Poem: I Don’t Recall
I DON’T RECALL
I don’t recall
when I first fell
for fall,
too young to know
what seasons were,
or the reasons the leaves
fell to the ground
peppering the lawn
with the colors of dawn,
I sensed the change
in the air, in the trees,
in the quickening step of folks
who smiled into the light,
their sheer delight
alive in their eyes,
senses on high alert,
scents imbued
with spiced goodness,
cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves,
sprinkled with abandon
in cider, pies, donuts,
coffee, tea,
saturated the air
with a rare effusive gift,
and I, a child,
accepted the gift
knowing even then
that reason
could not explain
the magical
wonders of the season;
no wonder I fell for fall.
Poem: We Don’t Control Much
WE DON’T CONTROL MUCH
We don’t control much,
it’s the truth, my dear friends,
what we do with that fact,
well, it all just depends,
we can yell, moan and groan
when we have a bad day,
or begin to lose heart
as our nerves start to fray,
we can say it’s unfair,
that bad things occur,
that it’s tough to get through
all the things we endure,
yet, the power to deal
with the worry and strife,
the power is ours
to take back our life,
so, here’s what we’ll do,
we may have to change,
but nothing too tough,
just a slight rearrange,
we control how we think,
how we feel and react,
we can change all of that,
and that is a fact,
like the mood that we bring,
the song that we sing,
the way that we think
about every small thing,
it’s in our control
to smile or frown,
to own how we feel,
to be up or be down,
we don’t control much,
it’s the truth my dear friends,
what we do with that fact,
well, it all just depends.
Poem: The Capacity to Love
Human beings
have the
capacity
to cause great harm
in the name
of religions,
ideologies,
borders and
resources,
forgetting that
our greatest
resource
is our
capacity
to love.
Scenes from my Bike – Holmes County, Ohio
Scenes from my Bike – Holmes County, Ohio
Bicycling on the roads of Homes County, Ohio, one encounters beauty at every turn of the road. Verdant pastures, sheep grazing, cows lying in the fields, and horses tending their newborn foals. Time slows down. There is no hurry here. An Amish farmer harvests hay the old-fashioned way. Pulled behind his horses the task is done while the sun streams down on his worn straw hat and the sweat glistens in his beard. Birds follow behind, finding a feast of insects in the wake of the plow. All things co-exist in a natural way. Each and every day, it is done the same way. Riding by a home, I spy a boy pulling his sister in a wagon. Round the barn they go. For all they know there is no other play more grand to be had in this world. I wonder at their lives. They look up as I ride by and wonder at me and why I ride the hills with no task at hand except to visit this tranquil land where hills wind toward a ridge, quiet shadows cool the summer heat and the silence cools my busy thoughts. The sound of horses’ hooves clip-clopping on the pavement comes from behind. Such a sight to behold as the Amish mother and her two children ride past in their buggy. I wave and call out a greeting and am pleased to get a smile in reply. We gaze eye to eye. She continues on her way on a road she shares with trucks and cars and bikes, some impatient at the delay in their hurried lives. But somehow they all survive and go about their separate lives. The mother goes home and hangs her clothes on the line to dry. They blow softly ‘neath a patchwork sky. She weeds the garden, cans tomatoes, bakes a pie, cooks the evening meal, mends the clothes, then gets on her knees and thanks the Lord for another day of his grace. I ride past perfect rows of corn, sunflowers that reach for the sky and wonder why it is I who rides the bike and the Amish who till the fields. I wonder why, yet am thankful they exist as a reminder that slowing down; however it is found, is a worthy endeavor. As I coast down the final hill, I hear a hawk cry in the woods and a woodpecker busy in the trees and know the bike has brought me to a place where my soul will be refreshed and the simplicity I seek will be found.
Thank you to Buckeye Country Roads for organizing a fabulous bicycle tour through Holmes County!
In addition to the beautiful scenery, it was a delight to meet the other riders for the week. Such lovely people one and all!
