|
|
|
|
|
These poems were written from 1972 to 1976. The house was located on Indian Creek three miles from Elgin, Oregon. It was in this home that I raised my four children, Wayne, Brian, Glen and Lynn Ann. These poems had been tucked away for years until the fall of 2002 when I shared “The Tiny, Yellow, Buttercups” poem with a close friend, and also read it to my Near East Religion class.It was then that I decided to resurrect some of these early poems. I was reluctant to do so as I am not a poet by nature. However, many changes and new insights were occurring at that time in my life and poetry seemed the natural way for me to express these new realities.
|
|
|
|
THE DOE BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD
By the side of the road Lies a doe Struck by a fast moving car.
As I pass this awesome sight I feel a twinge of pain.
My thoughts quickly envisage the Beautiful deer; running swiftly Through the meadows. Leaping with the grace of Ballet dancers using space as their stage. Creating splendor with their flowing Sublimity of motion.
LIFE conquers the living, while death Plays such a reverse in roles.
The County Road Department seems Oblivious of the forgotten doe Beside the road. And she remains there day after day.
One night I dreamt as I passed her by, That the breath of life was there And reversed her plight, and oft she leaped Into the sky, blending into The stage of light. LIFE, the conqueror of all that is. Gathers up Death And consumes it as it passes by.
This poem was written in l976 and of course the idea for the poem was the fact that I did, indeed, pass a dead doe beside the country road on Indian Creek.
|
|
|
|
RETURN MY SOUL TO ME
Return my soul to me. And you will surely see the Change In me.
Please return my soul to me. Too long you have wondered, Too long in that sea of freedom Without our melody.
A life of futility, It was, tending to the ways Of humanity.
Then my soul fled. Fled my earthly ways and aims. Fled from the fruitless happenings of A life devoted to falsehoods given its way.
Please return my soul to me. Listen to my plea. A heart within is changed. God has shown his love to me. To one such as me God has shown his love.
My aims are now a Search for truths, In Justice that they bring.
January, l976. This poem was written on a long winter evening in front of the fireplace
|
|
|
SUNFLOWERS
Sunflowers, oh so tall Share with us the Mysteries of immortality.
Sunflowers, oh so tall, Growing there for all. Each little seed bringing Forth serenity.
A stalk bears its load, Without a thought or misery. Growing thus a tiny seed, From last year’s serenity.
How fast it grew into A look of majesty, Standing there for all to see. How fast it fades and yet Remains a fact Of immortality. A fact of life, so profound, I have found without A frown, from the sunflowers and Their seeds.
A fact of life is the seed That continues on We can see.
A truth of immortality We see, continues on in our posterity. These realities of life Are there for all to see.
Sunflowers, oh so tall, Is the love of the all? Somehow the mystery Of immortality?
This poem was written In January l976 beside the fireplace. It was written for Lynn Ann with the thought that she could, perhaps sing it. The idea came to me after reading Plato's Dialogue, "The Apology" in which Socrates examines the question of immortality while he is waiting execution in prison.
|
|
|
TINY YELLOW BUTTER CUPS
Tiny, yellow buttercups were there, I saw Right there, on that early spring day. A first sign of its coming.
Pushing their way up Through the brown, Cold, grass of winter.
Appearing as a smile on A worn,sad face of sorrow, erasing the Tears on the forlorn Earth of approaching spring.
Even amongst the stones, Forming somehow their solid mass Upon this earth, I saw a tiny, yellow, buttercup Smile between those rocks, and Felt the sorrow of ages bygone and ages yet to come, and yes, a tiny, yellow, buttercup Was there on the face of each sorrow.
It is enough to make one Hesitate and meditate a bit Of the magnificence of a Tiny, yellow, buttercup.
April 14,1975. Darren and I had a very special day while taking a walk in the early spring. It had been a long, difficult cold winter and it seemed to me that spring would never arrive. But, lo and behold, we saw the tiny, yellow buttercups and then knew that spring would soon be there. I was so thrilled that I later wrote this poem.
|
|
|
BRANCHES LAY STRIPPED
Branches lay stripped A melody within Quietly waiting for a song to begin. Birds of joy, birds of sorrow, Patiently, meekly, seeking their song Hovering high, descending low, Wondering, puzzling where has it gone?.
Flying, turning, running from the nest. Crying, sobbing where is the song?
Oh, foolish birds of the air, The branches must leaf For the song to appear. Gifted ones of God, a structure Built without life will wither and die. Songs will disappear.
Spring lies sleeping never Dreaming of its song. Never, ever, knowing, until Grasping its hands of the Limbs that burst into joy. Then the song begins.
Creatures of joy, build your Nests high facing the sun, Sheltered from rain and floods. The melody is there, a song must be sung.
This poem was written in April l972. It is my very first poem. I am not a poet, but for some reason when I lived on Indian Creek, caring for my four children, I wrote poems about how I felt or thought, as so much was happening to me at that time. This poem depicts the thought what we must have “Life” issuing forth from genuine caring and love before posterity and justice can progress authentically without inner conflict projecting violence and hostility. The birds symbolize children, reaching, yearning for this song of “Life.” The idea for this poem took place early one morning as I walked along the creek in order to check my dad’s cattle as the new baby calves were now being born. There were many low hanging thorn brushes that I had to circle around and peer in to see if any cows were calving, hiding in the brushes. It was then that I saw two birds circling and then sitting on the nest that was exposed against the bare branches. It was as though they were, indeed, building their nest before spring was there and so the poem.
|
|
|
AMONG THE TREES OF WINTER
Among the trees of winter, I snapped a twig and then Another.
The smell of spring was in the air. Upon a branch a bird uttered its song.
Such sweet music echoed forth, It held both soul and body in tranquillity. Upon my lips a faint smile appeared. Soothingly it held me there.
The limbs grasped within my hands, I held upright, marching proudly home, Knowing that I held life there, hidden in the Bare forlorn branches. I placed them in water, A miracle it was.
The life was awakened and Beautiful green leaves appeared. And this I did before spring was here. And in my house the leaves emerged.
I look and see in wonderment And know, that my spring also Will be.
March l974. Again, it had been a tedious and long cold winter. There had been days when I wondered how I could continue. This poem brings hope of a spring and fresh energy that seemed to appear in the smallest of ways keeping me from losing the thought of my spring that will also be.
|
|
|
A WALK
Walked up a road Where the fields and The trees extend beneath The cliffs.
A rock of such gigantic Size caught my notion And behold, upon this Stone I now sit.
Below I can see a town, barn, trees, and The mountains overlooking the The peaceful scene.
An autumn breeze is gently blowing, And a magpie is calling its caw outward For all to hear.
Leaves are red and yellow, The stubborn ones remain green. In defiance of winter’s coming glare, time Will tell, and they too will color and Fall from the tree.
It is strange to sit here over looking this all, Like an overseer of some important task I feel, And yet no such thing as that is here.
When across the fields Over towards the tall Trees came the loud Shriek of the hawks. And behind me a squeaky Chant belonging to The insect world.
A task it seems again to me. A job being done, life’s own way Of completing itself. And it is all before me now. To sit and ponder, Look and see, is like a Miracle to me.
I must now leave this Scene and take the Task of life with me, And, perhaps, a fulfillment of Of that life will be.
It will not be a miracle At all, but what God Always meant it to be. Now what a smile I have with me.
Oct l974. This poem was written as I sat on my special rock behind our house on Indian Creek.
|
|
|
|
|
|