The Message
For so very very long,
many years in fact,
I had to give this message;
it had to be exact.
It troubled me to be so burdened
with such important news,
perhaps to change the world
and alter people's views.
In terrible pain and anguish,
sometimes my soul would cry,
to think so grand a message
was placed with such as I.
The years rolled slowly by,
but I grew quickly old;
still I had the message,
the message still untold.
The time has finally come,
but I am sad to say,
somehow, sometime, somewhere,
the message slipped away.
Once Upon an Afternoon
Let's you and me go chunk some rocks.
We'll walk the dusty country road
and fill our pockets to the brim
with rocks of every shape and size.
We'll skip them on the roadside pond,
we'll bounce them off the white oak posts,
and listen to the barbwire zing.
We'll sail them o'er the highest trees.
We'll cross the creek below the bridge
and rest beneath the old canebrake.
Then from the bridge we'll drop some rocks
and listen to the clunk below.
All time is still - there are no clocks.
Let's you and me go chunk some rocks.
Of Time and Change
It's not the racing clock that frightens me.
It's been there all along, though faster now.
It's not the weeks and months that hurry by,
or even days that disappear somehow.
The quickened pace of time's an evil thing
that I've accepted, though reluctantly.
The years of carefree youth have come and gone
and foolish dreams no longer trouble me.
It's just these younger folks who worship change,
any change, no matter the worth of it;
they'd like to change the way I think and talk.
They'd change my customs, my life-long habits.
I will not play their damn fool silly games.
Their noble dreams were dreamt by better men.
No-one would hear the plans of youthful zealots
(thank God) when we proposed them way back when.
So come along, you worshipers of change;
we'll walk out on the hill and watch the rocks.
I think you'll note how proud and staid they are,
and how unchanged they are by ticking clocks.
Stranger
I am a stranger in this land,
estranged, it would seem.
I was not bom into this place.
Perhaps it's all a dream
The place where I was born and raised,
so very long ago,
was filled with wondrous sights and sounds,
a place you'd love to go.
There was a clear and bubbling stream
with cattails 'round about,
and brightly colored butterflies
that flitted in and out.
The sky was so much bluer there
the grass was greener still.
Tall trees and flowers seemed to smile,
and covered every hill.
The nights were filled with nature's songs,
gliding to my ear.
The call of cricket, owl, and quail,
was all a man could hear.
Cool breezes blew across my bed,
the stars were big and bright.
The moon was so much closer there,
and bathed my world with light.
Won't someone take me to my home;
it can't be far away.
I'm sure I hear the sounds of it
when little children play.
Sunday Cavaliers
Farmboys, browned by summer's searing sun,
barefoot, whitehaired, blue-eyed devils we;
riding bareback, we chased the wind
over hills and hollows and through the glen.
Strong and fearless, wild and free,
we sat astride our racing steeds,
leaped the clouds, and ruled the world
as far as we could see.
Having conquered all our foes
and rescued many a lady fair,
we raced back o'er the sycamores,
and glided down to earth once more.
Oh, to be so strong and wild and free again,
to rule the world and ride the wind.
The Road
I've long since lost the start of it,
this winding road I travel on,
Though in my dreams I still can see
the peaceful lane it started from.
If there were hills along the way,
a fertile valley followed soon.
If narrow bridges blocked the road,
the road grew wider very soon.
So many paths lead from this road,
I could not help but take a few.
I traveled down my share of them,
and stayed a while on one or two.
The road has always called me back,
and I have always heeded it.
But sometimes I have wondered why,
and even balked, I must admit.
I can't yet see the end of it,
this winding road I travel on,
Though in my dreams I faintly see
the peaceful lane it started from.
Eyes of Yesterday
In youth I sought the Mountain tops
and gazed at stars beyond.
They did not seen so far away
to eyes of yesterday.
The jagged rocks I climbed with ease.
I circumvented none.
No narrow ledge would block the way
to eyes of yesterday.
The man of me climbed higher still,
without a look behind.
But stars no longer cast their ray
to eyes of yesterday.
Now, once where towering mountains lay,
sprawl tiny dunes in disarray.
Somehow they shrank along the way,
to eyes of yesterday.
Invitation
(To Ole WW)
I'll take me to a lazy day,
to a pontoon fishing boat
nestled in a shady bay.
There I'll free my mind to float,
to drift and dream the day away.
I'll not unwind my fishing line.
Some hungry bass might happen by
and interrupt my peace of mind.
I will not think on how or why;
such thoughts I'll think some other time.
