Those Creaking Years Before Us

Those Creaking Years Before Us

When we reach
our middle
years and seek
what creaks
before us, those
laborious elder
days, those we
fear; we live
with greater
caution. How
time flew from
birth to age of ten!
We think so now,
but, then, we
thought that
time was slow,
living free from
thoughts of death.
Another ten
found us twenty,
still unaware of
those future
creaking years
before us. Here
we lived within a
sanctuary free from
any thought
of those creaking
years before us. Now
we see how fleeting
those days were
and what rises
near us are years
far fewer than
those that have
gone before. And
time has sped
toward those
creaking years before
us. While life has been
exquisite, if we
dawdle in complaint
we have regrets that
we have missed it.
Too shortly our
bodies wither and
grow old, heading
to'ard our grave,
forlorn, dark and cold.
We ride our days
in an old creaking
ship destined to
land where we
have navigated
through our time
as we saw fit.
Our decades have
been spent, no
time left for us
to turn round, relive
or repent. With
philosophic angst
we question how
we bide this time,
time that will hasten,
faster, faster, to'ard
those creaking years
before us. Soon, soon
we can no longer
hide beneath the bed
we've made. Since so
little will remain
before us, our
eyes will turn
about to see where
we have been, only
after we reach those
creaking years before
us. Will our ship
carry burdens of
bitterness, wasted
years, poorly lived
moments on
churning waters
of dis-awareness?
Who, then, will
hear the stamping
of our feet as
we cry in anguish
at what we think
unfairness? We
who launch our
creaking ship
to'ard those creaking
years before us
choose the cargo
that we'll carry.
May we choose well
those traits, dispositions
and propensities that
on our face we
will forever marry.
Live! Live! Live
life as a song
well sung and a
tale well told. So
when the petals
fall and we have
grown old and
reached those creaking
years before us, the
journey etched upon
our face will tell
a story proud with
honor, one that
leaves a gift for
others who can
walk that line we've
left to trace, as we
lived so well those
creaking years
before us.

Haiku with a 5-7-5 Meter

Well, I'll be. I was looking through my documents for something in particular and happened across this Haiku Poem with eleven verses. Now, how could I forget I wrote that, I wondered. Here it is.

Potential

Were I a flower,
I could live for a reason,
to make someone smile.

Were I a flower,
I could die for a reason,
to spread seeds afar.

If I were the wind,
I could sail across the sea
and learn who I am.

If I were a star,
I could shine for the lonely,
to brighten their life.

And, if I were a
breath of balmy air, I could
save myself from death.

If I were a breath
of air I could find some hope;
instead, I'm breathless.

If my heart held a
song, I could sing; instead I
hear a dirge of grief.

If my heart was loved,
then I would know happiness,
a reason to live.

Life doesn't always
fulfill our dreams; they can be
beyond potential.

BY THE RIVER

The winds rush
the Hemlock and
those Weeping Willows
by the river where
roams a coyote who
pierces the night
with one long syllable
of a howl  - eerie
and haunting, on a
tower high and, as
on a stage, a spotlight
shines down upon
a majestic bird of prey,
that Great Horned
Owl, the Night Tiger
of all nocturnal birds
of prey, whose flight is
soundless amidst the
whisperings of the
Hemlock and Willows,
the creature whose
voice joins the coyote's
howl with its own
multi-syllabic baritone of
repeated "hoooo, hoo, hoo, hoo
hoo." Awakening in the
night-tide, these sounds
penetrate the silence
but for the ticking of
a clock, our bedroom
windows, open for the
breeze, captures the song
of life and the dance of
Hemlocks and Willows
by the river with the eldest
of muses, Kalliope,
the mother of a Bard
who plays upon her lyre.

The Promised Poem

Greetings, my dearest friends, and oh so few (HINT HINT) followers.

I promised to share the poem that defines the title of my book manuscript. Maybe it will give me some redemption from the song lyrics. Speaking of which, let me share this. Although the lyrics are painfully raw, Bruce and I have maintained our wonderful friendship. But, current events (sounds like a social studies course) have provided the muse for these lovely lyrics Matt's band so prefers.

Now, here is a humorous exchange of words between Bruce and I. He remains one of my greatest fans. He's noticed that nature plays a large part in my poetry; I like to make reference to some flora, fauna and truly amazing trees. So, the other day I was telling him about a tree I've recently read about - the Strangler Fig. After I finished telling him all the delightful facts about this tree, his face fell and he said, "Don't tell me. I'm going to be the Strangler Fig." I was happy to tell him that I'll make certain that isn't the case. Maybe I'll write it for my bill collectors.

