a wonderful rain
as the mist behind sun dries
enemies of peace
so …as the song goes
why do our heads hang so low
down in a valley
rising with a Love
as spring does resurrection
“We shall overcome”.
let’s get up with Joy
and show them our example
life goes back and forth
Tags: Existenlism, http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, Notes Found On The Refrigerator, Zen
“Over and over and over you begin.
Drop, fall, falling and fall
In love again— as the seasons pass,
See your hearts reflection
Looking through the window
One elbow on the windowsill.”
You grew from a seed, fallen from an oak. In your fall
You were embraced in the womb of bright-colored fallen leaves
—quilted for the comfort of winter
—made just for you.
It is nature’s well-attended consummation.
Cleansed by snow, baptized in spring rain,
Encouraged by the earth beneath you,
The sun of life above you—
You grew with patience, understanding, and perseverance.
Now, having watched all seeds grow: let me fall again
—in age with roots entwined and with fallen branches
To nourish you, with patience, understanding, and perseverance
—to build your own home in harmony with nature’s beautiful quilt,
As you drop, fall, falling, and then fall in love again
Over and over and over, you begin.
Tags: Children, http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, Pine Cone Diaries, Wedding
Wild, yet not hurried
Like a rose blooms;
Patiently above the ground.
Their life packaged in wonder,
Discover, what never was buried
Beneath the sun or the light of the moon;
Excited each time something is found.
Nothing is forgotten in their pockets,
Understanding nothing is left behind.
Tags: Father's day, Growing up, http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, http://withrealtoads.blogspot.se/, Notes Found On The Refrigerator
Papa is in the garden
Weedin’ pullin’ sweat drippin’
Momma told me to “stop playin’
And go git him some water.”
I’m a big boy now,
Time to stop playing soldier
And help out with the growin’.
Grandpas ‘s in a wheelchair,
Grandma ‘s rockin’,
Momma ‘s peelin’ potatoes,
And baby cousin sleepin’.
Time to stop playin’ soldier
And help out with the growin’.
Well is gittin’ dry,
Hard to keep pumpin’.
Big brother? died in Viet Nam.
Big sister? died in a country unknown.
Time for me to stop playin’ soldier
And help out with what’s bein’ grown.
Momma told me to “stop playin’,
Go get me some water too,
Don’t need you next,
to be leavin’ me alone.”
Tags: http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, http://withrealtoads.blogspot.se/, Mother's Day 2015
As I was younger, the lawn looked beautiful
I worked hard. Pushing
The spacious green against the woods
Accented by the fresh scent
Of cut grass
I would go to the edge
Look into the woods
Step in, walk a bit
To enjoy the view.
Especially looking through
The trees passed the lawn
Leading to our home
With the flowers of youth.
As I get older, I do less.
The trees are creeping
In along with
They’re taking over the lawn,
Making it easier
Though, to take my walk
To the edge of the woods,
To step in and sit with
Looking past the small lawn
Feeling like a dandelion rose
Seeing an empty house
Having flowered and gone
Tags: Dandelion Rose :-), http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, Sweet Melancholy~
~~Baked beans in the pot simmering with salt pork, hot dogs browning in a small amount of butter, brown bread wrapped in aluminum foil nested by the bean pot warming from the oven baking two very large pans of macaroni and cheese, all slowly drifting filling the house with the scent of a familiar night. The matriarch, still re-arranging Christmas decorations as the children and family drop in, is shuffled off with hugs and greetings. They shed coats for plates, salt and pepper, bread and butter, and toast the cusp of a seasons’ joy and the beginning of a new year.~~
The morning dishes, put away washed and towel dried
by the grand children, who, one by one drifted in last night.
Grandpa pegs out last, losing his second cribbage game
to a thirteen-year-old; “smart young fella with numbers”.
Smiling, the boy gets up and pushes his chair up against the table
with a soft kick, wishes his senior “better luck next year
if he can hold on and survive that long,”
patting the deck of cards unknowingly cryptic.
More family arrives with homemade dishes and table ornaments
some placed gifts, for those relatives unseen on Christmas,
under the small well-lit tree, that grandpa boasts
“was negotiated down to ten dollars by grandma.”
New born, wrapped in the arms of entering parents,
begs to be held, cooing for first salutations,
especially those who live “very” far,
but, whose love, promising the child,
will always live nearby.
No need for gifts, they all arrived.
Rocking chair creaking,
Grandfather, after meeting with the family
waits his turn.
(Having lost his job last week
with his confidence “hat in hand”,
understanding his limited options
and where his life now stands).
Looking around the house, he cracks a smile
remembering his prime, rocking his last child;
singing quietly with the innocence
of purity in the comfort of his lullaby.
The mill is officially closing at the end of this month.
He picks up the child from sleeping slipping arms
and starts to hum softly.
The mill whistle shrieks’ a long, long, blast
telling him that the fourth shift ghosts were punching in.
It was eleven-thirty, December 31, the last shift.
His severance check went into savings this Christmas;
his skills outsourced, betrayed by an economy
for a life diminished.
Tags: Baked beans, http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, Made in the USA, New Year, Shrinking Main Street