And as the sun sinks in the west,
as shadows grow across the bay,
I'll think of rising from my nest.
All this I swear I'll do one day.
Please, come. You'll be my special guest.
Babylon
In distant worlds intrepid warriors walk,
in searing heat and shifting mounds of sand.
Old Gods of yesteryear awake and talk,
of other men who stalked this tortured land.
They sank into the sand, these men of old,
there mixing with the dinosaurs and trees
to form another god for man, black gold -
black gold, to lure the modem pharisees.
They hear, these Gods, the mighty cannons roar;
they watch the drifting sands prepare a bond
to keep the weary warriors evermore,
forever-more to rest in Babylon.
Young gallant soldiers fall and mothers weep.
Sand blows and ancient Gods resume their sleep.
Old Desert Soldier
(January 16, 1991)
His eyes - it was his eyes I noticed first,
intense and focused far beyond the day,
to desert sands where comrades crawled and cursed,
where blood and prayers and silent bodies lay.
The evening news had pierced his dormant soul,
aroused in him a fierce and bitter heart
where countless names and faces were on roll,
enscrolled with memories scarcely set apart.
He did not move again or speak a word.
His furrowed brow and wrinkled hands were stilled.
And yet I know with certainty I heard
a cannon roar and echo through the field.
Don't ask if wounded, sand-cast souls can fly!
Don't ask where desert soldiers go to die!
Song of Siren
Sweet mistress to a million souls or more,
the singing sea that sailors can't ignore
she calls them with her breaking waves to shore
and gently guides them gaily through her door.
Her rhythmic waves entice their hearts to soar
beyond the fluffy whisper clouds and pour
their parody of strength against the oar.
Onward, outward, over all the ocean floor
where lie the bones of all those gone before.
Her song is sweet, serene, against the roar
of raging winds and rains which slowly gore
the mind and body of her paramour.
And in the end she wins her ancient war.
Her lovers sleep in peace forevermore.
Star Born
Today my darling daughter said to me
I'm going to be a mother. Only that.
Though all grown up I think she does not know
what she has said. New life grows within her!
New life, star stuff gathered from the heavens
melding into cells with the speed of light,
guided by some ancient code, still unknown.
I will proudly claim her child my grandchild,
but gaze into the starbright night and ask
which distant galaxy was first her crib.
Mister C. and Me
My Grandson, Mr. C., had worked quite hard
To help me rake and bale the dusty hay.
He listened to the noise with disregard
And laughed and talked with me throughout the day.
We talked of rain to make the grasses grow,
Of how, in winter, the cows would not mind
The bitter cold and icy rain and snow.
They'd say, "Thanks, Mr. C., you are most kind."
Tonight, when he was asked who makes it rain,
He replied "Grandad makes it rain, of course!"
I saw his mother's look of open pain
And feigned some awkward words of proud remorse.
I knew no-one would change his mind tonight.
Today he made my sun shine oh so bright.
Children
We did not push them from the nest,
they gladly flew away.
The last one spread his wings,
it seems like, yesterday.
My wife stood in the driveway
and gently waved goodbye.
I could not help but notice
a teardrop in her eye.
But when I went back in the house,
I heard the wildest noise
My wife was rolling in the floor.
"Rejoice! Rejoice! Rejoice!"
"Just what to hell is going on,"
I asked, in disbelief.
"They're gone! They're gone" she said.
"THAT'S how you spell RELIEF!"
Now we were only two again,
the house was calm and quiet.
Then came the sad and tearful calls
by phone most every night.
One by one they flew back home,
to my consternation,
but she went at her ‘Mama-things'
in joyful resignation.
A Young Boy's Prayer
(Circa 1940)
Dear Lord, we need to have a talk.
I'd like to know about your guineas.
What good are they, oh Lord?
Did You make them just in jest?
Did You ever walk upon a guinea nest
while quietly strolling along a trail
and have her rend You tooth and nail?
I'd sooner walk upon a rattle snake.
You made 'em quick, oh Lord, and smart;
You'd never hit one with a rock.
They only laugh at BB shots.
They must have been an afterthought,
or made of parts of wilder beasts.
Your creatures, oh Lord, large and small,
I love them all, save guineas.
Women
Love and loving are for crazy folks,
I'll have a beer.
You take the girls in frilly frocks,
give me a glass of cheer.
Girls are little more than playful toys.
God said as much
when taking poor old Adam's rib,
just carved from good clean dust.
Girls play games we men don't understand.
