Dreams are as the dust of stars
All we are or will ever be tomorrow
Spring from the dreams of yesteryear
Life without dreams a thing of sorrow
Improbable dreams are best of all
From them spring the finest in life
Small dreams are filling life,
Like a ball, with drums and fifes
Sounds of laughter and joyfulness
And the deep warmth of small triumphs
Dream again those moments of delight
Enrich your life and all the world
#dreams, #dreaming
Come one, come all, come to the show!
Come hear the blaze of lightning
And feel the loving caress of moonbeams.
Smell the taste of green apple pie,
Then hear the glories of Autumn’s colors.
Then touch the sunrise, caress a sunset.
Watch the soul when an operatic diva
Lifts it as high as a C: with Aida.
Come taste the perfume of a rose.
Smell that marvelous eclectic tingle
Of the windstorm through distant trees.
Feel the quiver of a tenor’s noise
And breathe in the beauty of your dreams.
Best of all, you can, if you try
See, taste, smell, feel and hear
The most innate glory of human loves.
#senses
The cooling touch upon the fevered brow
A quiet word in the still of the night
A helping hand in time of need
Just being there at the needed time
A small hug, gentle kiss, or simple caress
The refuge of a nice warm lap
Old eyes meeting across a crowded room
The electricity of just holding hands
Quiet things, little things, just anything
The simple acts that bestow our love
Upon those we chose to love so much
How poor our world without quiet love
For love, like yeast, grows and multiplies
The more you give, the more you have–
Now, with some understanding of love
I love you, and you and you and you
All of the guns became suddenly so quiet.
A silence so engulfed the battlefront
That even the winds seemed stilled as if in awe.
Nothing moved in any direction, not even birds
(As if there had been birds here in four years).
A voice cried out as though still in doubt,
“They signed the armistice!”
From all sides came shouts and sounds of singing
As one by one, slowly as if not yet quite sure,
They came from both sides through shattered trees
And scarred, torn land to stand face to face
Staring face to face as if amazed at their youth
Hugs, songs and talking without understanding
Yet, knowing that the war was over and all of them
Could go home, oh beautiful word, Home!
All the earth sheds tears today
But all of heaven is rejoicing
How can I say good-bye when
I just learned how to say hello?
Falling one by one,
These beautiful leaves
Were on my tree since Spring.
When the last one falls to earth
Twigs and branches will remain—
Memories of last Spring’s gift.
Let me not be the last to fall.
He crosses the schoolyard, climbs the fence
Into a meadow and is near the road
When he hears that loud voice calling out behind.
Since most of the teachers don’t feel at ease
Entering the meadows and wooded areas,
He sprints across the road and into
The stand of trees covering the nearest hills
Swiftly entering that grove of trees. As the noise
Fades away, he is in his favorite place.
He would stay there if he had a choice,
Not where he lived with Mom and Dad and Sis.
Now he enters the small brook running thorough.
His feet are refreshed by the cooling water—
So clear, that the pebbles glow,
Seeming to shimmer just beneath the surface.
He takes a small swig of water, knowing that
Its clean, sweet taste tingled his mouth and throat.
Now, far away in this a very special corner
Two maple trees hang like a shelter
Where the brook leaps over a small rock ledge.
Here he rests, keeping himself ever so still.
A squirrel appears, washes its face,
Takes a quick drink. Then off to his tree.
Now a rabbit darts by, cotton tail flying high
While clear calls rise nearby—
From a titmouse, a swallow and the braggart crow.
One tiny bell sounds the approach of a cow
And that far off bark sounds like the dog who
Is his friend but growls at every stranger.
With great hunger, he samples some tidbits
Of nature’s fare, first an Indian radish, then
A berry or two. Chewing now on the twig
Of sassafras root and cheered by the
Whispering autumn winds as he enjoys
The pungent smells from crushed mint leaves
And the wild asters’ perfume.
Long shadows remind him of this day’s end.
Dad expects everyone home at dinner time.
With one last look, he is off and gone.
High spirited, free thinkers all,
They thought they were indestructible.
No soft hands in this hard-driven crew,
Yet hearts as soft as mush at times.
They could cradle a baby to sleep
Or lend a shoulder to cry upon.
They might even shed a tear or two
When a friend crossed the bar.
It was a draft of cold beer for them,
Not that pink champagne bubbly stuff.
Their bosses did not order,
But asked for their help
Because every job was finished right.
They were proud of their unique skills
Used in repairing those battered war-torn ships.
Please! No applause is needed here.
But old Father Time brooks no denial—
Their ranks dwindle one by one
Until there may not even be a memory left.
Will anybody remember the one called “Rock”?
With week-by-week installments eked out of her Depression Era salary as a typist-clerk, my mother bought a piano, a Baldwin console, slightly larger than a spinet, in gleaming mahogany wood. Each week she visited the store, stroked the piano’s edges, then urged by the store’s owner, she might play a few notes. Each week she feared her piano would be sold to someone paying full price in spite of the proprietor’s promise to keep this one piano for her alone.
Then after it was at last hers, she had to leave it behind when she followed her husband to California where there were good jobs to be had now that America was fighting in WW2. The piano had to be left behind in storage, awaiting packing fees and transportation fees yet to be earned and a living space large enough to give the instrument room to resonate, to sing, to hum in the evenings or weekend afternoons. All those memories and futures waited back in West Virginia while she made a home in a two and one-half room cottage far away on the West Coast where she waited.
In California she worked and saved and dreamed of piano music till there was money enough to ship it to the small craftsman-style home where there was room enough for her cherished piano. With the instrument came sheet music to which she added more and which I learned to play as the years went on. But long before I had lessons, before I learned to talk, I often fell asleep to the music played with my mother’s light touch on the treasured piano that came from all the way from West Virginia.
Swiftly the Autumn winds have seared our trees
With scorchless fires of scarlet, gold and rust.
From afar, the hills seem consumed in colored flame.
Each hour the colors leap and soar across the hills
As the winds sweep through to spread the torch,
Set maples stirring red, aspens following with gold.
The scarlet sumac accentuates all with its flaming red
Against the background screen of evergreen firs
With their promise of eternal Spring.
So much like life it seems, at least to me,
As those fine old faces from all about with these colors
And richly sculptured lives that adorn each lovely face,
Their voices, like the Autumn wind whisper tales
Of a life richly lived in joy but also with fear
Shining through the stress of everyday living
Are signs that reveal an inward glow of youth eternal.
When these two scenes flow across my mind,
I sometimes muse aloud, to myself of course,
Which of these scenes is Mother Nature’s masterpiece?