By JLR
Come live with me and be my love
my wife you'd be, come now my dove
to fit you like a hand to glove
proclaim true love, you be my love.
We'd watch the waves roll in roll out
Toward the breeze we would loud shout
as the rain squalls gush through the spout
get wet from waves roll in roll out
When Sun rays warm the sandy shore
Castles of sand that you'd adore
I'd build complete with parquet floors
Our child can crawl on sandy shores.
So have I made my plea to thee
as clear, precise as needs to be?
That 'tis your sweet ripe lips I see
so make me glad, my plea to thee!
I will cherish the day we wed
on your heart I will not dare tread!
| Author Notes |
Potlatch Poetry Club Challenge December 31 at 9:29PM >>
~ Roger's Refrain ~ * written in iambic tetrameter *Any number of mono-rhyme quatrain stanzas * ends with rhyming couplet *It is stanzaic, with quatrains, EACH stanza being mono-rhymed with the last half of line one, being the repeated refrain, as the last half of line 4. Thanks for the use of Photo by "https://unsplash.com/@frankiefoto? |
By JLR
Fiddlesticks ugh! Nonsense,
rubbish! Heydays are so long
gone..handshakes no more,
gotta live like stagnate playmates!
Tailgates gone too, roommates masks
donned, brother! Shock waves outpaced
CalTrans nosedive, Covid may soon
be gone, hooray! Frenzied New Years,
house guests fainting when the dangling
masks were off while eating,left them
squealing baseless uproars. Grandma
kicked them all out, kerplunk, heave-ho!
Peeved, she spat! Her pumpkin pie
burnt..prime time was when she
tossed the pie out too!
| Author Notes |
POETRY CONTEST
"Trochaic meter is often described as having a 'falling rhythm.' This refers to the fact that the stress comes first and then it falls off into the unstressed beat. This is in contrast to an iambic meter which has a rising rhythm (the stress comes first followed by the unstressed beat)." - from www.poemanalysis.com |
By JLR
| Author Notes |
4 line rhyming poem
WINNER TAKES ALL 4 lines each line rhymes The winner will take the full prize pool Thanks for the use of Photo: "https://unsplash.com/images/feelings/hug? |
By JLR
Setting aside my business chapter,
I sauntered off into a new start.
Called retirement and found it a sham!
Knowing nothing and a bad actor
Faking it has never been my part
after work, everything is a scam
I wince midday at the hours after
checking the list, the honey-do chart
by midday hours, I'll be in a jamb!
I found a gig; I'm an adapter
being a volunteer warmed my heart
this stupid bug came along, and Bam!
This resulted in not much laughter
too much Netflix, I need a restart!
Then on one snowy day it came, Wham!
This retirement is a disaster!
It must be a new job, an upstart.
Sorry, but be patient my bride, ma'am. Honey-do's; done, take-heart..
| Author Notes |
Potlatch Club Challenge: Sheshire poem ~ week of 1-15-2021
The Sheshire; *comprised of three stanzas of 6 lines. *rhyme scheme of either ABABAB or ABCABC. *Completed by a rhymed couplet. *Each line has the same number of syllables. [The one exception to this is the last line, which may have up to six additional syllables. The additional syllables must be a phrase that is set aside (by parenthesis or dashes, for example). If this aside is removed, the correct syllable count would be there and the line would remain a reasonable sentence.] *Each stanza should have a shift in tone. THIS IS IMPORTANT ~ IT IS A PIVOT ~ A CHANGE IN TONE ETC. *The ending couplet should leave the reader (or at least the poet) with a grin. It can be a darkly ironic grin, but a grin, nonetheless. thanks for the use of photo from:"https://unsplash.com/s/photos/sad-man? |
By JLR
I cast my doubt upon the low morn tide.
So keen to grasp a hold on her warm hand,
should she accept this move, I'll step in stride,
and I would start each day atop marshland.
My heart and soul would march to her command.
