Golden In The Morning

June 10th marked the 13th anniversary of my brother John's passing. He loved playing his guitar, listening to fine music such as: The Beatles, The BeeGees, Simon and Garfunkel, karate, coaching his daughter's softball team, and growing up in Arizona. I also found out late in his life that he loved writing poetry. He describe it more as a calling he could not ignore. Words coming to him in the middle of the night. I love this poem he wrote about growing up in our neighborhood in north Phoenix and just growing up. He left behind a wife, two young children, and a multitude of family and friends who felt it was too soon to say goodbye. This year I'm remembering him for the things he loved.

GOLDEN IN THE MORNING

I remember waking to
The sounds of doves and mocking birds.
The smell of fruit trees in the summertime.
As sunlight sifted in the window I felt the words
Golden in the Morning.

I was up in the morning and running
The smell of grass and trees and all of us would play
With childhood friends I knew would never leave.
I played all day into the night and never lost my way
Still feeling Golden in the Morning.

My childhood friends have never crossed my way
As new feelings and adventures replaced child's play
Showing the world had changed as time passed.
I won't lament the changes in life, yet one I may,
The loss of being Golden in the Morning.

My life has swirled and whirled from here to there
With eddies too happy and painful to reveal
With anyone remote and distant to my thoughts.
Yet I find myself at times longing to recall and steal
The memory of being Golden in the Morning.

By John Archibald
July 25, 1952 - June 10, 1996