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2016 Poems
Waiting in the Park By Dan Fox
Gifts By Dan Fox
Lost Child By Dan Fox
The Tree By Amy B. Gayhart
Through the leaves, shattered,
shards of light,
mirrored glass reflecting back the sun.
Emerald reflections of alternating shades, both light and dark.
Morning sun and Summer heat, sparkling
mottled shadow across the bladed ground.
Dark hardwood swirls of brown and ncarly black.
Deep ridges and whorls of fibrous stængth.
Roots reaching out, a hidden hand beneath the earth.
Held fast,
a power keeping life teeming within the branches.
A tree stands, reaching a leafy hand holding out a shady palm ovcr a country house of yellow,
creating a cozy scene framed in hilly patches of forest bathed in light.
Shattered shards, glass raining upon the blades
of green life below and catching my imagination.
At The Grapevine by Amy B. Gayhart
Dry, brown; a seemingly dead vine, sitting tangled. In truth alive, yet sleeping, frozcn In a winter drcam. Constant movement, dancing among the dormant gmpevincs; birds singmg a beat that only they can dance to.
They frolic and leap around the thin woody arms. They peck and scratch, an endless search for sustaining seeds,
fallen from the birdfeeder above. The fat gray thief, as squirmly as ever, hungfily steals grainy goodness, thc less tasty bits falling down like snow, 10 lhe delight of the birds below.
Sparrows, chickadees, and blue jays share a mcal with Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal. Crows and mourning doves stop by for a visit, while the chipmunks lun laps
and the woodchuck keeps time.
Antsy and twitching; a cat sits trapped inside, stuck to thc window.
Her tail swings rhythmically back and forth, while her tongue 10110ws suit.
The animals appear 10 thumb lheir noses at the frustmtcdly famished feline and laugh.
The scene unfolds before me as the curious deer come to say hcllo to thc fury face in the window. A sigh leaves my mouth in a cloud of breath and my hear! warms me deep inside.
Impatient By Amy B Gayhart
I'm impatiently patient, calm, yet agitated,
on Lhe move, while sitting still.
I 'm never satisfied with good enough, a pcffcctionist
though strangely lazy.
I'm eager to find the next project, finished Wilh Ihe old, while it's still new, forcvcr sccking,
yet always feeling rushed.
T hate to wait, needing it now, but held back by the daily grind.
I wait, the choice nol my own.
I .ife is measured, not caring about our desires.
Patience is a virtue I strive to find, falling short, I do my bcst.
Impaticntly patient,
the best I can do.
I don'! have lime, this ncw projcct has gotten old.
I'm eager to find, yet sick of looking.
Patience, a virtue I 've yet to find.
Gentle River By Chuck Wiser
This gentle river, thatflows hy me
Is headed North, not toward the sea
A spring of Gold, becomes a stream
Who knows itsfate, what wmdd one dream
Thru hills and valleys, its path to forge
That over time, becomes a gorge
Its scenic beauty is next to none
Its lore is known to everyone
Thru centuries, its storied past
Has Mem'ries made, that long will last
The Native tribes, would be thefirst
To taste its waters, quenching thirst
Now thru the years, its.fame has grown
And passed to all, to call their own
Roll on sweet river, for all to see
This gentle river, the Genesee
Hands to Hold By Chuck Wiser
Thank you Lord ror hands to hold Big or small, young or old.
My mothers were the first I'd see
So soft, yet strong, they seemed to me.
When school days came with years that passed, My hand would hold me fast.
The teenage years, the hearts first crush,
When holding hands would bring a blush.
In time, a special love would bring, A hand to hold to place Lhe ring.
The love that followed, would bring to birth, New hands to hold, to walk the earth.
The years have passed and still we keep, Our hands in touch before we sleep.
Thank You Lord for hands to hold
And taking ours within your föld
Chuck Wiser, Another Poem for Cheryl, Oct. 2015.
Within His Hands By Chuck Wiser
In His hands we are free to speak. In His hands we are free to seek
He comes to us in many ways. He comes to us when we kneel and pray
In His hands we are taught to love, He shines his light from up above
We learn to love, to hope and care. The strength from Him is always there
Tn I lis hands, He will hold who grieve. There's life ever after if you believe
In His hands all things can be. With open hearts and eyes to see
In his hands though tired and frail, if faith is strong we cannot fail
In Ilis hands, so full of grace with faith and n-ust our fears we face
When daylight fades or the journey ends, let us sleep or lay, within Ilis hands
Go Past Passion By Ronnie Schenkein
Go Past Passion
For desire is the root of all pain.
Go Past Passion
Do not collect $200, go directly to jail.
Or isn't it
Go Past Passion
To the warm glow of friendship,
Contentment,
Tranquility,
Prospective Renewed.
Go Past Passion
The rocky cliff which you must climb,
From which you can fall down, down
And land so hard.
Go Past Passion
Through it
Beyond it
To the high plains above it
To the vivid plateau
From which you can see so far.