They don't play fair.
They pout and cling like leeches.
They put on awful airs.
Take them, take them all - Godspeed - farewell.
Heaven waits - you'll serve your time in hell.
(God willing, I'll meet you there with Abrigail.)
dog
He ain't no count a'tall, this
half hound dog.
Name? He ain't got no name.
He never named hisself.
A good dog names hisself
by looking lack somethin'
or doin' somethin'.
We just call him dog.
The wife, she sometimes calls
him biscuit-eater,
says he'd probably suck eggs
if we had any chickens.
But she don't mean no harm;
she's the one feeds him.
Do? Dog don't do nothin'.
Never has. Just come up
one day, a skin and bones pup.
One of the younguns threw
him a biscuit and he gulped
it down before it hit the ground.
Now look at him, fat and lazy.
Take for him? Dog?
I said he ain't no count.
He ain't no count for selling.
Forebear Tree
I played beneath my forebear tree.
Its roots spread far and wide.
Some came from far across the sea,
Some met them on this side.
These sturdy roots fed many limbs,
sons and daughters of this and that,
all noble folks without a doubt,
whichever limb they sat.
The bloodlines of this stately tree
were white and red and yellow.
and there was, I hate to say
one damn yankee fellow.
Before I left my forebear tree,
I gave it one more shake.
I knew I'd find some rotten apples,
but what'll I do with all them snakes?
Evening Walk
Today we walked, my younger self and I,
across a field I used to walk alone.
I recollected how time used to fly
before he asked himself to tag along.
He said I used to take much longer steps,
and never stopped to rest as I do now.
I really had not noticed this myself,
and thought his words repugnant anyhow.
The ditch I used to leap leapt back at me.
I'm sure I heard him laugh at me all wet.
I'd been quite foolish, that was plain to see,
but little did I need his feigned regret.
I made some crude remark about his worth,
and mocked the circumstances of his birth.
Demon Genes
Genes are funny little things,
cutting patterns hard as granite,
plotting every course you take,
even though you think you plan it.
Some make their presence known, like
eyes of blue or brown or green.
Others do their work in secrecy,
devious devil genes unseen.
I'd not change the whole of them;
some do their work most fair,
but deeds done by these devil genes?
why'd they take away my hair?
Exercise
I feel a need for exercise,
a dumb and sluggish sense,
as if some slimy sickly prank
was played at my expense.
I fear I must be getting ill.
Exertion's not the way;
I think I'll lie and rest a while,
until this feeling goes away.
Neckties
They come in reds and blues and blacks
and various colors in between.
They come in stripes of many widths
and even polka dots I've seen.
A man must be some kind of fool,
or something worse, for heaven sake,
to spend good money on such strings
and tie the things around his neck.
Like high heel shoes and short tight skirts
that ruin a lovely lady's health,
neckties are surely made in hell
to slowly choke a man to death.
A Policy Statement
The committee on committees
had appointed a new task force,
and now they met with much aplomb,
with full quorum present, of course.
The proper research had been done
and triplicated appropriately,
so that each and every member
had copies for posterity.
Now down to business. The impact
populace must be identified.
The guidelines and policies must
be stated, the quorum satisfied.
This done, the action group was named
to tell the impact group - and quick.
All farmers must be made aware
that all fresh cow manure is slick.
Mirror Image
"Just you look at yourself,"
an old man said to me,
"with your wrinkled old face
and big barrel belly."
"It wasn't always so,"
I said, somewhat perturbed.
"Don't you remember when....."
He now grew more disturbed.
"Never mind about when!
We're talking now, fatso
You're sagging all over,
you've let yourself go."
It did no good at all
to talk to him, it seems.
He grabbed a nearby can
and blocked me out with shaving cream.
Park Affair
In a park we met,
unplanned, I'm sure of it,
she in a soft fur coat,
I in jogging clothes.
She stopped.
I stopped.
She winked.
What a tease! I thought.
She tilted her head as if to question,
the comers of her mouth quivered ever so slightly.
A coy smile?
Softly she approached, her eyes fixed on mine,
now beside me, touching briefly,
then turning and walking slowly backward,
each of us, I thought, quite hypnotized.
Then suddenly she was gone.
I jogged on through the park, and she -
she, no doubt, went searching for another mouse.
A Moment Without Time
No-one will ever know that time stood still
today for just one grand eternity.
Our eyes and hearts embraced and drank their fill.
We tricked old Father Time to serve our will,
to freeze a frame of time for you and me.
