Looking down at her tired face one more time
Memories came flooding through his tired, aching mind.
How completely naïve and innocent she looked
That first time he ever saw her, on that long porch.
The complete trust in her “so innocent eyes,” so wide apart.
How often she clung to him for strength and comfort.
The luckiest days of his life, she had been by his side
All these years…wife, mother, lover, nurse.
She had such joyful laughter.
It had the lilt of love.
You could hear a love song in it.
Beauty seemed to peal out its bells.
How could love seem so alive?
My heart thumped in tune
As my body kept marking time.
Was I in love with her laugh?
Maybe I was in love with laughter,
Especially such a lilting laugh.
Did I hear a soul having fun?
Only a soul in love is so merry.
Give a laugh like that to love
That I might not know depressed love!
What beauty she had, and so easily
Expressed and so merry—
My lady with the joyous laugh.
Sitting here on the old bald-top hill,
The quietness of the summit is so intense
I can hear a lone cricket sounding near,
Chirping birds and rustling leaves.
The steel mill below is a muffled roar.
Far off is the clickety-clack of a railroad train,
The whistle from the steamboat
Seems to blend with a child’s vibrant squeal.
The sounds from trucks, cars and people below
Create a strangely beautiful symphonic melange.
Our river flowing gently and endlessly
Runs between two long continuous ridges
Dressed with trees interspersed with homes
And the sculpted frieze on our inner city:
Office buildings, church steeples and tenements.
Lace-like bridges connect our city to the other one
Across that long breadth of river.
A string of factories and steel mill mills
Confronts an army of dirty faced homes
Running east, then south beside the river.
The older, yet still stately, homes are to the north.
A brisk wind shuts out the view
With low flying clouds and raindrops,
Leaving me with the wind’s whistling
And memories of an unforgettable tapestry—
The most beautiful home I ever will know.
How can words be used to
Describe how much I cherish you?!
No words I put together seem right
Because my feelings run so deeply and,
Cross such broad fields of love that
No sentence seems able to catch it all.
Perhaps the vaulted ceiling of the sky
May be able to convey how deep and wide
I feel about the friendship we share.
O, muse of poetry, help me to sing.
Fill my mind with words to say how much.
It is as though my life has changed so
I am not sure who I am anymore.
You have filled a void I did not know I had.
Road with no visible end
Random wandering where
Time of living, time giving
No regrets for any time lost
Christmas is a time of joyous cheer
A time of wonderment in all our peers
The joy of giving loving gifts
Giving a lift to those near and dear—
If only a hug for Grandma here
Kisses to all of the ladies and one
To keep you all from being undone
Most precious of all sharing love
With all those whom I do love
Kisses for the ladies all and one
To help keep everything undone
A kiss for my own dear wife
One more to make you feel alive
Of all the gifts we give away
None is more precious than love
If I can count all those I love
There would be you and just you.
If there had been no poets
The world would be a dreary place.
God knew we needed poets, so
He invented the rainbow
That would condense after each rain
Into poets for all occasions.
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?