Sweet November By Vicki Grant
It’s hard to make a positive out of a negative, they say
But I need to try and do it anyway
A grandchild lost is such a hard thing
Knowing the laughs and the coos they bring
God, in His infinite wisdom, I’m told has a plan
But this Mom and Grandma doesn’t understand
The whys, wherefores, and whats askew
Are out of perspective in my humble view
First, I can say, I was nearby and free
A support to my daughter I was able to be
Through my tears and my prayers I did drive
To the hospital far; I did finally arrive
Second, I did try to display calm and some peace
Hoping to quell her concerns, at least
Providing “Baby Lips” to my “baby”
And lotion for hands will help maybe
But the news, oh so hard, was almost unbearable
To see the taut face that seemed unwearable
To the hall while she talked to her one true man
To gather my strength to help where I can
The ride home was the third, and, yet, the best
Holding my girl lovingly to my chest
Stroking her hair, long and light brown
Massaging the temple of my baby’s crown
Listening and watching and just being there
Was my fourth positive to show how I care
Fielding calls and the news for others to share
And shielding well-wishers away from her there
The hardest and worst of our trials then
Was the birth of her lost one and the cry of her when
“Mom!”…and I knew; the babe had arrived
Though we knew in advance, ‘twas not to survive
This fifth time did shake me down to my core
The shakes and the shudders I did try to ignore
For, though sad, I was blessed to be there for calm
And hold my dear grandchild in my hand; just the palm
So, in this November, so sweetly bitter
The strength of God will help make me fitter
To share this bond of loss and of love
With my daughter and her sweet one who lives up above.
Bowling for Forget-me-nots By Vicki Grant
Upon a starlit night I dreamt
Of thoughts and wants and what they meant
I conjured up a strange visage
Of lanes and balls, an odd mirage
‘Twas Rip Van Winkle, I do think
That dreamt of bowling; thus, the link.
In the fog of God’s lush valley,
Thunder rolled along the “alley.”
Clouds and rain complete the aura;
Dreamlike state that I want more of
For, in slumber, cometh peace
Restlessness does seem to cease.
Startled now, the noise grows louder
Lightning strikes; I start to cower.
I raise my face, a chance to peek
To see the cause of the noise I seek.
“Strike!” He said, “Oh, boy, I’m lucky.”
“To foul the line would sure be sucky”
“Want to try?” He threw my way
“Sure would be nice a foe to play.”
I assent and rise to face Him
Anxious, thrilled, my hat to throw in.
“I’m unsure of all the rules, but
I’ll give a try, my best I’ll strut.”
“Aim down the lane,” He said to me.
“Of this lush valley, don’t you see?”
“The target large is at the end.
Aim for the prize and do not bend.”
I grabbed my ball and took the “stage.”
And feared my style would give ‘way my age.
I took my stance and danced my dance
Let go my ball, then hiked my pants
Shielded my eyes, the course to see
Anxious to know, the score to be.
Twinkle-toes, my nickname was
Fred Flintstone style was all the buzz.
My eyes grew wide, the ball curved once.
Then curved again, I was a dunce!
It took off to the right gutter,
“Drats, shucks!” I began to mutter
He laughed once, then laughed again
“Thou are rusty, my young friend.
Try again before you weaken
And hike your pants before you’re streakin!”
I took my stance, yet one more time,
And drew a bead on down the line.
I blinked my eyes, the sight to seize
Then stopped to ask, “What pins are these?”
“They look like flowers, not pins at all
I’ll kill them sure with this bowling ball.”
He smiled a smile with knowing eyes
“I told you once, aim for the prize.”
“What were your thoughts and wants in sleep?
Before you woke from slumber deep?
Your calm, your peace upon your face
Reveal your true destined place.”
“I want one thing, one thing only
To not be so very lonely.
A child of mine, to love and hold
Whether it be one young or old.”
“You see,” I said. “I long to foster-
My name’s etched on the DSS roster.
But I don’t see the real link
‘Twixt kids and flowers, I do not think.”
The bowling Master shook His head,
“You do not see what lies ahead.
Look closely now and you can see
Those flowers are children growing free.”
“The head pin there, a lily lovely
An infant child, skin like a baby
And next in line, a tulip red
A youngster’s lips so sweet,” He said.
“The rosebud ‘pin’, so pink and fair
Bodes of sweet cheeks that blossom there.
Tiny toes the daisy counts
The loves me; the loves me nots
Tendrils of morning glory vines
Thoughts of a teen who’s soon to shine
Impatiens with a varied hue
Spawns thoughts of children; special too.
So, pick a flower, take your aim
And vow to win in Life’s game.
A ‘pin’ for your own special course
For meaning, purpose in Life’s force
Your ball will choose the one that’s right
So concentrate and set your sight.”
“But, wait,” I said, “that is not true”
My ball, last time, did not go through.”
He smiled, “Yes, a gutter you got.”
Look close, for there’s forget-me-nots,
In those ruts upon both sides,
Springs pinks and blues in their small size.”
“Your heart is big as all outdoors,
You’re not content to “take the floor.”
For, in the gutters, you will see
Many children who are free
To be the apple of your eye
And spark your spirit, by and by.
Rascals and imps and little gnomes
Make life worthwhile in your home.”
And then I knew that what He said
Was like the dream found in my head.
“Pinks and blues” in the gutter spots
Were girls and boys, God’s forget-me-nots.
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