Harvest Moon

The moon outside my home has been so splendidly bright and round the few nights, I just had to write about it.

                    Last night
                          was the harvest
                                                  moon.
                     It shined
                           ever so brightly
                                                  that
                      nothing could
                            be hidden from
                                                  view.
                       Even I
                            was aware that
                                                   a
                       reflection would
                            not last forever,               
                                                   although
                       the moon
                            said differently.

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.

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.
                               

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.

Teddy Bears and Neckties.

I started my necktie collection when I started teaching.  I have over 100 of them now.  I started my teddy bear collection after I was married 42 years ago.  I have quite a few now. 



                                                            Unable
                                                                       to sleep,
                                                                                    but
                                                             too tired
                                                                       to get
                                                                                      up,
                                                             I wait
                                                                      in the
                                                                                sanctity
                                                            of
                                                                      teddy bears
                                                                                        and
                                                            neckties,
                                                                     wondering
                                                                                        what
                                                            morning
                                                                     will
                                                                                   bring..

MIsty Day

Well, I'm back to my unrhymed poetry.  I've got a whole packet of rhymed poetry.  When I find it, I'll probably add a few more.  Until then---------



                                                      I waited for the storm to end.
                                                      The cabin  remained dry, but
                                                      cold and damp feeling.
                                                      The wind rattled the old windows,
                                                      that desperately needed putty
                                                      to make them tighter.
                                                      Shivering, I peered through
                                                      the cob-webbed 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.

Fish Truck

My Grammy Young had her groceries delivered and there were other salesmen that would supply things, like milk, bakery products etc.  I remember these, but what I remembered most was the fish truck:

                         Mr. Finson usually came
                            every Thursday.
                         The back of his paneled truck
                            held ice and fish.
                         When Grammy felt up to it,
                             she'd shop---
                          Buying enough haddock
                              for a chowder.
                          The green peeling paint
                              on the outside
                           gave way to a neat, clean
                               inside, smelling
                           like a hospital disinfectant.
                               As Grammy grew older,                       
                           and I became more responssible,
                                I got to choose the fish.
                           The old man would smile
                                as he counted the money,
                           because Grammy always
                                gave me the exact amount.
                           Time's great eraser leaves only
                                 faded memories,
                            that always become sharper
                                 whenever I smell the aroma
                            of homemade fish chowder.