Question Me Now, My Children Poem by David Whalen

Question Me Now, My children

Ask questions of me, my children
For time has a way…
Of slipping through fingers
Like reapers through hay

Your heritage is a treasure
That one day you’ll have need
Questions in need of answers
And no answers to heed

Was your great grandfather
A brown-eyed lad
Was your great grandmother
Perhaps a little bit mad

Ask about your ancestry
So interesting and rich
Was great aunt Sarah just an ol’ maid…
Or was she really a witch

How did they live the course of their day
And how the difference from yours
You live in a city, in a modern way
Perhaps they lived in the moors

How did your father meet your mother
What was their courtship like
And did grandmaw, elope with grandpaw
Did cousin Jenny marry up with uncle Mike

Did great-great grandmaw come from Ireland
Was her name “Whalen” changed from “Whelan”
By careless and lazy immigration officials
At a bustling and confusing, Ellis Island

Did these people bite their fingernails
Have a wart on their nose
Have children die prematurely
Enjoy happiness, suffer woe

Question me now, my children
For I get older, soon will come my time to go
And ‘twill be too late and ‘sadly twill be your fate
Of your rich heritage to ne’er know


Ask questions of me, my children
Before time takes me to task
Else when and what you wish to know
There will no one to ask