Louis Edward Joseph

Louis Edward "Eddie" Joseph is the fifth son of Doumit & Victoria and my father. For most of his adult life, he was his mother's keeper, as Victoria lived with us after Doumit passed in August of 1952. We were living upstairs from them at the time of Jidu's death. My father married Georgia Mary Coulos (shortened from Cotsepowlos) in 1945. My father worked many jobs in his life finally retiring as inspector for Streets and Roads Department of the City of Detroit. My father, like all of his brothers, loved to gamble particularly on the horses and football. I remember how excited I got as a 12 year old boy when my father took me to Northville Downs for the first time. I couldn't wait to go back again. Not because of the gambling, but to watch my father in his element. To balance off the bad habits, my mother was the most religious woman I ever knew. Georgia would attend mass every morning and twice on Sunday. Plus the daily rosary, the novenas, the candles, the prayer chapel, the mass cards and on, and on. She truly built a stairway to heaven. Eddie and Georgia were married 54 years when my dad passed on Super Bowl Sunday, 1999. The irony not lost on any of us. Mom lived another eight years, the last three in the loving care of my sister Carmelita. My beloved sister would also pass, three years later in 2010.  Her husband Jim was a widower for 7 years until he passed away in 2017. I've written many poems about my family and I will share several of them. At the end of each poem, you will find an action button that will direct you to their eulogy page. The first poem entitled 3000 DAYS GONE was written in my father's honor several years after his passing. I wrote WHO WILL LIGHT THE CANDLES for my mother's eulogy. AND GOD CALLED for my sister Carm was included in her eulogy and the poem MY OMERTA for my brother-in-law Jim Carter was part of his memorial celebration.

(for my Father)

I continue to be staggered by the volume of space he absorbs of my life.

Memory serves up disjointed images. Some brushed with sorrow.

Others garlanded in joy. All faded now to sepia. Colors lost over time.

3000 days gone.

Grief wanes but never truly culminates.

Instead, he ghosts in scribbled notes and prized film and a laboring plant.

His aura builds a library of words more meant as aside now taken as gospel.

I discover him in my brothers quoting his lines as if scripture.

He moves in the struggling steps of my sister battling through her life carrying his determination.

As age decays my mother’s senses, she waits for his return on the malignant shore of denial.

And one by one, his siblings follow him to the sea of nevermore. 

And those who remain are elevated to giants.

I scrutinize the children confident his signature will appear.

There was no rehearsal for this loss.

The script of these days beyond him is written intermittently,

revisited when the ripeness of a tomato resurrects his face.

Or when a malapropos interrupts as if dragged from his journal.

As I measure mine, his dimension means more to me now.

I can easily live up to his shortcomings, 

but I am submerged where his glory left its prints.

My finger traces the name on his gravestone as if that connection can fuel me.

What I know for certain is that he is alive

in a mother’s tears

in a sister’s inflexibility

in a brother’s command 

in a brother’s ingenuity

and in a rudderless son…

(for my Mother)

Who will light the candles?

Who shall novena the saints?

Who will follow in your kneel prints?

Hail Georgia, filled with grace,

our human instance of the Lord’s work.

Blessed are you among women

and blessed are we, the living beads of your rosary.

Upon your rock this church was built

every brick - your flesh

every mortar - your bones.

You have taught us to pray -

At your beseeching, 

we have hailed Mary 

and hallowed His name…

The saints will know you on sight 

and thank you for personifying their spirit.

Blest are we that you remained our beacon.

Your light, a mirrored reflection of His…

We may be your children

but you are the child of God -

Yours is the faith that examples.

Yours - the devotion that models.

Yours - the zeal that consecrates.

Holy Georgia, mother to us all,

pray for us sinners

intercede for our hesitant souls.

Each day that you were among us 

we saw the face of grace -

Each day without you

we will breathe your sacrament -

All the candles will shine unsteadily now –

Your memory will live on in the 

flickering yellow wisps of flame

the ebony curls of smoke

 and the blessed glow of your being…

(for my sister Carm)

The thing about my sister was -

She composed manuscripts by her sacrifice

each deed - voluminous

each undertaking - an Alleluia

and the angels harmonized

and God’s head turned…

The thing about my sister was -

She touched lives beyond her reach

each being -  dignified

each existence -  graced

and the angels bowed

and God gained interest…

The thing about my sister was -

She illuminated a generation

each footprint  - ancestral

each selfless act  - heroic 

and the angels revered

and God wondered…

The thing about my sister was -

Her merciless end remains incomprehensible 

each day - undone

each benevolence - unspent

and the angels pleaded

and God considered…

The thing about my sister was -

Her sentence was abbreviated

yet her every touch turned to blessing

her every smile answered prayers

and nothing will abide with more goodness

than the words

written by her works of mercy.

The thing about my sister is -

Love -

and the angels envied

and God called…

(for James Patrick Carter)

With my final breath,

I now know what we all hope to know.

and I am keeping this secret 

as my omerta…my code of silence.

To those left living, I have disappeared like a dream.
To those who ache in sorrow, I cannot come home again.
To those furious with fate, I played the cards I was dealt.
To those content with my contentment, I have rediscovered tranquility.

I am invisible, but not hushed.
When next you hear the baritone bark of bull mastiff – turn a thought to me.
As the sting of a perfect barbeque sauce coats your palate – turn a thought to me.

And when the sandlot shortstop pivots and tosses a bead to first base - turn a thought to me.

For I will not leave your heart, 

all your laughter at my crazy  –  all your cheering at my silly -

each memory recalled as yesterday will replay like a cinema. 

And for those of you who believe in Hollywood endings

you will find me

treading the shores of Mackinac Island

in the shadow of the Grand Hotel

holding her hand secure in mine

pausing at that boulder
sharing silence 

somewhere in time.