43 Years and Holding

    Forty three years ago today, Reed and I got married. Even though I tell people we married in infancy (actually we were both 20), that makes us officially old, possibly even geezers. In honor of the occasion, I would like to repost this poem about the night we first confessed our love.

 The Rustling

It was the first time she had declared her love

the first time she had even felt

its strange stirring of her heart.

She was half delighted, half dismayed

with the wonderful, but vulnerable feeling.

The setting was classically romantic

an Oregon hillside at sunset.

They stood soaking in all the vivid sensations,

most were unfamiliar, but one

seemed distinctly out of place

a rustling.

In the tall grasses, not too far away, was

a rustling.

Despite their overwhelming, almost scripted, drive

to gaze into each other’s eyes

they couldn’t help but glance around, looking for

the rustling.

It was almost dusk, the time when nocturnal

creatures begin to stir.

Finally, between the gazing and the holding

and all the things love awakens and begins to stir,

they saw the source of

the rustling,

a skunk.

Hand in hand they ran

down the hill,

tall grasses rustling—

but not for the first time.

Repost--Eternal Spring

       I posted this poem years ago, although I didn't like it at the time. But today is Thursday, a day of remembrance for my mother-in-law because that is the day of the week her husband died. If her experience is like mine, that trigger will continue for some time. My mother died on a Friday and for many Fridays afterward, I woke up wondering what she felt and saw that day. So I think this is a good day to repost this poem--for her.

                                                   Eternal Spring

 Late in life, the seasons change

and not to spring.

At our autumn, when we have gathered most

of family, friends, rich years and things,

the friends begin to fall away,

our siblings, and our homes.

Our bodies start a slow decay

and we are left alone

without the spouse who shared our life

sometimes, without even

 our memories.

We fear the unknown winter,

but not the One who turns the seasons.

Who gave us the comforts of family,

friends, home, health

and years to enjoy them.

The Restorer of bodies and loved ones.

The Keeper of our memories,

the One who gave them meaning.

And by His light, we all will change

to find our lives have just begun--

Eternal spring.


3/15/15

One Less

    I wrote a poem called "One Less" for Father's Day. Though I was thinking of my own father-in-law's recent passing, I posted it on Facebook because many . . .most of my friends have lost their fathers. Whether a father was wonderful or a work in progress, his death leaves a hole that cannot be filled by anyone else. The other reason I wrote it is because a poem really helped me when my mother died. From the moment I heard it in a college poetry class, it reminded me of my mom. We adapted this poem by William Wordsworth to share at Mom's funeral.

      She Dwelt Among The Untrodden Ways

She dwelt among the untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove,

A Maid whom there were none to praise

And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye!

—Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and, oh,

The difference to me!


     For me the untrodden way was Mom's mental illness. Few knew her because she was afraid to leave the house. Mom's name was Violet, and we used that, instead of Lucy for the funeral. Violet, quiet and shy as the half hidden one in the second stanza had been, if not beautiful, certainly fair to look at. But the last line of the poem is what spoke to me the most. Her death would not necessarily be sorrowful, certainly not more than her life was, but it would make a difference to me. And it did. So when I thought about Mom's death, I would remember this poem, and it comforted me.
     My hope is that, because of its brevity and rhyme pattern, my poem will comfort those grieving their husbands and fathers.

One Less

One less father in the world

one more husband gone.

One less good man walks the earth.

One more family mourns.

One would think that just one less

is not too great a loss,

but no one else can take your place.

This emptiness—love’s cost.

Father’s Day 6/20/20

    

With a Backward Glance

     Grown children don't have the same memories of their childhood as we parents do because we were adults when they happened and they were children. Those memories of sweet, snuggly toddlers are God's way to keep us from abandoning them as teenagers. They also help keep our adult children humble by means of our embarrassing stories about them. But for parents, these memories serve as our most precious possessions. I wrote this for my daughter ten years ago.

