To A Girl I Love and Never Knew
I remember her hair, her eyes, her face,
Her aire so briefly this world graced,
Her voice–which was clear and strong,
Her laugh–which seemed to linger long.
I don’t remember if she noticed me,
More than 40 years have passed you see.
I don’t remember if we ever spoke,
Nor when her sight my heart awoke.
A few short times I watched her sing,
In a small country church in late spring.
Little time to think her special then,
Yet the memory of her has little dimmed.
I remember when they said she died,
Not out, but inwardly I cried.
Many friends I’ve known who now are gone,
But her face in my mind still lingers on.
.
She was but twelve or maybe thirteen,
Beginning adolescent dreams.
And I was even younger still,
Too young to know of cupid’s thrill.
.
I never knew she’d caught my eye,
Even after they said that she had died,
Till many years when I still missed,
A young girl’s face I could never kiss.
.
Yet I feel somehow I give her life,
Some part of happiness and strife.
Because so clear I still see her face,
That short this cheated world did grace.
.
Ode To a Load of Manure
Firmly he spoke, “Come back, Pete/Sam,”
For mules require a strong hand,
And backing a wagon requires skill,
To get to just the place you will.
.
Centered close against the stall,
He leaned a moment against the wall,
Before lifting up the worn old tool,
Dropping it into the well packed stool.
.
He knew how to let it work,
Not fight against the smelly murk,
But break it loose then lift it high,
To drop o’er the rail with a well earned sigh.
.
It took not long to fill the load,
So to the wagon again he strode,
Then drove the team out to the field,
He was helping make a goodly yield.
.
In life a man’s true value and worth,
Is not measured by his brains or girth,
But by his willingness to do,
What must be done, but is by few.
.
The hands that are not afraid of dirt,
Nor with pain afraid to flirt,
But do the jobs that must be done,
While others lazily seek the sun.
.
But of this job they all can say,
Who have toiled through the rotted hay,
The first loads are good manure that’s rich,
But after that — it’s simply shit.
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Falling Rain
The world is in a misty mood,
A lonely peace long overdue.
From other thoughts my heart refrains,
Helped by the sound of falling rain.
.
The beating rain, it holds me here.
The world now bathed seems so clear–
Earth dark green and sky light gray,
Blending in the fade of day.
.
The rain, it seems to free my mind
From pains and cares of other times.
Remembering, I forget and smile.
I need to rest for a little while.
.
For now, the harsh unfeeling strife
Is in some distant world or life.
Just a quiet timelessness remains,
Helped by the sound of falling rain.
.
Haley
Her small arm was cautiously reaching
Toward a small, wild daisy flower.
Tiny fingers of an angel touching
Pure white pedals ’round the golden sun.
.
Her baby grin changed to a look of wonder,
Then to a lovely smile,
As the sun showed the daisy’s spendor
In the morning’s clear, bright light.
.
Who might say which was the softest,
The daisy pedals or the tiny hand?
Who might say which was the brightest,
The glowing face or the shimmering flower.
.
The purest innocence I was watching
As the world could ever allow;
Those tiny fingers of an angel touching
Pure white pedals ’round the golden sun.
The Best Flower
The best flower grows free in the field,
Not within a nursery pot,
Not cloned, not weeded and not sealed,
It thrives when sunny and not.
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The best flower wilts not in drought,
Nor withers in the heat or cold.
In strong wind it will hardly pout,
In storms its beauty’s most bold.
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The best flower will bloom come what may,
Whether comes or not comes the rain.
The scars from more troublesome days
Never does its beauty stain.
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The best flower gives more than you see,
As sustenance to those in need.
Like nectar to butterflies and bees,
Beauty and joy it spreads as seeds.
.
The best friend grows free in the field,
Not within a nursery pot,
Not cloned, not weeded, and not sealed,
But thrives when sunny and not.