Gordon wrote: Hi Myrna,
I have decided to let you read one of my poems. I'm worried about doing it, but here it is.
During conference President Monson talked about fingerprints on polished surfaces. He said that someday we would miss those fingerprints.
I couldn't stop thinking about that message in his talk, and what it meant. Therefore, I wrote the following poem. I sent him a copy. I told him he had inspired me to write it with his talk. He sent a message back saying he was touched by it.
I hope it is something you will enjoy.
I hope you can open the attachment.
Love,
Gordon
Myrna wrote: I would have loved to have read the poem. I cannot open wps files. I tried but I am not able to load an application that will let me do it. I have a Mac and none of the supports was friendly. I can usually open doc. files and can always open pdf files.
I have no idea why you would be worried about me reading one of your poems. I am not a critic and, besides that, I think you have a great educational background. That would help you be articulate. On the other hand, I am a newspaper hack (journalist is the polite term). The reason that I send some of the English grammar items out is that my children are the kind who do correct one another. I send out those items because they put an end to some particular controversy blowing around in my family. They love each other but, at times, cannot wait to pounce on one another. You should try playing a board game at this house. I have a competitive family. I am not certain why. Perhaps you have some idea? Don't tell me it is in my genes.
Love, M
Gordon wrote: Hi Myrna,
I highlighted the poem and transferred it here. I have the poem single spaced with double spaces
between each four lines. I also have it in two columns on one page. However, when I transferred it,
it double spaced it all into one long column. Oh well, you can still read it. Sorry! I didn't know what
else to do. I could have just typed it in the email. However, I don't know how to set up two columns
in the email format.
Love,
Gordon
Handprints Upon My Heart
I had finished cleaning the house,
and had sat down to relax.
When he came bounding through the door,
leaving ugly muddy tracks.
He was not just any boy,
he was mine, of my flesh and blood.
But there across my bright clean floor,
he had left a trail of mud.
I screamed so loud he stopped right still,
then he turned to look at me.
Looking as I pointed at the floor,
“I’ll clean that up” said he.
Then off he ran to get some toy,
so a friend and he could play.
When he got back, he found a bucket,
which was blocking his way.
Looking sad, he picked up the rag
from the bucket I had there.
Squeezing soapy water from the rag,
he gave a pleading stare.
“You made this mess. You will clean it up.”
was my angry reply.
On his knees, as he spread the mud,
he said, “Mother I will try.”
While I watched him try his best,
slowly anger melted away.
Then I took the rag, told him thanks,
and said, “Now you run and play.”
I found I had what all mothers have,
it’s called a mother’s curse.
Let him help you, then do it yourself ,
before he makes it worse.
I cleaned up the mud around me,
I stood up to look for more.
I found no mud until looking up,
found handprints on the door.
The prints made by his muddy hands
were as plain as they could be.
I was angry again, then I thought,
at least he’s here to see.
I wiped off the mud, then looked out
the window to watch him play.
Thinking to myself, how wonderful,
that he’s with me today.
There were many more times when I found
handprints upon my door.
That still disturbed me, but anger soon left,
as it had before.
For, without children and their handprints,
a house is not a home.
Too soon those handprints, and their maker,
had left me all alone.
I now stare out of the window, and look
where he used to play.
And wish for some handprints to clean up
upon the door that day.
I’m thankful he’s not far away,
and often comes to see me.
He, and his own sweet wife,
are starting their own family tree.
And soon I will have grandchildren,
who will come to do their part,
Making handprints upon my door,
and handprints upon my heart.
--Gordon F. Smith--
November 4, 2008
To my wife, who is my sweetheart, for putting up with me, all of our sons and daughters, and a lifetime of taking care of our needs. In return, she gave us love.
