I am writing poetry again

4-25-11

I lost my faith and my believing
And to my surprise
The sun rose in the morning.

I screamed out into the cold empty hole
And learned
The echo only answers what it heard

I found my faith just as I had lost it
Angrily, dejectedly, miserably
But no trumpets sounded for me.

So I pouted. And a small quiet voice said
"Certainly I already know you are small
and wounded and sad but yet there is hope."

How mysterious is life, how deep and private
Is our faith, our faiths, our hopes
And our pains and our loves.

How all emcompassing is this, and
Deeper yet, mysterious yet-
The One who Holds me, the Keeper, the last thread.

So the vine withered. I don't care.
Constant cycle within my soul
Faith grows up and dies again

It rains, it thunders
Night falls like a cloak,
At least it hides me and my contempt.

Morning comes again, I don't care.
But yet, deeper yet, mysterious yet-
Faith awakens again, the sun still rises.

Say a small prayer.
Hide me, hold me
I hear trumpets sounding far off.....

The Storm

Icy cold wind blows into the room
Making me remember what I wanted to forget
It settles into a chair near me and wants to shake my hand
Makes me tremble as though I am weak again

Grin of the devil wants me to believe in kind intentions
I was born yesterday. and that is long ago enough to know
How terribly cold this awful wind can be
The wind drones on I tighten my scarf and button my coat

I tighten my scarf button my coat
Stand at full height and stare him in the face
The wind musters another gusty blow allthewhile grinning
I put on my cap and mittens now

Stand at full height face to the wind
I am strong enough to pass through this storm
Hold tightly to my hands children we are walking on
We are walking on and on and on as wind blows all around us

I think my darling children felt the chill, ice petals forming
I am a good seamstress and so
We have fleece coats for the whole family
To keep us warm against the blasts (we never know when)

And when it is all over, I think to myself
How good it is to be here
To be from Minnesota where the people
Are strong (lend me your strength oh my good friends)
Are brave (no we won't back down, we won't back down now)
We know how to stand against the wind

Thoughts as I think about Those I care for at the Nurse Home...

You are old a tired
But I can still see it,
the smile of a little girl still graces your face.

Oh! You must have been a beauty
You have lived a life
You have your smile and wedding photo to show

I am young a full of life
Thats what you old folk tell me
Though I know someday I will be sitting in your place

I hope the caregiver
Wipes my chin and my butt
Hopefully she isn't in too big a hurry to brush my hair

Maybe my children will be like yours
Taking time to really see me
Not just "popping in" for a minute and gone again

When I confuse my words
Please don't say "uh hum" and walk on
Please try to hear me or at least give a moment

May God smile down on you
May He grace your final years
That they are pain free, full of joy and peace

May it be the same for me when I am
Quietly without hearing and sight
Sitting in your place in your chair at your age

I remember christmas when I was a kid..... I think I'm still just a kid...

Christmas Now and Then (12-1-09)

Once a laugh, and someone is relating a story; smile and wait for the big finish.
An uncle or two you haven’t seen in while, look a little more weathered but contented
An aunt is writing the recipe down so you can try it at home.
How does Christmas feel?
And we did get there early like we hoped we would
In time to settle in with hot, hot coffee black from the pot
And cookies my mother made; yesterday, last week too. And every year.
How they smell like what she likes and who she is for us all here today! Mother.
The little children are given a little coffee too; two thirds milk, they are so proud to have it.
It will warm them and give them “spunk” for the sledding later.
I think I will give my daughter the sled my father got for Christmas so long ago.
How does Christmas feel?
The tree is not a balsam. It is not a white pine. It is not a scotch.
Cedar trees grow in the fencerows and that is what we have; spicy and sharp. Wide.
It has corn husk angels all around in every color of dye. They have acorn heads.
My hot breath like fog as I plodd thru two feet of soft snow to get it down and home.
Wait! Am I lost in Christmas past? Indeed I am. And it is sweet and welcoming.
How does Christmas feel?
My brothers would chase me around the tree and tease me
Now my brothers will chase my kids and their kids and laugh with me
My packages are wrapped much better than they used to be!
Red globes upon the tree are reflecting something; relating something;
What is the reflection I see today? Is that me?
Just one little tear accompanies the laughter, one little shining tear
Quickly brushed away. It’s secret not to share.
How does Christmas feel?
Mix the dressing, shovel the walks, play the carols, sing out Christmas!
Cold feet tingle, caring hearts gather, kitchen buzzing, cider warming.
Oh, Christmas, The Children Await!

