YESTERDAY AND TOMORROW

This poem was written shortly before
my retirement.  I am reminded of the
frantic pace of my life at that time, and
grateful I have reached the age to savor.
Submitted to Poets United Poetry Pantry #368
August 27, 2017

As I speed along the freeway
in the usual morning race,
my thoughts turn back to other times
when life had a slower pace...
when there was time for dreaming
and wriggling my toes in the mud,
and close examination
of each leaf, and flower and bud;
for listening to autumn breezes
as they rustled through fields of grain;
and for smelling the wonderful fresh bouquet
of a late Spring evening rain;
for idling under a shade tree
when no one knew where I was
and studying the intricate mechanics
of what makes bumblebees buzz;
for listening to trills of songbirds
as they flitted from tree to tree;
for looking for four-leaf clovers
in grass like a great, green sea.

It seems now my days are so busy
these pleasures are things of the past
I try to find time for dreaming,
but the time hurries by too fast.
I think of the time when I'm older,
and time on my hands again,
how I'll treasure these special moments
much moreso than I did then.
God in his infinite wisdom
has bestowed a very great favor
What in youth we take for granted
In age we will have time to savor.

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*Photo is my digital art, image credit
to Jesse Wilcox Smith

GOOD MORNING, WORLD

Idle thoughts on a new day and the
sights, scents and sounds of Nature.
Submitted to Poets United Midweek Motif
August 23, 2017

Awakening to the sound of gentle rolling
thunder and the patter of raindrops on
the leaves of the snowball bush outside
my bedroom, a wisp of air carries the
scent of new rain through my open window
and I  inhale deeply of its fragrance.  
The trees beside nearby Eagle Creek
resonate with the morning gathering of crows. 
I am always amused at their agenda.  First
a single voice addresses the group, then there’s
a great cacophony as everyone speaks at
once, much like a meeting of  the ladies’
auxiliary when they discuss a new project. 
Then they all fly away, as if having received
their daily assignments. Nature at work. Our
boy cat meanders into my  room to assure
himself I live to fight another  day, then wanders
off to get the rest of the household in order so
he can settle down  for his morning nap.  Good
morning, world!  Thank you, Lord, for granting
me yet another day.

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MISSISSIPPI CRUISE

It's Haibun/Haiku Monday, and we're asked
to write about a memorable summer vacation.
Submitted to dVerse
August 21, 2017

One of my favorite trips was a cruise on the mighty Mississippi with friends.  We drove from Indianapolis to LeClaire, Illinois, where we boarded the little Riverboat Starlight for our two-day cruise.  Along the way we saw the huge barge trains of 15 (3 abreast and 5 long) pushed along by the powerful little tugs.  Northbound trains carried coal to the nuclear power plant, southbound trains carried grain.  We learned an empty barge sits 12 feet above water level, but, when loaded, 9 feet submerge.  Who knew? We passed what was left of the little village of Comanche which was destroyed in a powerful tornado in 1908, said to be the greatest natural disaster in the states.  Debris from this storm was found 90 miles away in the city of Peoria, Illinois, and 232 perished, many never found and presumed to be swept away in the Mississippi.  

The Starlight followed a circuitous route marked by red buoys on the right and green on the left.  We went through the locks, which are a fascinating process of changing water levels.  The Mississippi is majestic, at times so wide it seemed to be a lake.  We were entertained along the way by a folk singer and a calliopist and arrived at our destination of Galena, Illinois, ready for a day shopping in that historic little town, once a busy lead mining center.  It is said to be possible to drive underground from Galena to Wisconsin, so extensive are the tunnels that remain.   After a wonderful day of shopping and restful evening at the Chestnut Resort, we reboarded the Starlight for our return trip to LeClaire.  On our return trip, we passed the largest river cruise ship, American Queen, which dwarfed our little Starlight.  She greeted us with a mighty blast of her  foghorn, and our little Starlight responded with its calliope.  We arrived safely back at LeClaire, with a new appreciation for the Mississippi, which rises from northern Minnesota and meanders southward to the Gulf of Mexico at New Orleans.   It was a memorable trip.