No-one will ever know that time stood still.
Because we knew quite well we must conceal
this precious fleeting moment, hungrily
our eyes and hearts embraced and drank their fill.
The music stopped, no sound was heard until
our frenzied aching souls wept secretly.
No-one will ever know that time stood still.
The pain was quite severe enough to kill,
and yet I longed for this sweet agony.
Our eyes and hearts embraced and drank their fill.
Though none can ever know time was not real,
we make no man nor God apology;
no-one will ever know that time stood still.
Our eyes and hearts embraced and drank their fill.
Bells
Bells rang softly,
softly singing songs of joy.
Did you hear them too?
They rang because of you!
Perhaps a "thank you" note
more likely an apology
From gods, repentant for
a timing error.
Little does it matter though,
the music was so grand.
And you -
you were one with bells
That will echo in my soul
forever and a day.
Come Spring
Come Spring, daffodils will paint the hills with yellow gold,
their fragrance flowing down the knolls in liquid laughter;
silver sunbeams will warm the waiting pregnant soil and
soothe erupting seedlings struggling to be born into
this waking world of wonder.
Come Spring, warm and gentle rains will ride the wings of
softly blowing winds and lightly dance among the pale green
blades of grass where God's myriad tiny creatures celebrate
the season's mating rites.
Come Spring, songs of jubilation will echo through the leaves
and trees as robins, wrens and multitudes of winged friends
return to sing and rest before the nesting.
Come Spring, the evening - oh, the blissful evening - will fill
with trills of whippoorwills and choirs of croaking frogs,
the moon and stars smiling down upon a paling paradise.
Then I shall sleep the sleep of Gods for I have strolled
the streets of blessed heaven here on earth.
And should I fail to wake some Springtime morning,
I pray you will not weep for me,
pray you will not weep for me in Spring.
White Dresses
In other worlds and in another time
you carried torches high for all to see,
white torches filled with virtues so sublime
men watched in awe and marveled at your beauty.
You were the heart and soul of every home,
the light that always warmed and waited there,
the gentle quiet voice in word and song
that soothed and healed the hurts of hearts laid bare.
Did you grow tired? You held the torch so long,
but you threw it down and we've lost our way.
It is a lot to ask; would it be wrong
to beg you take it for another day?
Get back on your pedestal, shine your light.
Return to us in beauty, dressed in white.
Humble Pie
You know the taste of humble pie.
It lingers for a while.
But do you know who's eaten most
of all the world supply?
Your doctor, believe it or not,
has that rare distinction.
You may have thought him arrogant,
but it's just compensation.
He enters school with head held high.
He wants to cure the world
of all the ills that's plagued mankind
since earth was set awhirl.
He's told at once how dumb he is,
how dumb he'll always be.
For each one fact he thinks he knows,
he's ignorant of three.
I could go on with more details
of this situation,
but one example will explain
the rank humiliation.
In white, white coat and stethoscope,
Professor Noble comes to class.
He has a stack of paper cups
and one large urine flask.
Each student gets a sample
of the urine he has brought.
Their brilliant minds are loaded
with the lessons he has taught.
"Young doctors" said with great disdain,
"today I'll demonstrate
the proper way to study urine,
and you must emulate.
"Observe, observe, you must observe
the volume and the color
is it turbid or crystal clear?
Is the urine yellow?
"Use all the senses you possess,
your sense of smell and touch.
Remember to observe, to look,
and don't forget to taste."
This said, he dipped his finger in
the urine in the flask
and promptly plopped it in his mouth.
This sickened all the class.
"Now, Doctors, do as I have done,
and do it quickly now."
With much disgust and eyes closed tight,
they managed it somehow.
"That's good, young Doctors, very good.
You all have failed the test.
I dipped my index finger in,
but used the next to taste."
"Observe, observe, always you must observe!"
A Lifetime Moment
I don't recall the day or hour,
I scarcely remember the year.
But the moment, that precious moment,
is the one I hold most dear.
I'm sure I would have flown that day
but for propriety.
My feet wore wings, my lungs were full,
my mind and heart and soul were free.
So strange it was, this grand relief,
that left me floating in the air.
I think perhaps I was insane;
I was, but somehow wasn't, there.
The long long road I'd traveled on
had finally brought me here.
No-one save God will ever know
just why that moment was so dear.
It was the final day of school.
The grades were posted. I had passed.
I was a doctor - a Doctor!
My God! The tears. The tears at last!
Man
Don't speak to me of man's ego;
I've heard enough of that.