Once more, (Now there is a lie - I'll surely beg again) I implore those of you who read my work and send me those lovely emails, please click on the "follow" link. I promise I'm nothing like the Pied Piper. There will be no rats at your heels, probably just an email telling you I've posted something new. You have suffered enough. (Another lie.) Here is the poem.

The Poet: A River to the Sea

High atop a mountain
begins streams of subliminal
thought, words melting
into language. Gullies
form within the poet's
mind, bursting with life
to nourish the spirit, to
succor the deepest valleys
of the soul. Rushing to
a confluence of sound,
rhythmic and pleasing,
within the delta of
humanity, meandering,
until finally pushing
toward the sea where
the ocean's tides are
familiar with the moon
and deciphers the hour,
declaring it in the shifting
sand. Here the seagulls
keen and sail with the
currents of air - air so
heavy with mist it is as
though the breeze is silently
weeping. Waves crash
against great rocks, smoothing
them with time, as the
poet, a river to the sea,
soothes the gentle heart
of mankind, and the little
terns play in the froth of
the surf, like the individual
letters of a poet's words.

SONG LYRICS - WHAT THE BLOODY 'ELL!!!!

Oh God, Matt and his band are putting music to the only three or four song lyrics I've ever written. As I've said, rhyme makes me nervous; it can be so awful - or offal if you want complete honesty. But, young people haven't got a heart. Matt's barely seen the age of twenty (I can't believe I just wrote "Matt's," you would never find that in any of my other writings.) His bands favorite song, thus far, is "Dagger to My Heart," or some such title.

While they are putting some tune to the other songs, this Dagger image is the one they love best. I thought they might equally like some dying and some lying. They are without mercy; they are determined to wring out every single drop of blood from my heart. They promise they'll pay me $150.00 per song; I even hate to take the blood money - but I will. I love Matt's white hoop earrings. I'll have to find something special for him from one of my Etsy friends. This one is for you too, my darlings. Remember, you guys started it!


Lies

Your Lies spin
me like a DJ
spins his records.
I'm sick all day and
dizzy all night,
goin' round and round
while we fight,
but, I'm hearin' not a
sound from your
lips of lies. Cry
baby cry, cos I ain't
stickin' round to
hear your Lies, Lies,Lies.
You spin me like a
record. Lies, Lies
Lies hides the spin
of truth. Cry, baby
cry.

Cry baby cry; I'm
hearin' you lie. Spin
me to the beat, let
me feel your heat.
Lies, Lies, Lies,
let's beat our love
till it Dies, Dies, Dies.
Lies, Lies, Lies, beat
it till it Dies.

Have you been
tryin' to sleep with
a broken heart? You
know that move
wasn't very smart,
but you left me down
then spun me round
with your Lies, Lies
Lies. We're just records
goin' round, round,
round; you put the
needle where you
wanna spin but you're
never gonna win with
those Lies, Lies, Lies,
cos I'm gonna make
you cry, cry, cry baby
cry.

Cry baby cry; I'm
hearin' you Lie. Spin
me to the beat, let
me feel your heat.
Lies, Lies, Lies,
let's beat our love
till it Dies, Dies, Dies.
Lies, Lies, Lies, beat
it till it Dies.

Are you spinnin' in
your sheets? Are
your pillows piled
in heaps? We're just
spinnin' round with
nothin' goin' down but
the pain when you
left me cryin' in the
rain. Cry baby cry, cos
our love has gone and
Died from your Lies, Lies,
Lies. What happens in
the day when you
can't hide from the
sun, where you gonna
run, girl, cos you
made me cry, cry
cry?

Cry, baby cry; I'm
hearin' you Lie. Spin
me to the beat, let
me feel your heat.
Lies, Lies, Lies.
Let's beat our love
till it Dies, Dies, Dies,
Lies, Lies, Lies, beat
it till it Dies.

You've left me
spinnin' in my
sheets and cryin' in
my sleep. Cry baby
cry, while you tell
me those Lies, Lies
Lies, while you tell me
those Lies, Lies, Lies.
I'm gonna make you
cry baby
cry.

