|Birth: ||Sep. 15, 1935|
|Death: ||Aug. 8, 2013, USA|
"Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation."
- Kahlil Gibran
THANK YOU TO ALL WHO VISIT MY LOVED ONES' PAGES, AND FOR REMEMBERING MOM'S BIRTHDAY - IT IS GREATLY APPRECIATED. =)
UPDATE, MARCH 9, 2014: A GREAT BIG THANK YOU AND HUG to Angel of the site Sue, for her wizardry at repairing my mother's lead photo - even professional services could not get it to the quality that she just accomplished. =) Thank You so very much, my friend -
UPDATE, NOVEMBER 26, 2013:
My mother's ashes have now been scattered near Malibu, California.
Anna Jean Poynter was one of the most fascinating persons I have ever known in my life - and luckily, she was my mother. I remember growing up through hard times - many, many hard times - and it was Mom who kept our family together, taught her children to keep going and who simply didn't believe that there was anything that she could not learn to do, and teach us to do, as well.
I owe my mother so very much - for instance, my love for folk music and later on, classical, jazz and blues music. I would sit and watch her teaching herself to play the Spanish guitar, and when I asked her "How can you know how to do all of these things, Mom?", she replied, "Because I believe that I can do it." She is the reason that as a ten year old, I knew the difference between Beethoven and Bach - music was very, very important to her, and I personally wonder what heights she would have reached in a music career had she continued to pursue it.
She said in 1968, when stricken with uterine cancer and as one of the first American citizens to undergo experimental cobalt treatment at Champaign-Urbana in Illinois, "I'm not going to die - I've got four kids to take care of." She didn't die, and my father would say from that moment on, "I married a woman tougher than I am." When a serious hospital stay for me included hanging upside down by a 'burger board', Mom came into my room, slid under the hospital bed so that she could look me in my upside down eye, and asked, "So...when you gettin' up?" And I got up pretty soon after that.
Our peculiar lifestyle brought constant moves, heartache and confusions, but as I state on my father's memorial page, it was both a trying life and a beautiful life. On the road more often than not, Mom would turn around from the front seat and tell us kids to do something with that time, the constant blowing by of towns, normal lives and stability. I have always felt that she knew she could not offer us any of the before mentioned, and so she tried to give us other uncommon gifts. I personally owe my writing career to my mother; I owe my hard head and what I believe to be a peculiar but wonderful sense of humor to her. She always had something to say, and she taught me that same trait. I cannot tell you how many people have gone a round with me and thrown up their hands: "Rhonda, you are just like your mother!" I personally don't think that I am, but perhaps before my time here is through, I will be, and it will be a welcome comparison.
My mother was a writer, a singer, a carpenter (seriously, she built a garage onto our house the year she had cancer to 'keep her mind off the situation'); she loved gardening (to the point of actually keeping small plants in plastic containers at her feet on the floor of the car, whenever we were between towns and houses) and sewing - her handcrafts, knitting and such brought the statement from me that the woman could make booties from the devil's soul. She was frustrating and cyclonic and hard to get a hold on as to just what she had planned from day to day. She loved my father fiercely - there truly could never be any other fate for either Mom or Dad than one another; she never got over the loss of my brother, Ron. I once sent her a card that said "Chaos, Opinions, Disorder - My Work Here Is Done", and she displayed it proudly; she discovered the Doors in her early forties (thanks to my older sister Lee and myself, returning the musical favor she'd extended all of our younger years), and we'd come in the door from school to "Roadhouse Blues" blasting from the stereo console.
I have tried for a very long time to figure out what words would describe my mother correctly, and as a poet, I have written many, many pages about her...but I have finally decided that there is one simple statement about Jeannie, the woman who held her own against Jr. Poynter and didn't care whose door she banged on and took names at...it's simple and true, and I know that somewhere, she is saying, "Yes, that sounds about right, Rhonda." ....
My mother was Something. =)
A loving THANK YOU to one of my guardian angels, Sue, for her as usual beautiful handiwork on my photos...
"...I had a lover's quarrel with the world." - Robert Frost
"I wouldn't give any of it back for 'normal'..." - Jeannie Poynter
"No amount of money/could pay me/to go back and go through it/again/No amount of money/could take from me/the memories/that I have of then." - Dolly Parton, 'In the Good Old Days, When Times Were Bad'
to tell you how long ago
this was it was back when
hospital windows would still open
to let in the morning
and my mother would stand at
her window and call down to
us as we stood waving up
because my father did not want us
to go onto the cancer ward
at our young ages to
visit my mother
he was afraid of what we
would see and
but what I
is that it was the usual
unusual weather that
Chicago does so well
and a storm suddenly blew in
my father herded four small
children to the safety of an
ancient oak tree
across the hospital lawn
we shivered and wondered and
and I turned and
looked over my shoulder
at my mother's window and
she was still standing there
and that is what I remember and know about
how she would stand and stretch and
squawk against the
Previously published, all rights reserved
Rhonda C. Poynter
THERE ARE SOME THINGS THAT CANNOT BE FORGOTTEN
Georgia trees rolling their lazy legs
through the midnight
hoofers stretching to Charlie Parker
they weave down and through Atlanta
steps well spent coins for
a moment more of that
bebop bebop bebop
my mother's voice is
back and singing Billie Holiday
to the baby
and my father is gambling on
the map and $6 and four
and I'm telling you
we don't have to end in four
I'm down listening to the
stars come up
just a mile or two outside of
Previously published; all rights reserved
Rhonda C. Poynter
Sidney M. Ricks (1909 - 1995)
Ronald Lucien Poynter (1935 - 1997)*
Ronald Lucien Poynter (1960 - 1981)*
Cremated, Ashes given to family or friend.
Specifically: Ashes scattered neart Malibu, California/Pacific Ocean
Created by: Rhonda C./Friends
Record added: Aug 09, 2013
Find A Grave Memorial# 115173886