More Poetry                                                                                                                                                                                  Memorial Day by Jewell Davis Jungman Once a year we go, car trunk full of whatever flowers our yard yields that day and ferns from the neighbor's abundant supply, on a route that winds through four Iowa counties, stopping at ten cemeteries, covering some one hundred sixty miles by the time we are home. We visit the graves of parents, a brother and sister-in-law, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, great-grandparents before the day is done. Two graves have been there for over a century. The grass is still sparse over one from four years ago. We pause in crowded city cemeteries, near busy highways, noisy with traffic on this holiday as well as in small, peaceful country plots with bird song and breeze in the pine trees to serenade us. Placing our simple flower and fern bouquet beside the headstone is not a costly gesture. But it is an acknowledgment that those buried there are part of us, as we are part of them, There is in our sons a blend of the families whose names we read on the stones: Jungman, Davis, Moser, Marquardt, Mapes, Hooton, Harrison - as well as families buried in far away places-- Kammerer, Lewis, Mason, Robinson, Simonds, Trotter, Watson, and so many more, both known, and undiscovered. Some remembered, and missed. Some we never met. What features of theirs do we carry in our faces? What coloring? What talents or mannerisms do we share? We do not know, but as we place the flowers we are saying to that relative, "We are here, because we care. We know who you were, and you are important to us." Some day, Lord willing, we may meet. What joy that will be! But until then, once a year we'll pay a visit.    Elusive Kinsman Alas, my elusive kinsman You've led me quite a chase I thought I'd found your courthouse But the Yankees burned the place. You always kept your bags packed Although you had no fame, and Just for the fun of it Twice you changed your name. You never owed any man, or At least I found no bills In spite of eleven offspring You never left a will. They say our name's from Europe Came state side on a ship Either they lost the passenger list Or granddad gave them the slip. I'm the only one looking Another searcher I can't find I pray (maybe that's his fathers name) As I go out of my mind. They said you had a headstone In a shady plot I've been there twenty times, and Can't even find the lot. You never wrote a letter Your Bible we can't find It's probably in some attic Out of sight and out of mind. You first married a .....Smith And just to set the tone The other four were Sarahs And everyone a Jones. You cost me two fortunes One of which I did not have My wife, my house and Fido God, how I miss that yellow lab. But somewhere you slipped up, Ole Boy  Somewhere you left a track And if I don't find you this year Well...... Next year I'll be back! Submitted by Kim B. (original poem by Wayne Hand, 1999)    THE CENSUS TAKER It was the first day of census, and all through the land, The pollster was ready, a black book in hand. He mounted his horse for a long dusty ride; His book and some quills were tucked close by his side. A long winding ride down a road barely there, Toward the smell of fresh bread wafting, up through the air. The woman was tired, with lines on her face, And wisps of brown hair she tucked back into place. She gave him some water as they sat at the table, And she aswered his questions as best she was able. He asked of her children, Yes, she had quite a few The oldest was twenty, the youngest not two. She held up a toddler with cheeks round and red His sister, she whispered, was napping in bed. She noted each person who lived there with pride And she felt the faint stirrings of the wee one inside. He noted the sex, the colour, the age The marks from the quill soon filled up the page. At the number of children, she nodded her head, And he saw her lips quiver for the three that were dead. The places of birth she never forgot Was it Kansas? Or Utah? or Oregon? Or not? They came from Lithuania, of that she was clear But she wasn't quite sure just how long they'd been here They spoke of employment, of schooling and such They could read some, and write some, though really not much. When the questions were answered, his job there was done, So he mounted his horse and he rode toward the sun. We can almost imagine his voice loud and clear May God bless you all for another ten years. Now picture a time warp, it's now you and me As we search for the people on our family tree. We squint at the census and scroll down so slow, As we search for that entry from long, long ago. Could they only imagine on that long ago day, That the entries they made would affect us this way? If they knew, would they wonder at the yearning we feel, And the searching that makes them so increasingly real. We can hear if we listen, the words they impart, Through their blood in our veins and their voice in our heart. Written by Darlene Stevens Submitted by Judy Little