The day unfolds; light fades into clouds grey.
Carefree sweethearts view waves above the strand.
Such glee comes as two souls enjoy this day.
Breathe deep the scents of near wild bloom bouquet!
Love's thoughts abate the noise as waves roll hard
upon large rocks, capriciousness could sway
flirtations grasp reserved, too fast; safeguard
distinct fond times our swoon constrained, has calmed,
thus this short-lived romance, at last, has bombed.
| Author Notes |
Spenserian Sonnet, a sonnet in which the lines are grouped into three interlocked quatrains and a couplet and the rhyme scheme is abab, bcbc, cdcd, ee.
Developed from my writing class. Thank you Jim for all the coaching. |
By JLR
I watch with expectation for the first sign of Spring
bundled under the comforter, seeing the snow fall,
as my mind wanders over years gone past, then I nap.
My mind, it seems is becoming like an old worn coil.
My retention is looser about what I did yesterday
I watch with expectation for the first sign of Spring
Springtime will come again, they say. So, I believe!
It seems so clear, yesterday I cut that red rose bud.
Bundled under the comforter, seeing the snow fall.
What little do those around here even begin to know!
I spent time today with winter, spring, summer, fall
as my mind wanders over years gone past, then I nap.
| Author Notes |
Potlatch Club Challenge Cascade ~ week of 1-22-2021
Cascade ~ Cascade poetry is all about receptiveness, but in a smooth cascading way like a waterfall". *No set meter or rhyme scheme. S1 L1 is repeated as the last line of S2, S1 L2 is repeated as the last line of S3, and so on until all lines in S1 have been used. The number of stanzas is therefore one more than the number of lines in S1. I have two 86 year old sisters in laws who suffer from age related Dementia. One lost her husband of 60 years on January 1st. She sits everyday asking for her husband, as we sit with here just listen as she wanders through her seasons seeking him out To learn more about Dementia refer to: https://morethancognition.neurologyreviews.com/ Thanks for the use of Photo by Glen Hodson on Unsplash |
By JLR
Write!
One knows not whose eyes
will consume these words.
But, revel in knowing some Souls smile.
| Author Notes |
Four Line Poem
Write a four line poem that has a specific syllable count. The first line has 1 syllable, the second line has 5 syllables, the third line has 5 syllables, and the last line has 9 syllables. The subject can be anything. Thanks for the use of photo: "https://unsplash.com/@chris_chow? |
By JLR
| Author Notes |
Write a Rictameter POETRY CONTEST
A rictameter has 9 lines with a syllable count of 2, 4, 6, 8, 10, 8, 6, 4, 2, with the last lines word/s identical to the first. Rhyming is not needed. |
By JLR
| Author Notes |
Octelle ~week of 2-5-2021
The Octelle is a poem consisting of * 8 lines using personification and symbolism in a telling manner. *syllable count is 8/8/7/7/7/7/8/8, *rhyme scheme is A1A2bbccA1A2. The first two lines and the last two lines are identical (refrain). |
By JLR
| Author Notes |
Also Known as Mirrored Poetry
A palindrome, by definition, is a word, phrase, verse, sentence, or even poem that reads the same forward or backward. It stems from the Greek word palindromos: palin, meaning again, and dromos, meaning a running. Combining the two together, the Greek meaning gives us, running back again... |
By JLR
Tempt
me not!
Your wild ways
cast shadows long
across the already rougher patches.
Lingering memories, while I collect
moments of near
pleasant times
once held
dear.
Stand
firm with
my reserve!
I must protect
my vested caution while temptation calls.
As times will surely come whence, we wouldst fail
to strike down the
sirens' call ...
do come,
sir!
| Author Notes |
Tetractys, a poetic form invented by Ray Stebbing, consists of at least 5 lines of 1, 2, 3, 4, 10 syllables (total of 20). Tetractys can be written with more than one verse, but must follow suit with an inverted syllable count. Tetractys can also be reversed and written 10, 4, 3, 2, 1.