         With a Backward Glance

With a backward glance

I see you

as in a thousand ripples

-a red faced newborn

 who opened my womb and world

 to the fierce, tender bond

 of motherhood,

 -a little girl twirling

  in a “flowerful” dress,

  -a gap toothed school girl

   excited by books and learning,

   -a newly licensed driver

    behind the wheel of a Ferrari,

    -a grave faced graduate

     on her way to college,

-a beautiful bride

 stepping into the future,

rippling with potential

you leave us

with a backward glance.

     

Written for Britten’s 28^th birthday 9/24/2010

Renata

     Writing may be my gift, but gifts don't show up whenever you want them to. I have to wait for inspiration to whack me in the head and shift my sluggish brainwaves into poetry mode. I wanted to write a poem for my newest granddaughter, Renata, ever since she was born. Today, on her one month birthday, my brain cooperated. I consider that an encouragingly short gap.

Renata

Renata means reborn,

though you’re granddaughter three,

each time a grandchild

joins my world,

it brings new life to me.

Renata gives me hope,

however dark the world,

I look at you and know

God has big

plans for this small girl.

Renata is my prayer

that you’ll be born again

and know the Lord who

 loves you well

and chose you as His lamb.

Renata, only time

will show what you will be--

your hopes and dreams, the

things you like.

And I can’t wait to see.

6/19/20

Poems for Britten

   Today I thought I would share poems I wrote for Britten when she was a baby in 1982.

Your Gentle Breathing

Your gentle breathing

brings to me

a world of quiet memory.

Endearing traits of baby small

your gentle breathing

holds them all.

          Small Burden

My child, a burden? Not at all.

 A mother’s arms were meant to hold

 so precious and so dear a load.

 Love makes the burden small.

So, when we come to God and see

Him laden with man’s deep despair

and think He has no room to spare

to bear our troubles too, He says,

“Though all the world should come

  and lay their burdens one by one

  upon my back, I would not lack

  the strength to bear yours too.

  Your troubles, heavy? Not at all.

  My love has made the burden small."

     The following is a lullaby I wrote for my daughter, but it seemed pointless to include my guitar chords since, because I can't write music, the notes are all in my head. Trust me, though, its a song.

  Lullaby

After all the anxious waiting, here at last you lie

 and just for you, your Momma wrote

  this special lullaby.

Little girl, my whole world, now that the day is through,

 go to sleep while Momma plays

  this lullabye for you

Pat and Del

     Though it is painful to contemplate now, in the freshness of grief, it is still a blessing to honor my in-laws long lasting marriage. Especially since, by human standards, it was so unlikely to succeed. God's faithfulness shows brightest against such improbable circumstances. It is a testimony, not just about marriage, or of faithfulness, but of grace.

 Pat and Del

An unlikely beginning—

Pat and Del,

a secret elopement

plus the unmerited favor

of an unstoppable God

made an unbreakable union.

Nothing but death could have parted them--

Pat and Del,

and nothing less than death did,

not even Alzheimer’s.

It changed many things

but not their love.

Side by side—

Pat and Del

sixty six years

man and wife,

until he entered eternity without her,

but hardly alone.

Face to face now--

Christ and Del 

where death cannot part any

whom God chose for His own,

and some, for each other—

Pat and Del.

6/9/20

The Nights I Spend Without You

   I am thinking of my mother-in-law as the three month anniversary of Del's passing approaches.This is a love poem I wrote early in our marriage when Reed started to travel, but I thought the sentiment might resonate with her in her grief marathon.


 

         The Nights I Spend Without You

The nights I spend without you are not eternities.

I do not lay down every night in tears.

But sometimes I reach with my hand

for your familiar comfort

and find a void as empty

as your sleeping place beside me.

And it is much easier to shed the tears

than to hide the pain.

Because you are not there, I need you.

Need your comfort, but you are not there.

I think of times we’ve spent together,

loneliness enhances the memories.

And with only the empty house

to witness its passing,

the summer leaves my heart

and what remains is as cold

as the winds of autumn.