I Blame it on the Belgians

 
 

I Blame it on the Belgians

 

Remember that night

our first round together?

How many nights ago?

How many fights ago?

 

"The next round's on me,"

you said with a smile.

"I'll buy, you fly."

The beer was free,

but the price was high.

 

We drank and laughed

and learned about each other,

sip after nervous sip.

 

You touched my arm

as others came and went

and the hours melted away.

The bartender stayed close by

and the jukebox changed its tune.

 

(C) 2005 Martin Walsh

 
 

Frozen in Time

Frozen in Time

My father would call out sick from work

on winter mornings, knee-deep in snow and slush,
all just to spend the day and play.
The things of which childhood memories are made.

Wrapped warm in clothes which made me thick,

we'd shuffle through snow to a park with our sled.
The stinging wind would freeze my face,
while his love would warm my heart. 

We'd always find the highest hill,

our courage greater than our common sense.
My dad would set me in his lap,
and off with a whoosh! we'd fly.
 
Go!  I can still hear his voice
and my laughter, as we'd speed through the trees.
I can still see his face, feel his protective embrace
and everything was alright.

Though those days are long gone,

I am bound to them, as I was to my dad.
A winter memory, which warms my heart
forever frozen in my mind.

© 1994 Martin P. Walsh