THE END

Yeah, yeah, that's pretty sad when I have to spell out the ending. When all of you, well all ONE DOZEN, of you, convinced me to share my poetry and humorous prose on a blog you had no idea that it could become this debased. Neither did I. But, even this is something.

Would It Be Too Pathetic For Me To Beg Some one Of My Followers To Read This?????

I have decided to try something new - a poem that is semi-epic in nature and completely unlike anything I've done thus far. My reason for attempting this piece of business is that I've been reviewing the chosen poems for inclusion in my book manuscript: THE POET: A RIVER TO THE SEA and I'm finding that so much of my work is downright SAD, as in boo hoo sad.

Much more to my credit is the poem that reflects the title of my book, but I'll share that another day. It will take years for my followers to read this new one and give me their feedback. Woe is me.

The Jade Bracelet

Along the banks of
the Perfume River,
within sight of the
temples, towers and
pagodas reflected in
the still blue pearl waters,
walks a young Vietnamese
youth with his virgin
love, a girl child who
has been promised
in marriage to another.
They move silently,
in harmony with the
tropical jungle as the
tall grasses blow in
the wind suffused
with the calls of
exotic creatures of
flight - just as exotic
as the young girl
with skin the color
of amber and eyes
the color of emeralds,
her femininity crowned
with glossy hair, black
and draping to her
waist - thick and straight,
wearing an Ao Dai the
color of gossamer
white clouds. A bracelet
of jade encircles her
wrist, a gift from her lover,
a secret from all others,
their love forbidden.
Tomorrow she must
marry. On they walk to
the foot of the Ngoc Tran
Mountain and into the
temple of Heaven's
Goddess, the Jade Cup,
where the cliffs rise
steep along the banks
of the Perfume River.
Blossoms scent the
air, heady and sweet as
young love. Here at
the foot of this mountain
the River Perfume is a
deep abyss of shining glass,
a jewel in the sun. The
maiden and her companion
hold hands and inhale the
scent of an age old culture
wafting up from the fragrant
banks. Out onto a bridge they
walk, high above the river,
where they leap to preserve
their love and to enter a
sanctuary of eternity. At
night, in the deepness of
the jungle, the hollow roots
of the Kopek Tree drums
their story through their water
of sound, while out on the
waters of the Perfume River
there is a perpetual ripple of
their young love across the
liquid sea. Sometimes, at night,
in one of the many hamlets
along the River of Perfume
there comes the sound of a
song within the quiet of the
water before it rushes to the sea.
A long time ago another young
man and his maiden love walked
the banks of the Perfume River
and found, entwined within
the many grasses and undergrowth
of these fragrant banks, an
emerald jade bracelet, a bracelet
that now encircles the wrist of
a great, great grand daughter
wearing Levi 501 jeans and
riding a Honda through the
streets of Ho Chi Ming City.

A Soliloquy of Reflection

For a child, Benevolent Nature
protects and keeps Life simple,
carefree; Life is like a slinky
that moves with no other
purpose than to make one
laugh. Youth is Delirious and
Puerile, Oblivious to Time;
those Elderly have always
been that way; they have
never been Young with smooth
cheeks and straight backs.
They have always been
Ignorant of Romance, while
Youthful bodies Percolate with
Passion and Sensuality. Life
is filled with a Cornucopia of
Wonder, the Impudence of
Egotistical Juvenality, a Great
Extravaganza, a Full Palette
of human experiences. Eventually
this Illusion disperses like a
Vapor and the Juvenal becomes
aware of the Transience of
Life. Yet, they remain Selectively
Ignorant of any real Premonitions
of Death. Than, as if by Chicanery,
there is a Sudden Twist given
to the Kaleidoscope of Life, a
Peek at Rancorous Old Age,
a Splendid Misery, causing them
to shout, "Unfair!" Life is Now
preciously Animated and Fervent,
while Death remains in the Wings,
dramatic as a Shakespearean
Actor who cries out, "I die!"
Beguiled by Vigor they, too, begin
to seek the Fountain of Youth or
the Ambrosia - that food of the
Ancient Greek and Roman gods,
which ensured their Immortality.
Suddenly, Remembrance is
Enormous and Obliterating. The
Past defies forgetting, and what
are we but our Stories? They are
the Hands that have Molded our
Hearts and Minds for Today. Life
becomes Divided, like a Curtain
falling between Acts, and we
are that Youth, an Actor playing
two parts - those between Days
Gone By and Days Now lived.
Another Twist of the Kaleidoscope
of Time, Senescence Awaits us,
leaving us the Loneliest approach
to Tomorrow, and, at best, only
a casual wish for death, nothing
more malignant, as others who
are now Young eat the same
Succulent Fruit that we did in
Yesteryear, that promised Fruit
of Life. We must hope their Future
retains all that we may have
lost, otherwise, Life would seem
nearly useless and sad, but for
those days of youth. There is
for us now a Painful Recollection
of Our Time of Opportunity, Our
Chance to Grab the Ring, Our
Time to slake the Thirst for
Love. But, now all we may have
is a horrible, Haunting Grief
for all that is Gone. Life Echoes
Remorse - If only we had known.

