January Afternoon

The raggedy tree,

Old Doug Fir,

Standing high above the land

Flings its boughs about

Holding on to earth below it,

Roots spread out with only

surface depth for tenuous purchase,

Is showing us the  history of the winds,

Written by the bare patches

On the long straight pole.

It towers over all the woods about it

And marks the road, and reads the moving air

As those who live below mark the rain,

And wonder when this storm will pass

And spring will come again.

GBP 1/13/10

Regarding "Runners"

Mom says that Dad was electrified by this poem and told her that he thought it exemplified the best of her work.

RUNNERS

Two by two, in fellowship 

Backs wet with sweat,

And hair awry above the band

That aids the brow in keeping salty droplet from the eye…

You run along the highway

Dogged, building heart and muscle

To the task.

I ponder as I pass.

You were made to run the world

In search of game to feed yourself

And others.  Your bodies built for strength,

You marked out trails and found

The means to eat and sleep and safely

With another bring to life from seed,

Sons and daughters!

Who gave you such a role?

Where is the path now , as you run?

Oh, brave young men, it’s just begun.

A new world has grown across

This ancient globe.

The trails that told you once

What could be done

With nature’s pattern that unfolds

Within you from your first beginning

Have grown cold.

It is confusion now and clamor.

Information much like lotus leaf

Is touted, but it  leads to grief.

But run, there‘s strength within.

Where truth is hidden, it must  out!

Look in and listen,

For all our human foibles are the same

That history has seen in costume strange

To us; but still, new ways lead back

To old beginnings, where lies the trail

Well watered with the sweat and tears

Of centuries.  You have the feet to trod

The highway that leads back to God.

REFLECTION

Seeing lights lining darkened streets on rainy nights

Gives rise to expectations

Whose roots are lost in long ago homecomings.

Memories are blurred

As windshields swept by rain

Still stir the heart

With a childlike hope

That we will soon be there.

11/07/00

LATE SUMMER

There is still the scent of Aster

Clinging softly to my fingers,

Recalling to my mind, the morning walk

That brought me home

With flowers in my hand.

Stepping out into the big wide world

This week marked an important step.  Gerry submitted "Tis in the Blood" for consideration to Poetry Magazine.  We are hopeful that they will see it as essential to publish.  Some response should be back about mid-December.   Isn't that cool!

Tis in the Blood

Tis  in the blood, you know,

Seamen they were, long ago,

And built the ships that bore the sails,

Sent them down the ways

And when they tied them by the rope,

Around the capstan  went they  many times,

To hold that hull……

Around I pull, with muscle fed by DNA

(Tis in the blood they say)

And  pulling, stretch the  hose,

The bloody  hose laid out in sun

And left  to catch  a heel among the leaves;

Oh, must reel it in, not mind the wind,

Heave ho, it comes around again,

And laugh I, thinking of those men

Who worked on ships, and I on land.

Tis in the blood you understand.

GBP  10/17/07     (inspiration in a garden hose)