Double Tetractys: 1, 2, 3, 4, 10, 10, 4, 3, 2, 1 Triple Tetractys: 1, 2, 3, 4, 10, 10, 4, 3, 2, 1, 1, 2, 3, 4, 10 and so on Presented as a Quadruple Tetractys with 80 syllables. Photo credit "https://unsplash.com/@jeremybishop? |
By JLR
Billie would have been eighty-eight in June ...
However, she was called by her Master before
all her spring flowers were in bloom.
She was an avid gardener, oh, for so many years ...
but, her mind started closing and putting keyless
locks on the doors of past common experiences
times when a lilac became the
scent of a rose and the closer to her nose a wafting
smell of lemon grass became honeysuckle,
to her these became her most certain claim of fragrance.
We would all smile and nod our heads bobbing up and down,
like the swift spool of thread on the treadle of life
unspinning thoughts of when she could detect the
faintest of fragrances on the wind,
then name it certainly!
As we gathered together to say our last goodbyes
at noon last past, she surely was smiling down from
The grand garden up high in the sky,
for it was such an awesome sight ...
to see a sea of flowers that nearly consumed the sanctuary,
which became so alive with vibrant colors,
across the spectrum of the rainbow,
mixing and twisting each floral fragrance
known into the celebration of her life!
With the passion of her life fully on display
I could swear that I saw her bending down
in our midst and breathing in breath after breath,
whispering: roses .. carnations ... daffodils ... lilies,
gardenia, freesia, lavender ... jasmine ...
each and many more she favored and cherished.
And I smiled!
| Author Notes |
The Fabulous Free Versers Club Challenge: Flowers
Thank you for the use of Floral Fun by Mama Mia1 |
By JLR
His aged hands displayed the hard
times worn by blisters turned to callouses,
turned to hardened "leather-like" vice-grips,
when he would grab me by the shoulder
and shake me like the dickens, just for fun.
Whenever a neighbor happened by,
his deep-set sky-blue eyes, twinkled when he
doffed his dust covered felt hat and
slapped it against his multi-patched bibbed overalls,
while the dust motes swirled around his
sweat creased, sunbaked smiling face,
His supper prayers always spoken with such
positive assurance that His God provided
for his every means, while I sat watching,
and a waitin' ... he - making certain gramma
got her share of the vittles -- because he said,
"She were one that did all the heavy liftin'!"
His wake ... it came far too soon!
To this day I still feel I have lessons to learn
from a man that I never heard utter one
complaint. Never, did I hear a bad comment
or words spewed out in an angry tone ...
What I heard often as he would look in every direction,
even during the lingering hot days, just before harvest and
say, "Isn't it just a wonder ... just look around!"
I was eighteen when grandpa passed on ...
I stood man tall as I watched them --
ever so sacredly folded the flag into the symbolic tri-corned
shape -- thirteen times and then they laid that flag into my hand's.
Which I gripped vise-like and cried!
| Author Notes |
Free Verse, contest - biographical salute.
Note: Guards make crisp, precise folds a total of 13 times to complete the ceremony. Much like every other aspect of our nations greatest symbol, each of the 13 folds holds a special significance. visit:https://nationalflagfoundation.org/the-meaning-behind-the-13-folds-of-the-united-states-flag/ Thanks for the use of this photo camilo jimenez found on unsplash. |
By JLR
Going back to the homestead always
brings precious thoughts unfolding,
like a well-crafted scarf used only seasonally.
If I try hard,
I can just about smell the sweetgrass,
floating on the gentle breeze, as we whisk
past acre after acre of ranchland.
When we refueled in the rural metropolis
of Dakota City, leaving the grand
Mississippi with her steep banks awash
in summertime flora, viewed in our rearview mirror,
I knew we were just few hours away
From Gram and Pops homestead.