Poetry in Pain

In the order of blogging, this post is now going to precede one that is very important to me. It is a thank you to Danna Hughes for helping me to find at least some informtion regarding a dear friend, a Vietnam Vet, who fell off the grid of my cyberspace some time ago. It has been at least 3 years since I connected with Rich. Danna is the founder of the organization "Wives of Vietnam Veterans."

I had written a poem in his honor, hoping he might find it on an internet search. The title of this older posted poem is, "The Keeper of the Gate." Rich is a prolific researcher of the internet writing community, particularly as it pertains to Vietnam. With just the right clicks of his mouse, or by typing my name into a search engine, by golly, he just might find me. And, Danna has promised that should he be in touch with her, as he sometimes is, she will pass along my blog and email address.

I've learned that he is happily enjoying love and life again in a wonderful relationship with a nurse who works for a VA hospital in the State of Washington. I'm wondering if he wore a tuxedo for his wedding. Rich far more prefers an oilskin outback coat covered with the hair of lambs, kids, goats and llamas. I wonder if Llola is still alive, his first llama and the one I named. Rich chose to spell her name with two Ls in honor of her specics. That is Rich. But, apparently he isn't living on his ranch anymore - the place where I best knew him and where "Keeper of the Gate" is composed of so many memories.

Now, finally, to the subject of this post. Just when we begin to accurately bat back the fast balls of life, life throws us a curve we could never have expected. Such has been the case with mine. When I started this blog, I made a promise to my readers, a promise all poets make, I would neither hide my pain nor run from the poetic task of sharing it in common with others.

I wrote this poem while I slept. When I awakened, I was tempted to trust my memory and scribble it down when I was truly awake and ready to face the day. You know how that goes! I decided to do the sensible thing and crawl out of bed to scratch it out on paper before typing and posting it.

The title of this poem is taken from the title of my book manuscript of poetry: THE POET: A RIVER TO THE SEA.

Note to my many readers who haven't become followers: Please, take the time to click on the link to become a follower. I enjoy all of your emails and appreciate the time you take to read my work. But, I would love to have at least one more "follower" to give me a baker's dozen! LOL This is called shameless self-promotion!



River to the Sea

I live on the ragged edge
of sanity, where I
have peered over the
terribleness of a
precipice of a passion
that could kill. And,
I have heard ululations
of mourning carried by
waters of Rivers to the
Sea, seeping into the
silence of suffering,
where there is no redress
for a bruised and aching
heart. I am a concubine
to the throes of anguish.
The black cowl of night
settles upon my shoulders,
while the burdened but
faithful moon climbs down
from the sky to sit across
from me by night, surrounded
by a rainbow, bringing gentle
tides of waves, washing my
weary soul, cleansing this
blanched and bleary life
prostituted to pain, an
unwilling participant in the
unexpected destruction of
trust and love, abandoning
me in the rubble, musing over
this precipice of pain, until,
somehow, my weary heart,
bathed by the washing of
Rivers to the Sea, begins to
hum a lullaby leading me,
finally, to an untroubled sleep.

Poetic Tomfoolery

My paternal grandmother was a wonderful woman. She taught me how to be a lady. Grandma didn't even don a pair of slacks until she had gotten so far up in years that the arthritis in her legs demanded more than stockings for warmth and comfort. Her daughter, my Aunt Helen, bought Grandma slacks for Christmas.

I'll never forget that Christmas morning. I just happened to be coming in the front door of the house we shared with my grandparents when Grandma tried to sneak out the side door of her bedroom and slip into the hallway where she could hide out in the music room. She didn't want anyone to see her wearing slacks until she had gotten rather used to the idea. When Grandma was embarrassed, she would cover her face with both hands and leave out one of her hearty laughs. She took one look at me looking at her and did just that.