Don't tell me of his chemistry,
his muscles, bones, and fat.
I'll not hear of cells and synapse,
of voltage in the brain.
So help me God,
I'll walk away if I hear id again.
If man were made of such small things,
he'd be a worm at best,
and crawl about upon the ground
like creatures we detest.
Forget those things you've read about
in books and magazines,
of man's magnetic resonance,
of how he's like machines.
A man must have a heart and soul;
forget that other stuff.
A smile, a hearty laugh, and love
are really quite enough.
Just tell me he has lots of pride,
a head that's thinking clearly,
a sweetheart walking by his side,
that he loves oh so dearly.
Melancholia
The once proud hills are level now,
the green of trees long gone.
Rich black soil is barren sand,
dry and blown.
The sky, now bleak and gray and bare,
once was filled with playful clouds.
The moon and stars have disappeared,
the sun's a hazy shroud.
Dry white bones are all that's left
of life once living here.
Even the stench of death is dying.
I, alone, am left,
life's spirit, weak and crying.
The Manic
This crazy man, I'll call him Bill,
was brought onto my ward.
He was as high as high can get.
My name became "you bastard".
He claimed he owned a fleet of cars,
and oil wells more than he could count.
If "you bastard" would let him leave,
he'd make me rich - any amount.
He kept the whole ward entertained.
Each day he grew more wealthy,
despite our patient warnings
such thoughts just were not healthy.
Bill finally came back down to earth;
we all were proud of him.
He'd even call me Doc sometimes,
if it should fit his whim.
In time the day arrived
when Bill could go back home.
He went about the ward in smiles,
between his summons to the phone.
He shook my hand and called me Doc.
This caused me to rejoice,
until I saw that bastard leave.
He drove off in a gold Rolls-Royce.
Requiem for a Schizophrenic (Friend)
Be still.
Be still and feel your stillness,
caress the peace you've won.
No man can sense as well
the sweetness of your sleep.
You've known the pangs of hunger
and tasted bitter grief.
Distrust has been your mistress,
scorn, your children's name.
Old ghosts have slept beside you,
while fears disturbed your rest.
Alone, you trod the darkened roads
with cold your only cloak.
Rabid dogs encircled you
as vultures hovered near.
Your youth was quickly spent,
as time became askewed.
And so, farewell, my ageless friend,
the angels wait for you.
Godspeed.
Farewell.
Wanda - Ward 4
Spinning, whirling, ever faster
with half a head named Hilda;
reaching, clutching, sometimes clawing,
her speech is word salad non-sense.
Twenty years ago she made the
honor role, relished new found favor,
dreamed sweet dreams of being teacher one day.
One day was all she had to dream.
On Sundays she has visitors,
Mama - and a man with hatchet hands.
Sojourner
Spring of hopes undimmed by doubts,
young gods without constraints;
I was one with them, and oh
how fast my strong heart beat.
With swagger steps I climbed
with ease whatever rose before me.
Summer brought a steady pace,
with slower, stouter heart.
Dreams and fantasies
confronted stark realities
and shattered into dust,
drifting far beyond my reach.
Autumn brought a brief reprieve
from pressures born within and out.
But now I've seen the last of these;
my peaceful Indian Summer
has come, and oh the joy of it,
before the last long Winter.
Apology
It seems now, looking back, I have grown old
and left no track for others to follow.
The sterile path I laid has now waxed cold,
the footprints I left were much too shallow.
Always I walked above a safety net,
took no chances, wove bland security
while rushing here and there with no regret,
quite unaware I chose obscurity.
Oh God, if only I had sang the songs
that welled and swelled within my timid breast,
if only I had stood to right the wrongs
I have seen - if only my soul could rest.
What can I say to those who wait for me?
I have not lived my life? How can this be?
Autumn Evening
In the ebbing evening of my life,
I'm not troubled by its twists and turns.
I'd not change the most of it.
Perhaps I'd watch more autumn sunsets,
A dying day's quiet majesty.
The stillness of dawn has been my passion,
My passport through the patchwork madness
Of people passing, pressing, preening.
Somehow sunsets did not excite me,
And I am unaccustomed to dying.
Dark Night Deist
Facts at first do not confound me.
Perhaps I think them theories only,
and thus they come quite comfortably
into my moated fort of faith.
Once inside the gate they vacillate,
disease the ordered pace and place
of facts already there, debate
with passion, crowd against tradition.