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Mississippi lore
A summer magic byway
With stories to tell

13 WAYS OF LOOKING AT A ROCK

In the spirit of Wallace Stevens’
“13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird”,
I’ve taken a look at famous rocks.
Submitted to Poets United Poetry Pantry #367
August 20, 2017

Ancient Phoenician landmark
Pillar of Hercules
Rock of Gibraltar

Aboriginal sacred site
Uluru, red behemoth
in Australia’s outback

Giant head on Easter Island
standing silently in mystery
through the centuries

Endless task of Sisyphus
pushed onto the hilltop
falling again to valley floor

Stone of Blarney
kissed by many
famous bit of Irish lore

Plymouth Rock beside the shore
welcome sight to Pilgrims
arriving to new land

Imposing Devil’s Tower
thrusting upward
from Wyoming’s vast expanse

Signature Rock on westward trail
where steadfast pioneers
left their marks for history

Rosetta stone
that cracked the code
of Egypt’s ancient hieroglyphs

Rushmore’s rock of faces
countenances of history
worn smooth by wind and rain

Part of Stonehenge Circle
holding fast the secrets
of ancient druids

Haystack Rock of Oregon
legacy of ancient lava
sentinel at Pacific shore

Faithful voices raised in chorus
“On Christ, the solid rock I stand
All other ground is sinking sand
All other ground is sinking sand.”

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*Photo is my own digital art.

THE LAST TIME

It’s Meet the Bar at dVerse, and Bjorn has
asked us to write a sonnet without rhyme, without
meter …a volta (two quatrains and two tercets)..
ala Pablo Nuerda.
Submitted to dVerse Meet the Bar
August 17, 2017
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The pages of life’s calendar turn inexorably onward
and I find the phrase “the last time” plays often in
my mind.   A dear one passes into the Great Perhaps
and my thoughts turn to our last words to each other.

It is easy to suffer some minor offense, stuff it in our
backpack and carry it with us.  How much lighter our
backpack if we take the time to make peace, and know
each night, if it’s our last, we’ve left no words unsaid.

Life unfolds by startling circumstance that sometimes plunders
opportunities to make our “last times” what we  might wish
them to be, and we find ourselves left full of words.

If  we approach each instance as “the last time“, how different
our demeanor, whether it’s a kind word or simply taking
the time to notice a sunrise, a sunset, a shower, or a birdsong.

FINAL JOURNEY

Time for Midweek Motif at Poets United
and we’re asked to feature the word Flood.
Submitted to Midweek Motif
August 16, 2017

When I was a child, there was a burbling little creek a mile or so from our farm.  It was  the kind of stream that meandered through the meadows, shallow enough that one could wade across it at any point.  But, in the Spring heavy rains, it became a raging torrent, quickly rising beyond its banks, flooding fields and galloping on its way south, where it eventually emptied into the Mississippi River and thence into the Gulf of Mexico and ultimately into the Atlantic Ocean.   Someone once wrote “All the waters of the world are one”, and so I think perhaps a flooding rain drains from the fields into the ditches, into the rivulets, into the streams, into the creeks and into the rivers, then rushes to the ocean, where moisture is drawn up into the clouds until their fat bellies are filled with rain and the cycle repeats itself.  The power of floods is the stuff of legends.  Many years ago, when working on family history, I discovered that the cemetery where many of my ancestors were buried was swept away by massive flooding of the Mississippi.   They were hardy pioneers who made their way from Virginia to Kentucky and into Indiana.  Strange to think that, dressed in their funeral finery, they took yet another journey to heaven knows where. 

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Photo is my own surreal
digital art creation.

MANO A MANO

This week’s Quadrille #38 is to feature
a form of the word DREAM in exactly
44 words.   I don’t usually write 
political rants, but one seemed due.
Submitted to dVerse
August 14, 2017


The world dreams in fear and trembling
as two deranged world leaders
who drank from the poison well of power  
engage in a juvenile game of mano a mano,
their missiles phallic symbols of their
insecurities in their game of “mine’s
bigger than yours.”

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