When I was young I always enjoyed it when my mother read poetry to me before I went to sleep. I also enjoyed it when teachers read poems aloud in class. I even loved to memorize poetry and stand up in front of the class and recite one the teacher assigned. When I reached junior high I used to go to the library and check out poetry books and read them upstairs in my room. Then I would borrow Mom's manual typewriter and type all the poems I loved. I wonder what ever happened to all those typewritten poems? My upstairs bedroom was my escape growing up and I created memories reading, listening, and singing. Quite a few years ago I captured that time in my life in the poem below.
Near
the Window
The lamp near the window glowed long
into the night,
An intriguing plot kept me turning the pages.
Curling up with Nancy, Bess, and George
I created a life of adventure with mysteries
to be solved.
I also picked up the books of poetry from
the public library collection.
I read the words. I saved the words, hunting and pecking
on the manual keys.
The stereo filled the hall room with
beautiful sounds.
I wore out certain songs as I listened again
and again.
I joined the Broadway cast of My Fair Lady
and Oklahoma too,
and The Ray Conniff singers backed
me up on “Somewhere My Love.”
How many times could I repeat
Three Dog Night singing “One”
While belting out the lyrics with a
makeshift microphone?
Near the window I could breathe in
spring,
In winter the panes frosted, then melted in
a thaw.
If opened in summer a breeze gave a small
reprieve,
The smell of burning leaves crept in at the
closing of fall.
The neighbor kids gathered for Kick
the Can
or Spoons, but
I cocooned myself in my bedroom upstairs.
Finding comfort near the window with my pile
of books.
And the collection of my
favorite poems.
I still carry those words
and can still recite the lyrical lines.
l yearn to hear those familiar melodies when I
sit near the window in my childhood room.
By Christy Woolum