It wasn't long when I start looking
ahead on the flat as a pancake-roadway
for that little diesel - pump gas station
where Grand-pop used to take me to on
the John Deere after he tilled his land until the sun
was nearly halfway down in the western sky.
We would grab an ice-cold cola and sit alongside
the sheriff's police cruiser, parked off to the side of the little station.
Pops' would start spinning a long tale about when the sheriff
was a young-man like me.
Then just like the setting sun ... the memories just fade into the sunset of time.
| Author Notes |
free verse of travels to the old folks homestead.
thanks for the use of photo: Photo by Eduardo Soares on Unsplash |
By JLR
On a hillside far across the hollow
shone a single light that seemingly,
blinked as the wind tussled the leaves,
on yonder trees, causing the light to
hauntingly come and go.
That lone light was all that remained intact,
in my birth home with those old rotted floors,
sideways leaning walls and broken windowpanes,
adorned with tattered and musty, dusty curtains
flapping even in the stillest of breezes.
The flickering light, as though an old movie reel was
spinning to life memories of days gone by.
Raising in me an expectation of hearing mom's call
that dinner was being served.
Her one constant, the fatback and beans, cornbread
and jar of honey with spoon at the ready to fill the bellies
of four hungry kids packed with so much energy,
literally, the rafters shook in our wake.
Alas, my reverie comes full circle as the moon's full face
comes into view and lights the evening with longer shadows.
And I know that the old house across the hollow is,
but a relic, that fuels distant memories.
But that lone light ... I keep it on day in and day out.
So, on nights such as this, I do not forget my roots.
| Author Notes | Fabulous Free Versers Club; Writing challenge Light |
By JLR
He sauntered in the marshland mist.
His footsteps he had never missed.
Never had he his, footsteps missed.
He sauntered in the marshland mist.
'Twas early, near dawn, the grey stays.
He thought the path went on a ways.
The path, he thought, went on a ways.
'Twas early, near dawn, the grey stays.
Melodic harp strings heard strumming.
Toward heaven he gazed, humming.
He gazed toward heaven, humming.
Melodic harp strings heard strumming.
He sauntered in the marshland mist.
His footsteps had he never missed.
'Twas early, near dawn, the grey stays.
He thought the path went on a ways.
Melodic harp strings heard strumming.
He gazed toward heaven, humming.
| Author Notes |
Potlatch Poetry Club- Atrina week of 3-19-2021
AN ATRINA: *A poem of 18 lines, consisting of 3 quatrains and a sestet. *each line has 8 syllables. *Rhymed: AaaA BbbB CccC AaBbCc where the capital letters indicate refrain lines. this is your rhyme scheme ~ (AaaABbbBCccCAaBbCc)[rhyme scheme here] *The first and last lines in each verse are exactly the same. *The third line in each verse is of similar wording to the second line or reversed [original author prefers to use the same words but reversed. *Then when you have written the three verses. the fourth verse consists of the first two lines from each of the three verses. Thank you for the use of Photo by "Dave Hoffler on Unsplash" |
By JLR
As I stood gazing at the cloud-shrouded peak
In the foreground, not so far away,
I knew that the ascent would begin
with the 'morrow's sunrise.
Having begun this journey on a distant land,
life's ever unending twists and unseen turns
has made reaching this mountainous view,
a personal best among my life's goals.
But the quest is not complete --
The journey ends at the summit and
there lies the mirroring of my very life.
It is about the summit before my own eyes!
She presents Herself as I could only image before ...
I cast a respectful gaze upon Her this day.
Honoring Her life, I stand humbled in the moment.
.
She is steep, lush with vegetation.
But, also She like me, we are worn over time
and weathered by the onslaught of
Mother Nature's temperament and tempest.
Her listing slightly, so much like my own listing,
brought about year after year of wear and tear,
marks boldly Her staunch unyielding nature.
She hides, so well, any pathway to make rising to Her
summit that much more daunting from this distance,
knowing not Her secrets until, perhaps,
they are revealed too late!
