Forsythia and Dandelion

I have always loved seeing the springtime forsythias as I know spring has really arrived, but I had to write this poem after realizing I may not be the bright forsythia, but I can let my light shine much as the lowly dandelion blossom does.

                    I saw the yellow
                            of the forsythia
                    lighting up the green
                             of my lawn.
                     My eyes were drawn
                              suddenly to a little
                     dandelion blossom trying
                               desperately to compete
                      with the yellow splendor above.
                                Knowing it's really a
                      flower composed of many
                                flowers, I gave it
                      words of encouragement.
                                After all, it had
                      been strong enough to
                               draw my eyes away
                      from the golden
                                splendor above.

For Decano Arno

At  the beginning of June, we had a tragic drowning accident in our home town.  I wrote this poem to show my support of the family:

          Summer hadn't really started,
            but spring was fading away and
              surrendering to warmer days causing
          the once ice covered river to become
              a rushing, but an inviting swimming area
                to those brave enough to be the first
          of the season to tackle the deep and cold
               waters the river had to offer.
                  Youth, in its unending bravery, and its
            "It  never could happen to me." attitude
                 enticed the young people to conquer summer's
                    first of many challenges.
              The result was tragic for a seventeen year
                  old young man who in his attempt to
                     save the life of a friend in trouble, lost
               his own life, for the river would not be denied.
                   A young mother, a twin brother and a
                      grateful town can only now cherish the
               memories that Decano left behind.

Substitute Grandfather

My youngest child is my only boy, and although they loved him, his sisters didn't always have time to spend with him.  I wrote this poem for my son.

                                          He loved to sit
                                             on the old man's
                                          front steps where
                                             he could see across
                                          the endless prairie,
                                             or paddle forward
                                          on a sea where
                                             white caps rose
                                          above the blue-green.
                                              Some days the old
                                          man would join
                                               him to exchange
                                          stories about the
                                               past.  Trails of
                                          dust coming from
                                               dump truck buffaloes
                                          would surround them.
                                               Then the wind
                                           would rise, and he
                                                would be called home
                                            before the storm began.
                                         

The Tears We May Have Caused

 

          If we could count the tears
            that may have fallen because
             we didn't take time to think of the one
                                                          we ignored..
           If each one were worth
             a penny, we might never have
                to face financial insufficiency
                                                     ever again.
           Sometimes we speak in anger,
              But too many times we race forward,
                  not thinking about our words and
                                                      the sting
            that causes the tears to fall uncomforted.
                How sad to wait until we stand by
                  a coffin to realize these unchecked
                                                        words
            Had many times caused those eyes, now
                closed in eternal, restful peace, to shed    
                   tears because we had selfishly allowed
                                                           our simple
               needs to go our own way to outweigh the
                 needs that had caused those painful
                    tears of the ignored one to fall.                                                         
                                                                       

The Web

This poem explains itself, but I still wanted to include it in my blog:


                    Each day
                                  brought
                    no word
                                  from
                    her long
                                  lost
                    friend, but
                                  still
                    hope held
                                  like
                    the fly
                                  trapped
                    and wrapped
                                  by
                    the web
                                  of
                    the spider
                                  in
                    the corner.
                                  Only
                   when the
                                  spider
                   would move
                                  would all
                   this be
                                  resolved.

Wendall

This poem just came to me out of the blue.  Sometimes I like these poems the best:

                               He didn't wait for the child
                                   to ask him one more time
                                     to tell the story of
                               Wendall.
                                     The story bored him, even
                                       though he told it  himself.
                                         So taking his keys in his
                                hand,
                                    he followed the familiar
                                        path to where he had
                                           buried Wendall many years
                                 ago.
                                      Yes, he now planned
                                          to tell the story
                                               of the boy to
                                  Wendall.

Storm on the Way

  I wrote this after we had spent the evening before in a horrendous thunderstorm.


                                   I knew
                                              the window
                                                               would be
                                    partially open,
                                              even though
                                                                the thunder
                                   was beginning
                                              to roll,
                                                               and lightening
                                   was flashing
                                               its pictures
                                                               for an
                                   album that
                                              only a few
                                                               would be
                                   privileged
                                              to see.
                                                               After a
                                  winter of
                                              stale air,
                                                               and an
                                   odor of
                                              lost socks,
                                                               the incoming
                                   raindrops would
                                              be welcomed
                                                               with the
                                   fresh air.