Believe it or not, I am now 87!
My body is weary; yes, that’s right.
My mind constantly denies any such age.
For some unknown reason, I’m still 39.
Most of the time, my body wins that argument.
Boy, oh boy, it sure would be nice, though,
Being 39 again, if only for a day or two.
When I see a really lovely woman go by,
I’m 39 again and almost reach to touch.
There must be a small town somewhere
Just waiting for me to put down roots—
With one main street, one small park,
Trees growing along side of every house,
Old-fashioned trellises with trailing roses,
White picket fences, a dandelion or two,
Nearby farms to hug the town,
And sunlight that is just right.
Neighbors chat across back fences
As their children romp, playing games.
There may even be a hummingbird.
I could host a backyard neighbors’ feast
And perhaps, join them in a short hike
Through the nearby forested hills.
Sure hope to find that small town soon.
Stranger, can you help me find my town?
As he sat there upon the mountain top
Looking out at the native lands below,
The GREAT WHITE SPIRIT strode across the sky,
Trailing a great cloak of fleece-white clouds
Shedding tears onto the desolated lands below.
Oh! How great be his sorrow
With lakes and rivers poisoned by man,
With mountains and plains denuded of trees—
That leafy expression of His great love.
The buffalo no longer stomp over the plains
Filling the sky with a thunder of hooves.
Never again come the great flocks of birds
Darkening the sun with an abundance of wings.
Prairie grass no longer grows high enough
For a man to hide himself within.
There are no quiet woods in which to walk a mile.
No clean, sweet stream from which to drink,
Is the mournful cry of the wolf.
And the upland plains are now turned to dust.
Oh, GREAT SPIRIT, is this how it is to end?
Come! Go with me this Autumn
To where the hills light up the sky
With their burgundies dipped into purple mists
As drops of sun light on flightless leaves
Blend into fields of golden pumpkins strewn about.
With apples, as crisp as wafers of ice,
And air so clear and velvety light,
You will think it really isn’t there.
We’ll have corn on the cob at dusk
With apple cider, biscuits, ham and eggs,
And those buttermilk pancakes
Smothered with country butter
And fresh maple syrup,
Because, you see, Autumn is a time to enjoy
All the best there is, or ever was.
And since it is also Indian Summer,
We will go for a swim in that old millpond.
By what measures do you abide?
Is one person greater than another?
Is the person you despise lesser
Than that person you admire so very much?
What determines the value of your measures?
Is your measure more valuable than mine or his?
Does it make you a better person than I
Because your ancestors were lords of the land
While mine were only servants to those lords?
If you find fault with someone’s mistakes,
Is it because of your own secret sins?
Where is it written that you should judge?
Who determined which should judge others?
Are you so really sure of what you say?
How then, justify your constant failure
To forgive someone else’s misdeeds
While you rush to countenance your own?
Again, I ask, what measure do you use?
Is it really so correct and true
That it brooks no other way to measure worth?
Why is your measure so absolutely true
And mine as full of fault as you often infer?
What would you say if told that my measures
Were the only true ones that exist?
They really are, you know.
Stop the machines now.
We must be heard. Now!
You have claimed our best:
The young ones, their dreams;
Old ones, broken with grief;
Loved ones, long since lost.
Our smallest cry out
For the food to sustain.
Where are the healing arts
For those in the throes of death,
Breathing air you spoiled,
Drinking waters poisoned by you,
Eating food grown in ground
So tainted it grows only death?
Must we all slowly die
With starvation of the body,
The mind and even the soul
To keep the machines alive?
Stop! the machines now!
Is no one humane in charge?
We can no longer be grist alone.
How long until we refuse?
Why are your needs so great
That we must die just reaching for love,
While you give not one single sign
Or one single drop to show you care?
Will your machines still roar
If we are not there?
Devour us if you will, machines.
We will be gone yet free.
Of course, we will all be dead.
But how will the machines run then?
Who would you operate for?
Come, all my fellow workmen.
Listen well, you machine masters.
Come feed our hungry,
Clothe the naked,
Heal the sickened ones,
Provide for those starved
For some token of love,
Share gracefully in humility.
Stop these machines now.
Stop, stop, stop, stop.
There are certain times at night
When a very special quiet comes.
I am visited by a light touch
That inscribes words, such as these,
Upon my mind in open scripts
As though some ancient one visited
To sow thoughts upon the winds, so
Simple souls such as I can reap and record
Though oftentimes we cannot understand
What truly great thoughts are there.
So, I scribble what I think I see.
Sometimes I feel I must write poetry,
Sing of something I know or want to know.
I’m never sure of what drives as I write
Gibberish, at least some, it seems to me.
Yet, when I happen to express something well,
My heart expands in joy at the words I see.
To be able to write so it affects
The heart, the soul or the mind.
That’s a goal I set for myself.
If I can reach that goal, I will feel
As if my life has been successful.
One subject for poems: love between people,
Not just lovers (men and women); I loved my Mom
So much that just thinking of her
Made me feel really good.
My Dad? Well, he was so rough and hard.
I admitted even to myself, that I loved him, also.
My brothers? I guess so, and
My four sisters, a little easier
To say I loved them and even their kids.
I probably loved a few of my friends, too.
At least the ones to whom I told some secrets.
If any of this constitutes a poem,
I hope you like it well enough to save.
Ghostly figures stride across the rims of these hills
Standing tall, bronzed bodies, gifted by God
Striding swiftly, proudly as if they were princes
Maybe they were—they knew not that name.
They, themselves, treasured the land;
It was thought of as something to be passed
To their descendants without any spoil.
They took only what they needed today
Putting something aside for their children.
I still seem to see them striding the rims
At that magic hour of early twilight.
The ghosts seem never to leave.
The beauty of this land entrapped the souls.
There! Look quickly now at the hills.
See! Where nightfall meets the evening sky.
I walked through the only street in town
Looking into every face I chanced to meet,
Hoping I might find a familiar one.
I dropped into the only general store;
Enjoyed that piece of homemade of fudge.
The old wooden church hung a sign saying
The next services would be in two weeks.
I never found the two-room school.
I hiked out toward Old Gobber’s Knob
To find the patch at the top–a scar–
The hill was stripped, barren of trees.
A local, seeing my distressed face, informed
That the local lumber company promised to replant.
I wondered, would they also restore
Those violets I loved so much
And the wild rose by the small spring?
Will there be butterflies, songbirds
And daffodils to greet the early spring?
Perhaps daisies, bluebells and Indian pinks
Will somehow reappear to adorn the hill.
Sadly, I turned away a tear rolled down.