Simply man, I do not understand
new facts that kick against the traces,
disrespect, transgress the boundaryland
so carefully guarded through the years.
A violent storm splintered Duncan Park,
stole the souls of many children there.
Parents prayed in that evil night's dark,
thanked an inattentive God for mercy.
Down the Curtain
My life is scrambled, out of focus,
Belay this dreadful fracas.
I am not at all amused
To see this somber choir amassed.
You must wait until the image clears.
My God! The music of the spheres!
Hold, hold back the dreadful dark.
I have memories to review and dare
Not cry them out aloud.
I have held myself aloof
And shared with none my deepest fears,
Grown to multitudes throughout the years.
Stay, stay you vulgar veil!
Shall all my pleading be in vain?
Just who holds that cursed rope
And ever faster lets the curtain roll?
Can't you hear? Have you no ears?
So fast, so fast the darkness nears.
Down, down, the curtain down,
Before my act is done.
Blessed the man whose back is turned
Just as the lights are trimmed.
He does not hear the boos or cheers,
Is spared the glory and the tears.
The Race Not Won (or Lost)
I made no plans to visit Earth
Or any other place.
The journey here was hardly worth
The price of such a race.
Did he who fired the starting shot
Forget to set the pace?
His figure is a blurring dot;
I cannot see his face.
Although I may just shed a tear
At autumn's outer gate,
And though I exit it in fear
At my appointed date,
I still will hold my head erect,
Confront whatever waits,
And cite my case as one correct,
Accept what fate dictates.
I can not think I lost or won
A race I did not chose to run.
Late Autumn
Oh lay me down and let me rest;
I've traveled long and very far.
Please. I am tired, so very tired.
My heart and mind and soul
cry out for a quiet and peaceful place.
I shall not ask for more than this.
This journey long I've traveled on
was undertaken willingly.
No man pushed or challenged me
to climb these topless mountains.
But they were there and beckoned me;
like God's own voice, they called to me.
And on and on and on I went.
I've grown so old, so tired, so soon.
Oh lay me down and let me rest
in a quiet and peaceful valley.
Exodus
The wheel of time,
dark night black,
is spinning fast.
Dare we recall
slow bright days
of happiness?
Should we hold on,
dry old fools
with memories?
I think I know.
Damn it all!
I think I know.
Michael's Boat
When you and I were
young
and free,
we saw no clouds.
Warm and gentle showers
came from rainbows.
Violets sprang from untitled soil.
We wore them in our hair
and sang,
"Michael rowed the boat ashore,
hal-le-lu-ja. Michael" -
Michael's boat
was set adrift.
Our hair is short
and gently gray,
without flowers.
We sometimes see
dark clouds.
Take my hand,
walk with me again.
Together we will wear
a field of yellow
daffodils and dance
upon an endless shore,
beneath a golden
rainbow world.
E=MC2
out of the bowel of our Mother Earth
through infinite numbers of primal seed
bereft of wanton chromosomes and genes
you swam with sureness to your other half
mitosing through your Ancient Ancestors
to final form within your mother's womb
a brief respite before the blinding Light
and final loss of earthly innocence
how swiftly Mercury queued the seasons by
you now are grown and i am growing old
by some distorted calendar of Father Time
the quickened years are merely specks in Space
our coalesced cells will scatter in the wind
we'll sing once more among the Elements
Anchored
Tradition haunts my heart like hanging moss,
gray, going no-where,
gliding in a wind
that blows in restless billows,
seeking calm.
Restrained by roots of old
I flail about,
afraid of freedom,
longing to be free -
free from ancient answers I did not seek.
Mahala
She played among the sycamores
and chased the springtime winds.
She swam the sparkling springfed lakes
and danced beneath the stars.
She picked sweet berries from the vines
and shared them with her feathered kin.
She laughed and sang her Summer songs
and dreamed of Running Bear.
She watched the snowgeese winging south
and waved and wished them well.
She braved the long cold winter nights
and waited for another Spring.
In Spring the white man came.
In Spring a white man came.
Mahala's Tears
Beside a cool and sparkling spring,
I paused and knelt to drink.
It quenched my thirst but tasted strange
and held me there to think.
Beyond my image in the spring
a snowcapped mountain loomed,
and trinkling down to bubbling streams
clear water ran where dogwoods bloomed.
Beside the stream a maiden lay
in buckskin skirt and braided hair.
She rose as if to speak to me,
as if she saw me there.
She bowed her head and raised her hands
to reach down through the years,
Mahala, crying all alone,
along the Trail of Tears.