Autumn 2009

Autumn comes and goes and with each passing year
I learn to value life a little deeper, another chapter farther
I can’t reclaim the summer past the onions or tomatoes
But autumn is the harvest time
They are in shiny pretty jars kept safely in the cupboard now.
Autumn cannot be kept nearly so safely.
Soon it will be turning. Tyrant winds and crystal snows arriving soon.
I can’t relive the sweet summer days with laughing children running
Green green grass for soccer, bugs to catch and bother.
But now the grass is brown and great for football, say my children.
Put and extra layer on, the wind is picking up! Go out to play ball little ones.
Your mother wants to sit in the window awhile with a cup of hot tea.
Autumn is so melancoly. Each autumn I am a little older.
Sit and hear the whirr of the corn harvest all around you.
Look and see the spring’s little calves, wooly and strong by now.
All is going on, moving forward, time is not still
And yet I am still; I am sitting still watching time moving on.
Autumn, the narrow, short corner, little rest stop in the path of time.

A poem about my boys.....

A Mother’s Musings (by Ruth 3/22/09)

My little one is sleeping like a whisper in a cloud
Peacefully he slumbers making not a single sound
How quite unusual, suddenly I realize, for boys
Tend to make a fair amount of sound-mostly noise.

Old coffee cans, patriot marching drums,
Sticks for swords and rifles dare the enemy come.
Kitten becomes ally, puppy becomes foe,
Until he needs a horse on which to travel to and fro.

I often notice that beneath his fingernails
In little rows of blackness like rounded out porch rails
Is dirt. It bears a silent witness in perfect formation
To the fact that he has gone on a recent exploration.

Where did it take him? Although I surely know
I can only theorize the places his imagination goes
A rope becomes a tail, a tail become a swing
A quilt becomes a sail and happily he sings

As he runs to and fro and explores most everything.

All around the garden, up and down the lawn,
Learning growing laughing dawn to dusk to dawn!
And every little daydream he makes daring for awhile
And his mother looks on him and cannot help but smile.

Love Song

Perhaps love is like a resting place
A shelter from the storm
It exists to give you comfort
It is there to keep you warm
And in those times of trouble
When you are most alone
The memory of love will bring you home

Perhaps love is like a window
Perhaps an open door
It invites you to come closer
It wants to show you more
And even if you lose yourself
And don't know what to do
The memory of love will see you through

Oh, love to some is like a cloud
To some as strong as steel
For some a way of living
For some a way to feel

And some say love is holding on
And some say letting go
And some say love is everything
And some say they don't know

Perhaps love is like the ocean
Full of conflict, full of pain
Like a fire when it's cold outside
Or thunder when it rains
If i should live forever
And all my dreams come true
My memories of love will be of you

Words and music by John Denver

Feeling Poetic Again....

Dreams and Memories (Adults and Children) 12/20/08

Little child, little one, where have you gone in your dreams?
Did you color the wind or summit a mountian-
What are your grandest schemes?

The innocence of childhood is a wonderful splendor of illusion
Specifically locked into the memories of each person’s recollection
Giving rise the phrases such as “way back when…” and “In the good ol’ days”
Memory can color something pink like a rosebush and erase the sensation of thorns
Helping us look back, drawing on the days gone by, feeding like a thread of sugar
The dreams we hold for each other in the future.

My childhood illusion was grand and awsome
Like deep earthy smells like moccasins on black loam soil
Wonderfully drawn together with sunrises sunsets and all the colors between
Sticks and stones and walking paths and lilac bushes with perfection
When transferred from reality to dreamland world of memory…
Treasures in the black dirt of home and the tall trees in the wood

And I am now grown. There is little child in me that can be seen
But my own little ones come to me with dreams of what they saw yesterday
My yesterday, years ago, theirs, hours ago and almost right now upon us
They run and play a part outside to chase it again and create more!
More memories! More games and toys and stories! The next dreamIs at this very moment being dreamed in their fresh hearts.

Christmas Wishes

Christmas Wishes (2007)

I wish I was a musician to give you a song of Christmas
No, no, I wish I was the music!
I would be a perfectly tuned violin string
Vibrating with faultless pitch making you feel Christmas

I wish I was the wind that might have blown
Across the holy child that evening
That solo chance, one moment in time
In which I could have touched his tender face, just once

I wish I was all the good intentions that were wrapped
Gifted into each carefully chosen package
The ones intended for the children, the good little children
And then I could sense the essence of Christmas again

I wish I could give you a ray of light from a stained glass window
You could keep it in your wallet all year
And remember Christmas, be aware of it there with you
And know it like joy that keeps vibrant even when silent.