So as the end of day slowly presents the last
sliver of golden rays -- I bow in Her presence.
Searching the depths of my very soul to find
that mystical connection that She has been
mysteriously sending.
That magnetic energy that brings me to Her doorstep.
Such a long journey - finally --
begins and ends with the 'morrow's sunrise.
| Author Notes | FREE VERSE POEM for the Picture this Club. |
By JLR
Even during the darkest times
"There is the Light," ... and yet.
In the finite realm of humanness
I see not the unrestrained, infinite,
glow of sunlight, moonlight, starlight,
God's Light beaming --
I peer into the volumes of darkness
and see scenes littered with broken souls!
Broken, much like the shattered glass from the wino's
discarded bottle of Muscatel ... his pint of hope gone dry!
Scattered shards glitter upon occasion,
from the searchlight turned outward slowly moving
with the light casting long tendrils of limited
brightness, fueled by societies' failed social net
being cast upon these dark waters ...
There is a river of tears, rippling.
Tears which have been shed since the beginning of time.
Measured day by day, month by month, year by year.
I wonder how many more souls are treading this river
In their own dark world, exhausted, their energy consumed?
But ... I remember, perhaps as a sojourner during another life,
when in the darkest of times -- I sensed deep within my very soul
a Knowing that even in this very dark place --
that point in a lifetime in which the stars
all seemingly were instantly dark ...
a place where all light appeared to have plummeted
into a black hole ...
There in the dark, within the shadows, was HE.
The Master, the Christ!
His Very Presence inviting me to join Him
and His followers dancing in the darkness.
His words, vibrating and shimmering with a wave-like energy,
becoming brighter and more clear and even more so bright --
beaming with such intense White Light -- beckoning all,
"Come ... I am, the I AM
| Author Notes |
Free Verse entry.
My Special thanks for the use of this Photo by Emiliano Vittoriosi on Unsplash |
By JLR
Abba, Patri, Spiritus; I bow before the Trinity ...
absolve, purify, sanctify my soul; for all eternity.
| Author Notes | Two line Prayer - |
By JLR
Today sun shines over my shoulder,
Whispers of a breeze gently flick at my hair.
A caw, caw, cawing of a distance crow
pleads for attention from its mate.
In the near scape the lush green grass,
dappled with soft white and regal purple clover,
attracts the bees flitting around pollinating as they go.
Further afield, perhaps one hundred steps away,
I watch the tree limbs heavy-laden with dense multi-shaped leaves
swaying ever so slowly. As the warming breeze rises,
mixing with the occasional rush of air mounting
then ebbing and flowing more voluminously.
A couple ... nature lovers too, wending along
a well-worn path that snakes its way into the bend
of the mountain stop and kiss.
I sit knowing they have seen me not.
The sweet, buttery fragrance of honeysuckles
tickle my memories of times gone away
setting near this same vista --
only now I am older ...
frailer, the sun shines on slumped shoulders.
I am far more unsteady to risk meandering
on foot along these winding paths these days.
So certain am I ...that these very same scenes
are repeats from many past life journeys!
I am amused that these old habits are hard to break.
Oh ... repository of such memories,
as ripe as the sweet nectar of a freshly plucked plum from the tree.
Good memories! Rich in vim and vigor recalling the richness
that comes with being in nature.
These moments of connection that can only be experienced ... observed first-hand.
For should the telling of such scenes come second-hand, read not seen,
then they simply cannot be as robustly captured in mere words laid on a page.
What I have come to realize is that the soft carpet of grass,
surrounded by this canopy of Pine, Maple, Ash and Poplar trees,
with an under-growth of brightly colored, fragrant flowers
and shrubs are all connected into a Oneness --
crafted by a great unseen, mysterious Creator of all this
which is before my very eyes!
I have a knowing -- welling up from deep within my bones
that this experience unfolded, time and time again,
from the very beginning to this present moment.