Grandma finally got used to wearing slacks every day of the week except Saturday. On Saturday we got all dressed up and Grandma and I would paint our nails. I can still smell the nail polish of that era; it smelled like Juicy Fruit chewing gum. Prior to her introduction to slacks, Grandma most often wore what were called "house-dresses" throughout the week. These were always covered with a coordinating apron. But, on Saturday, Grandma preferred beautifully lined wool skirts at a length an inch or so below her knee. With those she would pair a lovely pullover sweater. I remember she wore a skirt of forest green with a cream colored sweater; it was my favorite. I usually wore a dress rather than skirts.

She had strands and strands of pearls from which she would allow me to choose for our Saturday afternoon attire. And, I remember those earrings of the time that were shaped like a "U" with decorations on both sides so you could choose which side you wanted to show. The darned things could easily slide off your ears but, since my parents wouldn't allow me to have my ears pierced, and Grandma had never had hers pierced either, it was the best we could do. It was enough. Oh, and Grandma had a real passion for shoes. Before she retired, Grandma bought a new pair of shoes every payday.

Grandma was a lady of strong opinions and she held one peculiar one. She honestly believed that, if you read too much of the Bible, you would go insane. She used to worry about me because, at the time, I was a big Bible reader and regular attender at a Grace Brethren Church, in spite of the fact that I, too, had been baptized Lutheran.

My grandmother had a story she would tell infrequently. Once, many years before I was born, one of Jehovah's Witnesses knocked on her door and he wasn't the most diplomatic of chaps. He told my dear grandmother that there were "X" number of churches in our town and none of the people attending were going to heaven. Well, Grandma became quite indignant. The poor bugger didn't have time to explain that Jehovah's Witnesses believed the majority of mankind would continue to live on an earth restored to paradise conditions and also see the end of all evil, including death. Grandma assumed he was telling her that she and her mates were going to die and go to hell. I can imagine he didn't have much opportunity to explain because, although a lady, when riled, Grandma could cuss, only because her husband, Papper, taught her.

Papper was a dapper chap all on his own, but, of a Saturday night, he liked to drink his share of Old German beer and get more than a little loopy. He never fell down or totally lost control of himself; he would just begin to imagine himself to be a great musician. And, he always drank at home. Papper wasn't a bar hopper. Oh, he had a peculiar enough habit of his own - he would periodically shake salt onto the back of his hand and lick it off before he took a swig of beer. He always drank from the bottle, and the beer was delivered to our house every Saturday morning by one of the local beer distributors.

I'll keep this short, or shorter anyway. Grandma was a hale and hearty woman. She loved to laugh and she laughed a lot. She literally died laughing. She and my baby brother were watching television and, while laughing at some commercial, Grandma died instantly when an aneurism in her brain burst. Since she had stopped attending church after she and Papper married, the local minister didn't know her from the six foot hole in the ground that would entomb this beloved woman. At the funeral he didn't even know her name. He kept calling her Grace. At first, I thought he was referring to the little ditty known as "Amazing Grace."

One more thing that I loved about my grandmother was this: Before she fell in love with Papper, church was where Grandma fulfilled her social needs. At the time, it was customary of churches to sponsor many events called "Box Lunches" where a gal showed up with a boxed lunch to share with a date. Grandma would say, "Yes," to all the boys who asked her to attend this ocassion with them; then she would go with the first one to knock on her door. Papper was the first of three on the Sunday she met him, a delightful man full of blarney, a full head of red hair and good luck.

Now, to this bit of poetic tomfoolery. This is a work in progress. Who knows where it will travel in the future.