Poem: Majestic Monarchs
Majestic Monarchs
Stained glass beauties
on paper thin wings,
fragile yet strong,
migrating across land and sea,
2000 miles
to Mexico’s highlands,
so much stands in their way,
heat, predators,
heavy rainstorms, shifting winds;
they fly when conditions are good,
seeking shelter when threatened,
never deterred from their goal,
booking a one way ticket to
their personal paradise,
where majestic tall trees
call their names,
some believe butterflies
are the spirits
of Mexican ancestors;
souls of departed loved ones
returning home,
I believe they are a
a vivid reminder of the
fragility of life,
the resilience of the spirit,
and the mysteries that abound in the universe,
there is much to learn from the majestic monarchs,
stained glass beauties
on paper thin wings.
Poem: Time With Her Son
TIME WITH HER SON
They walk the aisles of Kroger,
she steering the cart,
emboldened by the sturdy handle,
the steady wheels,
to stand a little straighter,
walk a bit quicker,
her grown son by her side,
reaching for coffee, oatmeal, eggs, lemon drops,
she talks of neighbors, politics, aches and pains,
the son shares worries about his kids,
his wife’s quilting hobby,
his new boss at work,
at the checkout, she writes a check in her finest cursive,
unaware of the impatient line forming behind,
she pays no mind,
for this is her time with her son,
and she will not hurry
these precious moments they share,
so she pauses by the celebrity magazines,
she asks what he thinks about Jennifer Aniston
and whether she’ll ever have a baby and isn’t it terrible
that she and Brad Pitt didn’t stay together,
and her son says that was a long time ago mom,
Brad Pitt has about six kids now with Angelina Jolie,
his mother looks at him in shock,
something to think about this week,
maybe next week she’ll buy one of those magazines,
then they’ll have even more to talk about on their weekly excursion to Kroger.
Poem: I Wish You Joy
I WISH YOU JOY
I wish you joy today,
Whether it be
An unbidden moment of grace,
Time with a familiar face,
A warm embrace,
Or a trace of a memory
That stirs your heart,
Savor the moment,
Drink in the sounds,
The smells, the sights,
With eyes of delight,
Right in front of you
Lies something of wonder,
I wonder what it will be for you today,
I wish you joy in the discovery.
Poem: Finding Harmony
FINDING HARMONY
The notes shimmer
Like rain beneath a streetlight,
Iridescent,
Illuminating time and space
With a starlike glow,
Drawing the eyes and ears
To a spot just beyond reach,
So perfect the sound,
That heart beats align
Like a perfect rhyme,
Folks don’t mind
The pause in their day,
Laying aside the tasks at hand,
They walk hand in hand,
Seeking the sound that
Stirs the soul,
Yearning to feel, to hear, to see,
The harmony,
And so their seeking goes on,
Sometimes falling flat, losing the rhyme,
Wasting time, so much to do,
Yet beginning anew,
On the quest for the magical,
Shimmering notes
That bring peace and unity to all.
My ‘harmony’ drawing is a little bit of Op Art to illuminate the elusiveness of finding harmony and peace in our lives.
Poem: Nourished by Her Offering
Nourished by Her Offering
She wrote of caged birds learning to sing
And we came along,
Wanting a piece of the wisdom
She served like an apple pie
Fresh from the oven,
So sweet that every bite stayed on our tongues
Long after the evening meal was done,
She rolled love, compassion and grace into
A golden crust and we tasted them
As if for the very first time,
Nourished with the grains of truth
That flavored and spiced her offering,
When nighttime came for her,
And we knew the pie would never be served again,
We wept knowing the nourishment
Was essential to our being,
And craved just one more piece
Prepared by her loving,
hopeful, forgiving hands.
Written in memory of Maya Angelou (April 4, 1928 – May 28, 2014)
Poem: A Party for Five at Four
A PARTY FOR FIVE AT FOUR
The first guest arrives at a quarter past two;
He wears a green suit, but only one shoe,
The second stops by at a minute past three;
She wears a large hat that is bigger than me,
The third is on time as the clock turns to four;
She ties up her horse then wanders next door,
The fourth guest arrives at a quarter ‘til five;
He tells a big tale about bees and a hive,
The fifth is quite late at twenty past six,
He stopped on the way to do magic tricks,
They’re all a bit strange, but then so are we;
We built our fine house in a giant oak tree,
The only way in is the only way out,
By pulling a rope and then giving a shout,
The bucket comes down to give you a ride,
Then quick as a lick you’re sitting inside,
Stop by for a chat if you’re ever in town;
No matter the time we’ll show you around.
Just Poetry and Prose 
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