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The Herron Files
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.

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.
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, 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 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
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,
I snapped a twig and then

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.


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.