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.