Late Spring Snow

I am not happy when I feel winter is gone and spring finally arrives, and a late spring snowstorm starts to fall.  Oh well.

                                In
                                    one
                                           straight
                                                         path,
                                slanted
                                      slightly
                                             north
                                                          a
                                 late
                                        spring
                                             snow
                                                           falls.
                                  I
                                        foolishly
                                                    deny
                                                            that

                                  I
                                               am
                                                     captivated
                                                                    by
                                  its
                                                obvious
                                                      natural
                                                                   beauty.
                               

Ungiven Answer

History has been a fascinating subject for me, and often causes my imagination to mix with the reality of the past.  This poem shows this:


                                 The open fields of Maine
                                      hold the secrets that
                                          that long ago were there for
                                               all to see.
                                 The children ran and played
                                      where new green grass
                                           and flowers now grow
                                               undisturbed.
                                  An old man slowly walks
                                        down a worn path
                                            to a destination only
                                                known by him.
                                  Trees surrounding the path
                                         guard with open eyes
                                             peering through the green
                                                 leaves of summer.
                                   A call from a memory
                                          echoes across the
                                             open field, and waits
                                                  for an ungiven answer.

The Shelter

When I was a child there was this old cabin in the woods near where I lived.  It may have once been a hunting cabin, but was unused now except for a shelter from a storm that caught me before I made it home,


                         I waited for the storm to end.
                         The cabin remained dry, but
                         but cold and damp feeling.
                         The wind rattled the windows
                         that desperately needed putty
                         to make them tighter.
                         Shivering, I peered through
                         the cobwebbed smeared panes,
                         and observed a light mist
                         that left enough water to allow
                         for dripping from the leaves.
                        Sitting in an ancient rocker,
                        I decided to wait for a few
                        streaks of sunlight, before I
                        would start for home.
                         

Alzheimers Cruelty

My Aunt Edna Young was one of the dearest people I have ever known and loved.  The cruel hand of Alzheimers touched her deeply before she died.  I wrote this poem for her:

                                                  She could sense my love,
                                                     but her mind no longer
                                                        allowed her to remember me.
                                                  I'd ask her if I could
                                                      give her a hug because
                                                         I didn't want to frighten her.
                                                  I'd gently kiss the top
                                                      of her head, hoping that
                                                         my love would penetrate
                                                  the fog clouding her mind,
                                                       and trapping memories
                                                          that could be so comforting,
                                                  if they could only escape.
                                                       She'd speak, and tears
                                                           would fall because she    
                                                   wanted so desperately to be
                                                        like she once was.
                                                             Life's cruel hands of fate
                                                    had no  sympathy as it
                                                        robbed her at a time
                                                             when it was her
                                                    turn to receive from those
                                                          to whom she had
                                                              given so much.              

Wild Goats in Summer Sun

     I have read many nature books, and my sympathetic nature goes out to fellow creatures that I share this world with.  This poem is for them:



                              Under a sky
                                of azure blue                         
                              the weary
                                mountain goats
                              continued their
                                trek across
                              peaks filed down
                                by the rasps
                              of winter snows
                                 and melting ice.
                                                   
                              The summer sun
                                 was scorching--
                               no relief came
                                  from melted snow
                               or ice.  It had
                                  evaporated long ago.
                               Finding an overhanging
                                   ridge brought some relief
                               from sun, but not thirst.

Old Chair

My mind races back to 40 years ago waitng for my oldest daughter to be born, and the rocking chair that was a gift for our wedding.



                                                     Old chair
                                                     guarding the bay window,
                                                     I remember
                                                     when you were new--
                                                     a present
                                                     given to the newlyweds.
                                                     You held them both
                                                     cradled together,
                                                     waiting for
                                                     the baby to arrive.
                                                     You rocked
                                                     and lulled the infant
                                                     to sleep.
                                                     After many faithful years,
                                                     you remain
                                                     scratched, but still loved--
                                                     Old Chair.

HIis Stories ( Only Told When Asked For)

Grampa  Les was indeed a humble man. but how I loved to hear his (true) stories when I would ask or beg him to tell me.  This poem came from this.


                                       He didn't need or want
                                         to seek out anyone to
                                           tell his stories to.
                                        But if someone would ask,
                                          his life would unfold
                                            in such a manner
                                        that his listeners would be
                                          completely captivated.
                                             I'd ask him for stories
                                         as he did his daily chores---
                                           The boy watching a moose
                                             from the hayloft
                                         where  he had sought refuge
                                            from the charging menace.
                                               Then there was the young man
                                          saving his family home
                                             by beating down grassfire flames
                                                 with wet burlap bags---
                                           I never grew tired of
                                              hearing them, even when
                                                  his mind was only
                                           strong enough
                                               to set
                                                    on repeat.
                                         
                                         

Promise?

When I was younger, my parents had a neighbor who I honestly believe was a "mooch", but Mother was always kind
to her, anyway.




                                                  She comes
                                                                        again
                                                                                    using
                                                   the same              
                                                                        old
                                                                                    promise
                                                   that she'll
                                                                        go
                                                                                    shopping
                                                    next Thursday,
                                                                        but
                                                                                     she
                                                    has no
                                                                        intention
                                                                                      of
                                                    returning that
                                                                        borrowed
                                                                                      can
                                                    of peas.

Fall-------Pickle time

One of my fondest memories from childhood was coming home from school in early September, anf Mother would be making pickles.  This poem was published in the Bangor Daily News.