Then all was gone and only I
was left beside the spring.
And yet she came away with me,
Mahala's spirit, softly weeping.
Metaphysics
Should I fail
to wake the morning,
would all its glories cease to be?
Would the songbirds cease their singing,
would the tide rush back to sea?
Would daybreak
hide behind the hill,
would moonbeams rush to waken me?
Then would I
break the binding chains
and in triumph flee
across the dewdrop laden
meadowlands crying
set my golden morning free!
The Sixth Day
Deep shadows creep into the meadowland,
bending at the creek, climbing yonder bank,
then suddenly, like some soundless creature,
engulf and still the last of meadow sounds.
Timid stars peek down into the softness
afraid, perhaps, to stir this splendid calm.
Peace, sweet silent peace, embraces evening.
All is well, it seems to say, all is well.
A firefly is the first to break the spell,
sending secret signals to a lover.
Crickets wake and call out with their chirping
while bullfrogs bass the growing evening choir.
Pale moonbeams peer through ringing hillside trees,
painting all the meadow-world in quiet gold.
Nightlings quickly quiet for just a moment,
then soon resume their heed to nature's call.
And through the night the meadowland is one,
a kingdom cast as though it is one world.
And God is pleased with His fifth day of work.
"It is good." Tired, day six God makes mistakes.
Harmony
I most admire the simple man,
not stupid, mind you.
His thoughts and conversations are
of fishing holes,
of tall oak trees
where squirrels hide in early autumn,
of baseball scores,
homeruns, and RBI'S.
He likes old things
and rowdy jokes -
not vulgar though.
He goes to church occasionally
but not with passion;
his soul was saved long ago
and is as comfortable as overalls.
Time is not important.
He works late or early,
better not at all,
eats whatever and sleeps soundly.
He will die quietly, quickly,
and go to heaven,
up there somewhere.
And that's
that.
First Things First
I cannot see the universe,
and yet they say it's there.
The moon is just an inch away
compared to stars out there.
I should be bothered with such things?
I should be more aware?
Well, damn! I've lost my fool car keys!
Have you seen them anywhere?
Just Thinking
We used to use our heads to think;
we figured things as best we could.
No one was there to tell us how
our best conclusions were not good.
A man was good or he was bad;
a tale was true or one big lie.
All things were black or white when there
was no one asking how or why.
I think I liked it best that way,
when gray was just another color,
when all our thoughts were all our own,
not those of some other fellow.
I think I'll burn my TV set,
and all the radios must go.
I'll cancel all my subscriptions.
I'll tell the newsboy where to go.
I'll sit and think and think some more.
My thoughts will be in black and white.
If you should see me deep in thought,
don't think me strange; I'm thinking right.
Twilight Dawn
Come with me down by the creek,
hold my hand again.
Talk to me of days long gone.
Life was better then.
Sandbars are still there, I'm sure,
crawdad mounds still stand;
cattails line the sloping banks
as they did back then.
Frogs will croak, "Where have you been?"
Butterflies will cry
tears of joy to see us there.
Turtledoves will sigh.
Hold my hand and call me friend,
walk with me again.
Come with me to yesterday,
life was better then.
Call of the Lakes
The Good Lord truly loves a fishing man.
He must, He made an awful lot of us,
and calls us to the lakes each time He can.
On Friday nights we load the family van;
we know quite well our wives put up a fuss.
The Good Lord truly loves a fishing man.
We cannot be a weekend handyman.
This is a fact. There's nothing to discuss.
He calls us to the lakes each time He can.
En route we listen to the weatherman -
fair skies, no wind, clear lake - this is a plus.
Oh how the Good Lord loves a fishing man!
On such peaceful lakes men talk man-to-man.
Although the need may be for men to cuss,
He calls us to the lakes each time He can.
Oh, the fish? It's all a part of His plan,
good fellowship, a walk with nature;
thus the Good Lord truly loves a fishing man.
He calls us to the lakes each time He can.
Images
There is an image I can see
looking strangely back at me
from placid lakes and sparkling springs,
from bubbling brooks and running streams.
It is a most familiar sight
that somehow steals away at night.
Is there a God of daylight hours
who sleeps at night among wild flowers?
A simple man might think he sees
himself reflected with the trees
that sway above him, but I know
my image stays there when I go.
It's waiting there when I return
and begs of me, I think, to learn
where I have been so very long
while he waited there alone.
I've sat there with him many hours
and slept at night among the flowers
to keep his pleasant company,
to feel his loving arms around me.