Continuing to present a living picture of the meaning of Love!
What love is meant to be and feel like ...
What love can provide to a human soul ... sitting within such pure joy!
Experiencing love from that which is set before me this very day.
Always, ever present, if I just would make the effort to see it!
| Author Notes | Free verse contest entry |
By JLR
As I rise to the glow on the eastern horizon
I raise my arms skyward to proclaim the
augustness of another timeless awakening within
the Cathedral of God's ever evolving tapestry of Life.
Flowing within the very tender tendrils of stately trees,
is life, not seen beneath the carpet of verdant forest.
Nourishment feeding the very most tips of the evergreen branches,
wheezing rhythmically with each push of wind against
their elongated needles --
I just know there is a God moment developing.
As a fine mist falls gently from the heavens,
moving through the sun's rays, a dazzling brilliance of colors,
liken to a skyscape seen through a thousand stained glass arches
consumes the azure horizon.
I bow after making obeisance, as I approach in awe
of that right before my eyes!
Astonished, as much as fascinated, pausing ...
Cupping my hands into the gushing springhead -
spewing forth nature's elixir of life from a crack in the crest
of mother nature's mountain side, I sip as though from a chalice.
How humbling, to this mere mortal, to walk tirelessly
each Sunday -- into nature's cathedral,
absorbing all the magnificence of God's omniscient
Creation in this beatified, blessed garden
rich with flora and fauna!
This is my church ...
I play and pray within.
| Author Notes | Free Verse describing my place of worship to my Creator of all things big and small. |
By JLR
| Author Notes |
Eight word poem contest.
illustration by: cross to bear by Renate-Bertodi on FanArtReview.com |
By JLR
'Twas once the common zingy
rhyme put a penny in your
pocket, save it for a rainy day.
back when a penny added to total
five these would get you into
the Saturday matinee.
Long before a recorded
ring-ring-ring on a cellular
device, it was cling, clang,
clung as coins were dropped
into the slots on every pay phone
found on every corner in any town.
You would dig through pennies to
select your quarter, nickel and dimes.
Then came the thrifty thirties
when boys wore penny loafers
and those shiny Lincoln's with
put a proper touch to dressing
with pizzazz. Preppy American
boys and girls adapted their loafers
and added silver coinage to their
shoes to make a statement.
Today, we have forgotten the habit
of pocket change, in case of an emergency.
So pennies from heaven are sought
naught to save for a rainy day. But, I
still treasure my little shiny pennies
certainly not still made from copper.
Aha, but the memories, they still
flicker across the motion screen of life
like that old Saturday matinee
and penny candy I once bought.
| Author Notes | Fabulous Free Versers club challenge: About pennies |
By JLR
Going back to the homestead always
brings precious thoughts unfolding,
like a well-crafted scarf used only seasonally.
If I try hard,
I can just about smell the sweetgrass,
on the gentle breeze, as we whisk
past acre after acre of ranchland.
When we re-fueled in the metropolis
of Dakota City, leaving the grand
Mississippi with her steep banks awash
in summertime flora viewed in our rearview mirror,
I knew we were just few hours away
from gram and pops homestead.
It wasn't long when I start looking
ahead, on the flat as a pancake roadway,
for that little two - pump gas station
where grandpop used to take to me on
the John Deere after he tilled until the sun
was nearly halfway down in the western sky.
We would grab an ice-cold cola and sit alongside
the sheriff's police cruiser and pops with start spinning
a long tale about when the sheriff was a young-man
like me.
Then the memories just fade into the sunset.
| Author Notes | A PICTURE THIS CLUB ENTRY |
By JLR
Perchance have you ever blown bubbles?
Remember those soapy circular wands?
Dipped sloppily into the sudsy solution
then swiftly withdrawing the wand,
while pressing your lips tightly
as you gently blew and blew and blew some more
as bountiful bubbles filled the air.
