Tag: Memories

Summer Grass

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original Poems1 Comment

Out in the country summer grass,
We ran our breathless races;
With frequent side-trips to the shade,
And splotches on our faces

Out in the country summer grass,
We sang our song of growing;
But of the clouds that gathered near,
There really was no knowing.

Along the riverside so bright,
We grew our nascent egos;
We whispered breezes into life,
And battled with mosquitoes

Along the riverside so bright,
We made friends just to have ’em:
But of the clouds of war and death,
We could not know or fathom.

For time’s a thing
That does not fail to pass,
Like breeze that ripples through
The summer

Grass

The Moon in Summer

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original PoemsLeave a comment

The moon in summer hung beyond our dreams
But who were we to say
That “nothing is, our could be, what it seems”
It’s all so yesterday
The moon, the sky, the sweltering July
That we were trifling with
Just flashing through, a firefly
Duet

The moon in summer shining on the lake
As we decisions made
The genuine that’s rifled through with fake
The paths in which we strayed
The dark, the blue, the fable, and the true
That we were playing with
Just hanging in the sky, until
We set

Her Father’s Vineyard

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original PoemsLeave a comment

Within the vineyard of her honeyed youth
The red wine flows through long and draping vines;
From sharpest grape it runs to sweetest tooth,
Down where the soil and the sun combines

To bring about a type of miracle.
A marvel that she’s not thought on for years:
A thing that’s not the least satirical,
A sober thing of ancient engineers.

For light and flippant are her thoughts these days,
Of vanity and life amid the stars;
The latest trend, the hottest fashion craze,
And all the best of nightclubs and of bars —

She stops and blinks, a teardrop to conceal;
Within her father’s vineyard, life was real

.

Picture / Photo Credit : © Mikhalevich | Dreamstime.com – Vineyards. Watercolor. Photo

I Sometimes Wonder

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original Poems7 Comments

I sometimes wonder what my dad would say
If he could see the way my life has gone –
I still have questions I would like to ask,
But there is nothing now he can pass on

The last time that I spoke to him, he said,
“It’s time for me to go.” – and so he went —
But with each passing day, I realize,
How much I missed, from being arrogant

For now I find, among the stacks of years,
The things he taught way back when I began:
That brains and money, both, count but for naught,
While honor is the measure of the man

I sometimes wonder what he would have said
To all the many things I could have asked —
It’s funny: he was not much for advice
Except a couple times, when really tasked —

He’d say to look ahead at what’s to come,
And not to waste a day, or waste a night:
But always to remember, in all things:
Too late, it never is,
To do what’s right

broken red

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original PoemsLeave a comment 
i found him broken on the floor
in pieces thick and red,
then waited for the help to come,
unwrapping all he'd said

my thoughts were quick and panicky,
my confidence, all air --
for no one solves a problem quite
like one whose never there

the lifting and the carrying,
the words of comfort soft,
the whiteness of the anodyne,
the hope i held aloft --

then someone said he'd be okay.
that broke the dams of grief:
there was no understanding this,
for all was disbelief

but what we cannot understand
we may see yet, and clear:
that broken red is everywhere
just waiting to

appear

Seaboard Station

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original Poems7 Comments

Twas 1933, and she
Was wide-eyed with elation
The day her father took her
Down to visit Seaboard Station

They went to fetch a parcel, he
Had ordered for her birthday
And all her senses teemed
In the commotion of the workday

The smell of wood, the colors
Of the banners in the rafters;
These lingered in her memory
Through many long thereafters

The working people gradually
Moved on, through relocation;
Until a silence fell upon
Abandoned Seaboard Station

She stood there in her nineties
With her grandson by her side;
Who looked at her with wondering
To see her misty-eyed

For she knows that no poetry,
No possible narration,
Could tell the tales of all the lives
That passed through Seaboard Station