Just Call Me Grace

Grandma was born a Lutheran
and she would die one too.
Least that’s what she’d say
when Jehovah’s Witnesses
came ‘round wanting to read
something to her from that
Bible of theirs. Grandma
always said too much Bible
reading would make you
insane; she believed it too.
Never did know of her going
to church of a Sunday, but
there was always that big
family dinner. I suppose
if she had invited the latest
preacher man she’d have
been considered less of a
sinner and he might a known
her name. But, Grandma
she’d sit with Papper of a
Saturday night while he
drank his fill of Old German
beer. We all prayed he
wouldn’t find the mouth
organ Grandma bought him
as a gift and then wished
she hadn’t; she hid it before
Saturday night. If Papper got
lucky and found it, we could
be guaranteed a Saturday
night fight. It was bad
enough we couldn’t hide
the old player piano, where
Papper’d sit on the bench
and pick and peck on the
keys, more and more pie-eyed
as he drank his Old German
Beer and licked salt from the
back of his hand. When poor
Grandma died she was sorely
missed; she was both a lady
and a broad who knew how
to take care of her family. The
preacher man who came to
do the sermon was a might
shady because he didn’t even
know Grandma’s name, but
he pretended to know her
heavenly status and kept calling
her Grace, like he had her
confused with one of his
hymns. He really made us fairly
ticked; someone must have
straightened out his sin between
the funeral home and the
grave site, where he finally started
to call her Clara. I’m sure
Grandma would have understood
and said, “Just call me Grace, so
long as I end up in the bosom of
Abraham and his wife Sarah."

Just Thought Something More Optomistic Might Be Good Right Now

Chemo

Liquid Poisons in
an I.V. Drip.
My mind forbade
my suffering body
to stay my head upon
its pillow. Sunday sun
drew me to a back door
porch, roofed and cool.
Everything around
me moved; but I did
not. Chest barely
rising to take another
breath, eyes never
blinking, aware of
familiar sights and
sounds, only far more
intense. The urban
wild of birds and
squirrels were far
more clear, more beautiful,
more musical,and remembered
more quietly. The sky
was never more blue, nor
the clouds so pristine,
white and low, and a
breeze whispered my
cheek. Memories, like
dewdrops on the smiling
faces of pansies, reminded
me of days before disease.
Odd, I found them less
exquisite than these.
My love, while I lay
dying, planted life from
seeds. He took me gently
by the hand and helped me
down the steps, toward his
little paradise of flora
grown. I felt ancient
beside his youth, until his
garden's blooms, the scent of
Lily of the Valley, my
favorite, filled my nostrils
with the sweet days gone
by, when I wondered about
death. Before me was life
that had flourished with
spring and summer's rain.
I marveled that one so
poisoned could still live,
yet, while my soul
experienced dwindling away,
I knew I would not
die. The Spirit of Rain
that freshens the Rivers
to the Sea would replenish
my strength; my spirit
would peek from the earth
- alive and free.

Haiku With a 5 - 7 - 5 meter

In Dreams

In dreams, I am scarred,
but I carry them with pride.
Now I am ashamed.

In dreams, I am loved,
so briefly, never by you;
for me you have scorn.

In dreams, I see you,
walking away without heed,
choosing not to love.

In dreams, I live pale
and dead, without any hope,
so much like my life.

In dreams, as in life,
I live with a shattered mind.
This I learn to bear.

In dreams, I wish to
never awaken to pain;
this I can't escape.

In life, always, it
is just around the corner,
lurking in the halls.

I am never free
from these dreams that come
to haunt and destroy.

I live the nightmare
of dreams that will never be.
There is nothing else.

Until I fly high,
higher than my pain, and laugh,
the wind at my back.

Blind Love

Blind Love

Blindly, we groped
for what we
thought we wanted;
instead we found
what we needed - someone
else to share the life
we didn’t know how
to live. How amazing
that we spent decades
without vision, without
love, or, more truthfully,
an unreciprocated love
because I came to
love you with a
fierceness and loyalty.
Nothing has changed
but that blindness that
I clung to, always
hoping you could find
something within me
to love, to cherish, to
protect. But, I lost
something that was
far too important to
you - the two breasts
like that of twin gazelles
that the shepherd boy
found entrancing in
his love for the comely
girl of Shulammite.
I, too, ask why should
I become like a girl in
mourning among the
droves? I should rather
like to go out like a
bag of myrrh to my
loved one who could
sleep between my breasts.

Read Write Poem

Poet's and Writer's magazine shared a delightful website for writers to converge, share their work and learn from one another. I joined a group whose administrator provides the beginning of a sentence with which to write a poem. This week's selected phrase was, "Through the gate. . . "

I hope all of you who learn of this site and write poetry, or just want to read poetry, will join. It's free!

Words From a Mother

This poem was inspired by a dear friend who wrote to me of her love for her grown daughters, one of whom is soon to be married. My friend's final words in her email touched my heart. She wrote "My heart wraps around them eternally." This one is for you Valerie.