And I wish I was an antique hand-carved wooden creche
That was scented of old wood oils and sweat and care
And was kept in the closet all the year long until December
When the family would fondly remember Grandfather’s faith

I wish to say a prayer for you this Christmas season
That makes you remember that its more than plastic and glitz
So you can feel Christmas, really grasp it, moving, coming alive
Because that it what it should become to us.

Being Old

Here is an anonymous poem by an elderly gentleman who had been in a nursing home his final months.

Crabby Old Man

What do you see nurses? What do you see?
What are you thinking when you’re looking at me?
A crabby old man not very wise,
Uncertain of habit with faraway eyes?

Who dribbles his food and makes no reply,
When you say in a loud voice “I do wish you’d try!”
Who seems not to notice the things that you do.
And forever is losing a sock or shoe?

Who, resisting or not lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding the long day to fill?
Is that what you’re thinking? Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse you’re not looking at me.

I’ll tell you who I am as I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, as I eat at your will.
I’m a small child of ten with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters who love one another.

A young boy of sixteen with wings on his feet
Dreaming that soon now a lover he’ll meet.
A groom soon at twenty, my heart gives a leap
Remembering, the vows that I promised to keep.

At twenty-five, now I have young of my own.
Who need me to guide and secure happy home.
A man of thirty, my young now grown fast,
Bound to each other with ties that should last.

At forty, my young sons have grown and are gone,
But my woman’s beside me to see I don’t mourn.
At fifty, once more, babies play ‘round my knee,
Again, we know children, my loved one and me.

Dark days are upon me. My wife is now dead.
I look at the future I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing young of their own.
And I think of the years and the love that I’ve known.

I’m now and old man and nature is cruel.
‘Tis jest to make old age look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles grace and vigor depart.
There is now a stone where I once had a heart.

But inside this old carcass a young guy still dwells,
And now and again my battered heart Swells
I remember the joys I remember the pain.
And I’m loving and living life over again.

I think of the years all too few gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people open and see
Not a crabby old man. Look closer, see ME!

Spending my pennies

I’ve taken and I’ve spent some
And given all I could when I may possibly do so
I’ve seen a little, heard a lot and taken chance to wonder
I guess this is the chapter titled “two”
Am I too young to ponder? some say so-
Chapter one was that hazy memory, slow and easy
The one encompassing years and spans of time
They call it “childhood” and it was bittersweet
Comical, hilarious, but sometimes sharply real
I still miss it when there is fog outside the windowpane of life
The chapter titled “three” is coming next
What will become of me? I must sit and sip at tea
And think about what I wish to write into the leaf which is my life
Keep it even, clean and merry, yes, I guess, that’s right
But how can any life be only this? There is always tenderness
Sometimes hurting or a level sense of duty
I suppose these will be in no hurry to depart from my description
As it’s written.
Surely my best trust is to compose it truthfully
Find an ear turned toward me to listen and also a friend to speak with
Yes, even now I am searching for some reality to that fine word “fellowship”
Then, oh me, it would be inclined to be worthwhile!

HE and SHE

HE and SHE

Love, how could she, possibly, ask for also that?
She did want that too.
“Ungrateful”, HE says, after all I’ve given you
Love is so professionally withheld -
Carrot on a stick.

HE thinks he can trick it into working
Look what you did to me
HE says time after time
Shame on you for all you do
“I am missing you”, he says

But SHE
Isn’t missing him
Or his demands
Rantings and expectations
Which she willingly fulfilled days headlong
Kept the rocking boat topside
Then watched her personhood be quickly swept aside
He had no desire for her.

And now she drifts calmly out of sight through the fog.
Holding out her hand to those who matter most-
Oh panicked situation! SHE is nearly gone!

HE only wanted even then
A form of her
to fit his plans and his commands
Perfect size and picture with a smile
Pack into a box the you that wished to be
Why can’t SHE
Do what I ask and find a way to be satisfied
With this and cling to him and this.HE wonders why it just could not be enough.

സ്പ്രിന്ഗ് Fever

Spring Fever Dreaming
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I am daydreaming tonight
Of warmth and peacefulness and sun heat
On my face.
And I am seeking a certain kind of rest
Not attainable tonight
Here or anywhere that I have ever known

What is it in my heart? What did I still require
That will not let me rest on this alone.
Something left to find.

Somewhere left to go.
Something yet to know.

A sense that when found the power of it
It wouldn’t let you down or be denied.

I couldn’t put a finger on it
Couldn’t put a phrasework to it that satisfies.
And here take it easy let my wanting spirit recline

And daydream in the warm overgrown grass
Day upon day upon day will go by like years upon years
Not yet have I found it, I know I will get there-

Discontented spirit will keep searching
Something yet untouched to be made known.
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