                                        After school in fall
                                          was usually a
                                            pickling fragrance time.
                                         Mother made relish
                                          and pickles, both
                                             sweet and sour.
                                          It was the combination
                                            of vinegar and spices
                                               creating the smell
                                          that ushered in the season.
                                             There were onions
                                                to be peeled,
                                           and the paperey skins
                                              of garlic to be removed.
                                                I'd help by slicing
                                            cucumbers, or squeezing
                                              small ones into jars
                                                 with a head of dill,
                                            and a bit of red pepper.
                                              After a mixture of hot
                                                 vinegar and salt was added,
                                            each jar was capped. 
                                                We then waited for the
                                                      tell--tale pop that
                                            sealed them before they
                                                  could be stored
                                                      for winter. 

Attempted Dialogue

Many therapist tell you to attempt a dialogue when both of you are calm and able to reason.  I feel this poem says it all.


                Coming from
                                     center Earth,
                                                         the thought
                 needed to
                                     be cooled
                                                         enough to
                 be understood.
                                     Only then
                                                         an attempt
                 would be
                                     made again
                                                         to continue
                 our dialogue
                                     without danger
                                                        from an
                 erupting volcano.

The Wolf

I love wolves from the picture by my desk at PCSS, to hats, to sweatshirts, and books I have read.  This poems will tell you about one such wolf::

                                                                                   

                                                             Resting on a bank of snow,
                                                                The wolf allows his yellow stream
                                                                    To flow down the back side
                                                             of the bank until it seeps into
                                                                 The snow on the ground.
                                                                     He softly purrs a growl,
                                                             Hoping some prey will
                                                                  happen by to supply his breakfast.
                                                                      A light snow begins to fall
                                                             as he rests his eyes for a moment.
                                                                  Traveling on to a new spot,
                                                                       He waits there for another chance.
                                                                    

The Rooms of My Mind

Some of my dreams are strange, but in an odd way...comforting.



                                                    The rooms beyond
                                                      the attic did not
                                                        exist in my waking
                                                     hours, but at
                                                       night, the attic
                                                         opened up to
                                                     these apartment
                                                       sized rooms.
                                                         I loved the
                                                      vacancy of them.
                                                         Only I could
                                                           go in there,
                                                      yet, when daylight
                                                         came, I was back
                                                            alone in  my room.                                             

Chest of Memories

I sometime feel that things I need to remember get lost or forgotten.  I want to try and sort out the important things to remember, and let unimportant things slip in to oblivion.  A poem to support this:




                                                  Today I must start to create memories.                          
                                                  The chest holding these special moments
                                                   is never filled up.
                                                   Some of these are spoiled, and
                                                   perhaps should be thrown away.
                                                   There are also those that have
                                                   become cold or distorted by time.
                                                   Cleaning out the chest,
                                                   hopefully, will prevent mold from
                                                   spreading to those that are fresh,
                                                   and well  worth keeping.
                                                   Yes, today I will make some more,
                                                   hoping to find that they do not
                                                   cover any that are in the chest.
                                                   Hoping, too,  that these I make today
                                                   will supply me comfort until
                                                    I want to make some more.
                                                    

My Boys and Girls ( Baby sitting )

 Part of my college expenses were earned as I used to babysit when I was in high school.  The following poem tells of that
experience:

 
                                              The three boys
                                                were actually easier
                                                    than the girls I cared for.
                                               The youngest boy made
                                                 made me laugh with his
                                                       "bugeeta" bites, and
                                                his "bweeding" scratches.
                                                  The older two would
                                                         climb trees to avoid
                                                 naptime or  taking a bath.
                                                   I still loved all three
                                                         equally.
                                                 The girls had a father who
                                                   had wanted sons, and he
                                                          let me take over his
                                                  fatherly duties.
                                                    The youngest was a baby
                                                          demanding care, but                 
                                                  too many times left
                                                     unattended  until I arrived,
                                                           and would try to
                                                  make up for all that
                                                      was left undone
                                                            during the day.
                                                                                                                                                     

Our Eyes

It is sad how oftentimes when we grow older, we lose the magic we saw in things when we were children. This poem speaks to that.  It is one of the longer poems that I have written.

                                              Her eyes saw the piglet
                                              with curled tail and shrill squeal,
                                              crowding its way in to get
                                              its share of the old sow's milk.
                                              My eyes saw twenty-five dollars
                                              or meals provided when the
                                              cold months of winter made it
                                              difficult to let the land supply.
                                              Her eyes saw the shadows
                                              crawling spider--like across
                                              Her bedroom wall, bringing
                                              with them every hideous monster
                                              her mind could construct.
                                              My eyes saw the coming of
                                              evening, when I could rest from
                                              the labors of the day--warm
                                              sleep--bringing shadows caressing
                                              my mind and wiping away worries.
                                              Her eyes saw the yellow crowns of dandelions
                                              begging her to make a bouquet which  would
                                              would be destined to become a wilted mass
                                              of blooms lying on the bulkhead
                                              of the cellar.
                                              My eyes saw the weeds that were
                                              choking out the green grass of my lawn--
                                              an enemy bent on destroying--
                                              worthless plants disguised
                                              in golden allure.
                                             Her eyes saw the snowflakes
                                             as crystals of magic
                                             promising a snowman, and
                                             playing a tune that only a
                                            child can truly understand.
                                            My eyes  saw the coldness
                                            of a snowplowing bill, or
                                            the backache from lifting
                                            mounds of the horrid white stuff.
                                            Her eyes saw the rainbow
                                            arching across the gray sky,
                                            framed by summer leaves and
                                            drops of rain.
                                            My eyes saw this, too,
                                            and, at last, our eyes had met.