A Mother's Eternal Love

Before I met you,
I knew you; I could
feel you in the Cradle of Life.
I fed you, even nourished
your spirit. You experienced
all that I did. My heart
and body followed
every move you made.
We were one, as we are now.
Clasping my belly,
I supported you, as I do
now and forever. A
new dawn came, bringing
you to me. We met and, in awe,
I gazed into your eyes,
for the first time and not
the last. Your fingers, toes
and ears were all accounted
for; I kissed each one. My
unfaltering love for you
became my entire world,
just as it is now. This love
for you became my greatest
treasure, just as it is now.
I watched, fascinated, as you
grew from babe to infant,
from an infant to a toddler
who took her first steps.
Time quickened; you've
grown from babe to young
woman, ready to take other
steps. Our footprints have
brought us here, where we
are now. I am so proud of
you, my daughter. My
Heart wraps around you
Eternally, never to wane,
always beating – Eternally.

Sixty Minutes Away

Sixty Minutes Away

On a good day, without
traffic or incident,
you're sixty minutes
away. Yet the moon
is within reach. You
called me, as you sat
by the lake, and invited
me to share this moon,
which you said was a
brilliant globe surrounded
by a rainbow – God's promise
to Noah. Outside my window,
sixty minutes away, the lamp of
night fixed its generous eye
on me too. Its splendid light
seemed to have never shown
brighter than on this night,
when you were sixty
minutes away. High above
my window, just beyond the
glass, the moonbeam united
us; your beloved voice,
sixty minutes away. I could hear
the hymn of night and see,
through your eyes,
sixty minutes away, the lake
like a sheet of glass,
smooth and still, yet not
without life. Through the
wire, I could hear the
chant of crickets scratching
their fiddles of legs.
You told me three bull-frogs
trumped for supremacy.
The greatest miracle
of all was; you were no
longer sixty minutes away.

No Man Left Behind

No Man Left Behind

You told me no stories;
not because you have none,
but because you keep
them close to your heart,
where only you can know
them. Yet, I learned of
them, as you relived many;
I discovered much about
you even though you
have been left behind,
in a hell where no young
should have ever lived.
You are a man left behind,
where you would leave no
others, but spare not yourself.
In Death Valley you are like
the plant, Xanadu, which
grows in both shade and sun,
a tropical botany growing in
darkened arbors and shadowed
entryways, where no man
was left behind. Yet, your
youth has been sequestered
there amid the mountains
and villes, when you should
have come home – no man
left behind. You live in your
private garden attended to
by death, with memories that
rain but never bless, instead
they burn and with sleep come the
dreams – the souvenirs of war.
The leaves of the jungle no
longer remember your footsteps.
The last sound in the fading
wind are the footfalls of Death,
circling for its prey, the man
who remains where no man
was to be left behind.

Another Apology to Caryn

I can't claim that the below poem is one of my best. But, I rather warned you when I said this was the blog of "The Poet or Not."

One winter day the ground was free of snow and the forecast gave us no warning when a sudden storm hit the Pocono Mountains and my husband and I found ourselves stuck at the bottom of the steep hill leading up to our community. Mothers who were meeting their kids at the bus stop were unable to make their way up this hill, and we found ourselves stuck at the bottom until everyone else had given up trying to tackle the steep slope.

Bruce is a great driver in the snow so we made it home. Within less than half an hour the woods around our home was transformed into the most beautiful winter scene. The snow was so heavy that many of the tree's branches were laying low to the ground. We were afraid that some of them were going to break from the weight, but by morning the snow had completely disappeared, as though it had never been.

I wrote this the following day. Several times I've sat and swivelled in my swivel chair, thinking I might bring some better literary talent to this piece of work; I did nothing but swivel. So here it is, just as it was.

Snowsquall

The Luminary of the Day began its descent by degrees
Toward the Horizon; acquiescent to Twilight,
As the earth's spinning decrees.
Snow burdened clouds, driven by Northern Gales,
Migrated 'ore head and 'neath heav'ns floor,
Nature's Kite, Bearing a Squall, Winter's gift
to this Earth, a Generation given Rebirth.

A swirl of hoary snowflakes, dense and opaque,
Transforms the environs and different age make.
Where once the pines and spruce bore needles of green,
They now bow and embrace hooded cloaks of white.
Surrounding embranchments stretch outward and lean
To capture their own attire, generous and eager
For sharing their nature, to thrill and delight.