Humbly I ask you understand,
though I am just a mortal man,
I hear my God in quiet places
and see him best in nature's faces.
Haiku
Purple Martin scouts,
sailing, searching for a home.
Spring rides on their wings.
Spring is in the air.
Winter whistles in the dark,
wonders when to go.
Weeping Willow buds
ride the March wind with delight -
hang on for dear life.
May Fly and Spring dance
quick-step in blustery wind.
Music stops too soon.
Wild geese fly south in
Autumn, returning each Spring -
unmindful of me.
Icicles gleaming
In early morning sunlight,
Winter diamond mine.
Epigram
Composing poetry was much more fun
Before I learned how it wasn't done.
Oh, God, save us from administrators,
Those three piece suited, would-be dictators.
Law is most surely the noblest of schools
To tutor the most unscrupulous fools.
The skillful surgeon sutured my socket.
With like finesse he emptied my pocket.
Contemporary poetry is free,
But please, oh please, don't lay this stuff on me.
There is this thing they call prose poetry,
But prose is prose, so far as I can see.
Long past, bright minds chose teaching as their craft.
Today our teachers come from college chaff.
Our preachers used to save and comfort souls.
Seduction now ranks high among their goals.
The difference, they say, in God and doctor
is this: God does not fancy he's doctor.
Women and men are the same in essence?
But, ah, how delightful the difference!
Dawning Thought
I think I had a thought today
over coffee,
as dawn displaced the dark -
a fleeting ghostly solitary thing
without wings to whirl about
assembling bits of memories
to give it birth.
I can't recall
nor yet forget
the seedling thought;
it was, I think, worthy to be born.
But a Redbird caught my eye
just as the dendrite sparked
and sputtered into nothingness,
and the Redbird flew away.
Paradise
(Sestina)
So little can you know my native land,
a kind and simple, peaceful, caring world
where time was measured by the sun and moon,
where seasons flowed in perfect harmony.
I cannot take you there, I can't go back.
But close your eyes and dream of paradise.
The sun rose bright and warm in paradise
and cast its healing rays throughout the land.
Bluebirds danced on fence posts and flitted back
and forth with songs that brightened all the world.
Mockingbird and Meadow Lark sang harmony
and whippoorwills and Owls sang to the moon.
The seed were sown by phases of the moon,
and in their time emerged to paradise.
Warm and gentle rain fell in harmony
with soft sunlight to stir this noble land,
this holy land, this place in all God's world
where neither man nor God had turned his back.
With simple humble pride, man bent his back,
in labor from sunrise until the moon
slipped slowly to another waiting world.
Then tired but pleased he slept in paradise
and dreamed of his own mellow meadow land,
and of his world in blissful harmony.
There is no dearer dream than harmony,
no sweeter thought than that of going back
to feel again and smell the fertile land,
to walk beneath a full and mellow moon,
to find yourself again in paradise,
a paradise that was your only world.
I wish you could have seen my childhood world,
I wish you could have known its harmony.
It was indeed a wondrous paradise.
If only you and I could once go back
and stay for just the span of one full moon,
if only we could, go back to the land ---
Oh God of moon and stars and other worlds,
oh God of harmony and paradise,
please take us back again, back to the land.
My Land - Mississippi
This land, this blessed land of sandy loam,
of hills and hollows, green clover meadows,
this land of mighty oaks and towering pines,
where sparkling springs and bubbling streams abound -
this is my land, the land of my fathers.
My Choctaw forebears rose from this good land,
fished its sparkling waters, prayed upon the hills,
chanting songs of thanks to kindred Spirits,
keepers of this sacred land of promise.
This is my land, the land of my fathers.
This land, enriched by blood and tears in years
long gone, sings out loud and clear the songs of
proud and noble sons and daughters, hunters,
farmers, warriors, soldiers - freedom lovers.
This is my land, the land of my fathers.
I will go into the hills with reverence,
speak softly to the Spirits dwelling there
and ask their blessings on this special land,
that They preserve it so my children say -
this is my land, the land of my fathers.
Legacy
I wish for you the warmth of Spring,
the quiet of gentle rain.
I wish you still and star-filled nights,
and songs of nightingales.
I wish you smooth and tranquil roads,
through softly rolling hills.
I wish you strolls down peaceful lanes
by clear and bubbling streams.
I wish you valleys filled with flowers
and ringed by singing trees.
I wish you love and joy and peace.
I wish you happy memories.
|
Ray
Nail's Mailbox