Yesterday I was surprised
at meeting with an old friend.
He was as I remembered him—
full of enthusiasm,
at ease, and happy.
I had long forgotten
the pleasure of his smile
and the love we once shared.
For, dark have been the days
in the long years since last we met—
years stalked by a brooding stranger
who closed cold night
between the two of us.
Until in sweet surprise,
just yesterday, I met again
my brother
who could smile.
At long last, Spring is almost here.
Ice no longer covers the Allegheny.
Though only tiny buds appear on trees,
And a few green blades begin to show.
Summer is still six weeks away.
Saturday morning and a bright hot sun
And the rivers edge is now crowded
With a crew of young boys, large and small
Prepared to enjoy the first Summer swim.
For this crowd of boys, Summer is now
As the Allegheny is cleared of its wintry ice.
Knowing fully well of that water’s nip,
The boys dared each other to be the first in.
Finally came that call, “Last one in is a scared
Kitty cat!” Then came one gigantic splash
And all were in, except for one
Lone skinny tad who is still in fear
Of his ability to swim. The shame heaped
Upon his skinny frame caused his older brothers
To carry him to a low spot away from shore.
Then swam away to force him to attempt to swim.
The bitter cold chattered his teeth
Till in sheer desperation, he lunged
Towards the shore swimming so furiously
That he was crawling on the shore
Still thrashing arms and legs.
So exhilarated was he at this feat
He remembered that Summer as his best.
Woven into the tapestry of life
By the gentle hand and loving heart,
There is a special invisible thread
That connects our lives from beginning to end
And connects the clan, present and future.
Without mothers,
every clan or tribe that every existed
would never have known that thread
that weaves through from beginning to end
only because of a mother’s tough-fibered loving—
wiping away tears with a gentle hand,
calming our inner fears with a soft voice
shutting out the world in a loving embrace.
Each mother as she passes bequeaths
To the next the thread, passing it
From one hand to the next
To all of us, the finest blessing
That any of us can receive
Is a mother who always is there
In sorrow, sickness or trouble
Giving love that seems to have no end.
Yellow daffodils dance to the musical winds.
A blanket of violets offers a message of love.
Flowering Indian paints don the red of valor.
The bluebells are just for you and me,
The rest to renew the world for all.
Lightning strikes the ink-black sky.
A thunderclap opens the clouds to rain,
Teardrops trickle down across the face.
March winds sprinkle the fresh green grass
With blossoms from dogwood, apple and peach.
The air is filled by sweet singing trills
From robin, lark and bluebirds nesting near.
All the world seems now awake with love
As springtime comes to fill hill and dale.
There are some poems
I cannot read aloud
though the poet
has been true
to the form
and
with a unique voice
has placed truth
stripped bare
upon a page
My eyes slide
over the patterns
of black letters
that shape the record
of the poet’s sight
The perfect—
so carefully chosen—
words strike
like a double-barreled
shotgun exploding,
tearing the surface
of my safe place
with a scattering of
birdshot—
wounding, but not killing
Yet, to read aloud
in this poet’s voice
would be choosing
to swallow flaming
incense,
to crack my teeth
on a mouthful
of diamonds
perfectly cut
and choke
on my own blood
No, let this poet’s voice
keep to a yet distant
ambush,
be held to the limited
range of words on a page
It is enough
that I am merely
peripherally violated—
Ohh…yes, yes…
There are some poems
I will never read aloud
#PowerOfPoems #Poetry #ReadingPoetry #Vulnerability
A pond can be a truly wondrous place–
Dragonflies on wind, ducks afloat in space.
A frog sounds his bass love call for a mate.
Deep within the bulrushes and cattails
Even water lilies might show up.
For wild ones to have a sip at night,
The water must be crystal-clear sweet
Reflecting the wonders of the sky,
Calming the jangled nerves of men.
But, stay away from Harmar’s black pond.
No duck would come near its dark waters,
Nor will a frog ever sing out here.
Bulrushes, reeds, cattails absent this place
And the sky reflects as winter storms
In water black as the coal it cleans.
I hope nature can someday sweeten it
For ducks’ and dragonflies’ return
And frogs’ gravelly courtship song.
If there are still wild ones coming by,
Perhaps the water will be clear sweet.
I hope some distant kin of mine will know
The pleasure of a wondrous pond.
Easter is a time to express
Love in all our communications,
To speak with long time friends,
Renew love ties with old loves,
Touch the heavens in thanks,
Remember why we are here.
Easter, peaceful bliss,
Omen of what we all owe,
Divine help when needed most.
May I thank you for your love?
One more reason to be glad.
Happy Easter to you all.
#Easter #Poetry
Speed was Pokey’s all-time goal.
Never one to observe the written rules,
Pokey broke them all on every trip.
But that last curve came up too quick.
Now we obey the rules and slow the pace.
Old Pokey Davis is on a roll,
(How soon can we hit the road again?)
Not as fast as he was wont to go.
Of course, this time he isn’t driving.
Pokey is on the way to his resting place.
As the preacher blesses his soul,
I wonder if Pokey’s soul broke the rules
When it left his body bound for home?
#Memoir #SpeedDemonElegy
Last night I heard America singing
A thousand voices all in a unison of sound
Speaking in tongues that ranged the universe
Yet all were singing one theme song.
And as they sang, there came upon the stage
Dancers as diverse as America’s stock.
From across the world, they had come
All reaching for that one great prize
A freedom to speak, to act, or to dance
As each sought a way to express
Their fondest dreams and highest hopes.
As I watched, a kaleidoscope unfolded
Of voices gloriously singing the songs
That spring from the soul of Americans
Shhh! Don’t talk, just listen to that
Unfolding saga as dedicated humans
Attempt to say that this is my America.
#Patriotism #MeltingPot #Americana #NationalPride #Patriotism
All the days of our lives are like a diary,
Each day a fresh page on which to write
Or scribble, if you please, what happened to you.
If we open my diary, as I often do,
Here you will find only a scribbled page.
At least it looks like that to you and you.
But this day I used a very secret code
To keep for myself some special notes
That are only for me to see.
And here again, with this page,
Listen very quietly and you will hear
Faint music singing of a happy day.
Many such pages appear at the time
As I was so young and blissfully innocent then.
Yet here is a page too painful to read.
How can we be so cruel to one we love?
What hidden meanness in me struck at one
So near and dear and caused such pain?
And this page scribbled across in green ink?
You will never get a hint of that day.
Now this one is filled with joy and laughs.
If I could just have that to live again….
But, then, this day would not have been:
We won the championship in Track that day.
My simple medallion was so truly cherished—
Though it soon tarnished and was put away.
I never seem to remember where it was kept.
How can you be near and yet so far away
To someone dear and not know she’s there?
This one from the other side of town and Irish.
It was many years later we finally met
And now my life is fulfilled as it had never been.
Perhaps this might not have been so
If we had been neighbors and never been friends,
Because of too much closeness—so young and too soon.
Does this diary really exist or is it just a fantasy
Conjured in the mind?
Perhaps, a last page I’ll scribble on until
It scribbles off the page, then you will know
That this diary has never really been.
#Memoir #Aging #Diaries