But, let me ponder this morsel of
present moment experience -- of sitting in the cool shade.
Mighty trees awash in the sweet fragrance of pine fill your flaring nostrils,
and you are at the bottom of a twenty-foot cascading waterfall,
Watching bubble upon bubble rise atop the roiling waters
as they twist and swirl catching themselves flowing within
the boundaries of the ever-downward journey in the mountain stream.
No less, impactful to one's sense of time and space,
could certainly include being among the tall fronds of
beach grass, fully rooted in the depths of sand.
Dare I wonder, from where did these grains of weathered earth,
travel from to become this fertile beachline?
Gazing outward to the shore, as waves of green-blue waters roll-in,
pushed by a gentle breeze, tiny bubbles, countless in number,
pop soundlessly to the ear, all along my line of sight,
to simply release air trapped within.
Now imagine -
once bubbles, now air ... simply released,
unshackled floating back into the environment.
This moist air then rises and while heated by the sun
forming clouds, gathering more moisture into themselves
are being driven back into the far mountains --
to become raindropping once again from heavenly heights,
creating over and over the springs and streams to endlessly tumble
over the cascading waterfall --
creating bountiful bubbles once again.
| Author Notes |
FREE VERSER CLUB: Subject Bubbles
thanks for the use of Photo by zoonzen Maier on Unsplash |
By JLR
The time seemed too suddenly slow ...
The wheels on our old 1960, bird-egg blue,
Ford LTD Country Squire turned onto
Creekstone Farm Lane.
Six, road-weary kids, long-ago silenced
by the humming of the wheels during the
three-day journey to Papa and Gram's
sunny country farm, suddenly stirring from their
hypnotic revelry, as the dust kicks up from the now,
slow-spinning wheels.
Each one had been, plum tuckered-out, except me!
I sat in such anticipation of being able to romp and stomp,
roam freely around the long cast shadows within and outside of
the big red barn as the fall days cooled into a chill in the air,
as the first evening came too soon.
Wakening the following morn by the crowing call of the Wellsummer rooster,
I rise enthusiastically to the smell of Grams country breakfast, a feast ...
topped off with the mouth-watering blackberry preserves and fresh baked biscuits.
As expected, today, my chore -- to help Papa harvest the ripened apples.
Hardly a task that I find unsavory ... knowing that Gram is going to slice those
fresh tree-ripened Red Delicious and sun-sweetened apples,
then bake her "over the top", melt in your mouth, cinnamon apple pie.
Sojourning to Creekstone Farm Lane is nothing short of living life
each moment to the Highest and Best reviving my soul ...
what memories, all precious, I shall take away ...to carry me
until next year.
| Author Notes |
Fabulous Free Versers Club entry (from image provided)
Wellsummer Rooster a species of rooster that is a great farm fowl. |
By JLR
I sat under the mighty oak,
with its gnarled coat of century old, weathered bark,
betwixt and between unanimity and discord.
How dare I, a mere human,
question accession of the most highly educated
to actualize such vast treasures when the likes
of most mortals' decline is perpetuated,
while cringing in the shadows, cast by equalitarianism?
My unresolved issue is then a question!
Who then remains capable,
to change and gap the spark plugs
on my fifty-five-year-old
'66 Chevy Nova, when no longer am I?
| Author Notes | A Free Verse contest entry |
By JLR
| Author Notes | Faith poem - the impact of Christ's destiny and what it means to me. |
By JLR
As the oldest of four kids,
growing up in the mid-fifties,
no pa and a sick ma,
was not something I ever thought I would sit
here writing about sixty-plus years later.
But upon reflection, those times were the most important,
growing up years that I have come to cherish!
Some may read this and say to themselves,
"Well, that doesn't sound so bad; others might say, "Um-hum."
and then others will not even finish reading this murky
puddle of thoughts and that is as just fine as silk threads.
