE NEW YORK TIMES on October 30, 2001.
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