The Luminary of Night beams down on the scene,
Reflecting upward to'ard heaven, its radiance
Making the forest glisten, twinkle and gleam.
Courteous of life, the winds continue to blow,
so that, by Morn, before any damage is done,
The evergreens and branches are divested of snow.
The moon goes to rest and yet emerges the Sun.

Shakespearean Winter

QUIET! 'Gainst mine skin brushed Air's Breath,
Hastening to Chill, Inciting Wind's
Passion to another Winter Still. Welken
'bove adds its rejoinder, Rehearsals
Behind a Winter's Haze, Orchestrating
The Cradle Song of God's Harmony;
Thus begins this Annuals Laze.

ANON! Earth shall Slumber whilst snow, wind,
Ice and Rain, Artists of the Hour
Compile their Elements, Unleash their
Gentle Fury And Create by Divine Power
A Pantomime of Beauty, a Mute Song of
Muffled Silence, A Semblance of
Divergent Age. The Performance shall beckon.

Intoxicated by its Placid Vitality mine own Heart
Leaps upon The Stage. Mine own Spirit mergest
With the Vortex or Kaleidoscopic White Snow,
Gossamer Fair. Ah! Attempt to Match,
Attempt to Share Mine Own Enchantment,
Emancipate your own Perceptions and Transcend
Mine own Joy . . . . Only if you Dare!

The Dream of Poets

There isn't a poet who doesn't want to see their work in print. A poet doesn't exist who doesn't want to see their work in a single publication authored by themselves. It sure is my dream.

In search of the dream, I used Google in hopes of finding small publishing companies that might give me a fair reading and be so bowled over by my words that they would be banging on my door begging for the opportunity to make a book few people would read and that would cost them money they would never recoup.

Instead, I found this pithy writing by a fellow poet and publisher of a small press in Easton, Pa. - a little city near enough I could communicate by carrier pigeon and the bird wouldn't have to stop for a respite on its journey. Being inundated with poets, such as myself, inspired the editor to create a form letter of, gasp, rejection to remind us of why we write and, oh how horrible the thought, of why we won't be published unless we pay for it ourselves. Here is her letter.

"Dear Would-Be Poet, If you are expecting to be paid for poetry, you are sadly misinformed about the genre. You are wasting your time writing poetry because you have missed the point of the entire effort. You have failed to understand that poetry doesn't pay, it costs. Writing poetry costs your heart and soul. It costs years of study, of reading, and of listening. Poetry costs going to readings not only to read your own work but to truly hear the work of others. Poetry isn't a paying job; it is a way of life. If you expect to get paid for your work, dear poet, look elsewhere. Poetry pays infinite intrinsic rewards and few, if any, external ones. Sincerely, the Editor."

God pity me. My dream is in tatters and I'll probably always be poor and unknown, like most poets. She goes on to remind us of these truths.

"Friends, you've got to love poetry to be a part of it. What else but a love of the art (and make no mistake about it, poetry is art) could explain endless hours spent on one poem -- or even one line -- squeezing it, rolling it, shaping it, into something that makes the connection between heart and paper via pen? Or driving an hour to stand with shaking knees behind a podium (or worse yet, just standing up in front of a group with no "prop"), to read one two-minute-or-less long poem? Or sending out submission after submission in hopes of publication; not in payment, but in publication.

"You've got to love something that gives such small repayment for devotion: the ink on a sheet of printed paper that spells out your heart with your name attached. And yet, friends, I've got to tell you that after more than 30 years of writing poetry, just seeing a poem of mine in print, with my byline, is worth everything, nothing more required. Funny, isn't it?"
Carole J. Heffley

That byline is worth more than money. When I was writing special interest articles for a local newspaper, I had to fight hard to get that byline. Ever notice that most newspaper articles don't have one of these coveted and precious bylines? Editors are stingy with them. Credit isn't always given where credit is due. I carried my scrap right to the mayor. If I didn't get a byline, the newspaper didn't get my articles, and, since I was writing about a wagon train that was traveling through our town, the editors really wanted my article. I won and was forevermore given appropriate credit.

Now, I rarely win. Journals want a particular style or subject and they have their own agenda. I can't write for the market. I can't study a hundred periodicals just to find out what is selling and then write accordingly. Hence, my dear followers, I've decided to share more of my work here on this blog. It may be the only opportunity I have to share my work. I've awakened from my dream to live reality and, if the dream ever comes true, that will just be the icing on the cake.