What I am recalling jarred me awake,
in the wee hours of that morn,
like a 7.4 earthquake,
remembering seeing that hoarfrost on that
-12 degree, moon-lit, pre-dawn day.
Now, anyone with the slightest bit of rational thinking will read
the word frost and know I am writing about a time and place
where it is downright cold.
I know to some folks' cold is a relative word. So, let me explain.
The chill of that morn was such that snow, when trod upon,
would squeak underfoot. Hairs in your nostrils would form tiny icicle-like tendrils
when your breaths expelled from your lungs would freeze with every inhalation and exhalation ...
We slept in a bedroom with two rickety-rackety bunk beds.
A clothesline stretched from wall to wall,
on which hung a heavy, hand-tied, quilted bedspread.
Thus, splitting the space for my brother and me
and the two sisters in the opposite bunks.
Smack dab in the middle of the room was a double pane window
with more peeled paint worn away from its decades-old window frame
like the bark stripped from the trunk of a paper birch tree.
I woke that morn with a terrible quiver in my bones, shivering mightily!
Immediately I was aware that there was not a lick of heat in the room!
I gazed out the window to get a sense of the time of day,
I saw hoarfrost stretched on the inside of the window,
plumb across the lower single-pane of glass.
Corner to corner that hoarfrost crept.
Forming a thick quartz-like, shimmering glow,
backlit by the moon's brightness.
I might have thought the sparkles were beautiful,
had I not felt so dang cold.
With a sudden feeling of dread, I realized that
water pipes might have frozen and burst,
gushing water in places that would be impossible
to contain in our humble abode.
Quick as Lark, I tossed on another set of wool socks,
another layer of pants and a heavy sweater and boots.
Just outside the bedroom door was the dining room.
Standing in the corner was that Siegler oil stove;
stone-cold. It was almost gasping out the
words, "feed me, feed me, I need fuel."
With every stiff step I took toward the kitchen,
I listened keenly for the sound of running water.
Hearing none, I gently turned the faucet onto the hot water
and gladly the water came forth,
spewing out ever so slowly warming water.
I turned away from the sink toward the electric stove,
twisting the knobs toward high on all the burners,
opened the squeaky oven door.
Turning the oven knob on full bore.
Feeling the faintest amount of heat
fighting its way above the suppressing cold,
I rushed into the bedroom, shaking the kids
out of their depths of sleep and had them grab
bed covers. Herding them like little lambs
into a warming kitchen space.
So, back to why I cherish memories, such as this?
Because from this experience
indelibly in my mind, body, and soul
I learned the meaning of gratitude.
Gratitude that the pipes had not yet burst.
Gratitude for the electricity working.
Gratitude having an electric range and oven radiating
life-saving heat.
| Author Notes |
Free Verse Contest entry
Life is a constant classroom where critical lessons are learned ... Thanks for the Photo by Anne Nygard on Unsplash |
By JLR
Within this crowd there is much grumbling.
I find myself stunned, this event humbling!
While standing in the crowd
feelings pangs of sorrow, I bowed.
These complainers chiding that man.
I wonder, when all this vitriol began.
******************************
Light, so bright, the firmament glowed.
The sight of light from above flowed.
Like the mighty oceans that span the seven seas
His plea, Father forgive them ... weakened my knees,
**********************************
The light of a new morn being born,
shines over yonder hill, that is wind worn.
The trees stretch into this new day's light.
As I knell at this cross reminded of His plight.
************************************
Certainly, I can go about mumbling, stumbling,
tumbling, but I will not! My faith prevents this Self showing.
My Savior still shines His Light, no more self pummeling!
He raised me off my knees, heard my pleas, His Knowing.
*******************************************
'Twas then the sun crested, shining so bright on my life.
Now I am about praying and celebrate the gift He bestowed.
Not one thing can cause me that prior strife ...
I'm a travelin' a different road!
| Author Notes | Share a poem that is about your faith or how faith has impacted your life. |
|
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