IT COULD BE VERSE

A motley menu by poets and poetasters.
On this page:

COLLECTION A
-those by Bob Stumpf
COLLECTION B
-those by M.I.McCreight

THE BLACK FOREST CLOCK

A roof unweathered by storms without,
The numbered face unwrinkled by doubt,
The meshing gears in sanctum dark
Urge creeping hands to reach their mark
On time.

Hurried not, nor slowed by mind,
Controlled by weight of cosmic kind,
This measuring, beating masterpiece
Reflects to us without surcease
The time.

SURFACE FIND
In memory of Lew Jones

I lost a friend I didn't know,
I didn't know ten years ago.
We looked for relics, he and I
Together under God's blue sky.

We searched the fields completely free
From this world's incivility,
Looking for links with Man's old past,
For flint, for stone, for things that last.

And after walking half the day
We'd meet. "Find anything?" he'd say.

Most times I'd not found much worthwhile
But then I'd think with inward smile,
The search is over. In the end
I'd found much more, I'd found a friend.

A MAIDEN SMILE

I would not dare describe you as some greater poet might
Compare you to a rose or to a high star shining bright.
Because you're truly human, having faults and virtues, too.
But rather would I tell the charm my senses see in you -
The mixture of your girlishness with woman's inner fire
Is potion of your beauty which can flame my least desire,
Your smile at me perplexes, does it comprehend the fact
That your woman-part has power o'er my every thought and act,
Or is it undesigning as its outward look implies,
For there's still a spark of girlish unawareness in those eyes.

I've fought the fight since ninety-four
Explaining what an AT is for
To simple souls who have forgot
When AT is used, and when it's not.

In playing hide and seek today
The kids say, "Where you AT?", in play,
But as the child grows to a teen,
It's, "Where it's AT?" and "Where you been?"

Now on to college of his choice,
Where deans of English yet give voice
On where the prepositions go.
A rule that everyone should know.

So now with sheepskin in his hand,
Our grad is yet to understand
Just how this little word is used.
Let me explain if you're confused.

The reason that this word was coined
When always to another joined
Would indicate the function best,
Like, "He is dead and now AT rest."

Or, "Please don't aim that gun AT me!"
"I will retire AT sixty-three."
"I'm sick AT heart." "Laugh AT my joke."
"It was AT midnight I awoke."

This short, short word is never left
Out on a limb and all bereft.
The old cop show was right AT that.
"Car Fifty-four, Where Are You?"........AT

THE COLOR OF THE DAY

Sifting slowly from the sky
The snowflakes dancing gracefully
Upon chill wind 'til by and by
They grasp and hold tenaciously
-To all the landmarks on their way.

For snowfall has no eyes to see
The gap 'tween objects of the sewer
And peaks of natural beauty,
But clothes them each in radiant, pure,
-Shining white: The Color of the Day.

SPRING BUOYANCE

Mt. Nittany drapes herself in Spring attire,
And, gazing at sunrise on her supine form,
The shimmer on the pink and white seems afire
With promise of a Summer glad and warm.

The people of the Valley emerge again
From silent Winter's sluggish drowsiness,
For here's the hopeful time of year when
Plans are activated in songful happiness.

Bright-hued blossoms subtly recall to mind
The future Autumn reflecting rays of setting sun,
And so imparting an inner urge to find
A bulging harvest and summer's work well done.

THROUGH THE WINDOW

Someone lit the candle;
Someone fed the bird;
Someone crossed the bridge
To hear His holy word.

His church is ever ready
Where we can join in praise
Of Him who loves us ever
Through all our live-long days.

Join in the hallelujahs
Sung out in celebration
Of Him who came to give us
His gift of our salvation!

Sending glad tidings of great joy to you this year of 2006.

Bob Stumpf and Family

THE FISHERMAN'S LINE; A Sonnet On It

Birthday Greetings to you, Pop.
May your fish tales never stop.
But now the state has mixed, it seems,
A new solution to the streams
Which may or may not be for best.
This summer sure will be the test.

For when the plugs again are cast
As Allegheny rushes past,
You may thank who authorized
That all big fish be "sanforized."

But should the small ones need distending,
(The better with the big ones blending.)
I hope they'll all grow over nine
And never shrink for lack of "line">

And to think I didn't even buy a poetic license yet.
Love, Bob

February

"The shortest month of the year", they say.
That's true if you're counting it day by day.
But while you're waiting for Spring to show,
It dawdles and shuffles along in SLOW.

Three years we plod through twenty-eight,
But in the fourth we have to wait
For twenty-nine to inch along.
Who added it was surely wrong.

Could we not better use that day
If added to the month of May?
By then the groundhog's left his lair,
And flowers bloom most everywhere.

A much more pleasant atmosphere
Than winter's cold and snow so drear.
But till our second month is lopped,
I vote that everyone adopt
A winter sport to while away
The time until that first Spring day!

FEELING LOW?

"There were better days behind us."
And that memory reminds us
That our hopes today shall find us
Thinking of the days ahead.

When the Lord who is above us,
Who has promised now to love us,
Will most surely take care of us.
"By His hand we all are fed."

MODERN MIDDENS

† THE PREACHER'S DREAM †

I wonder, thought the pastor, if they'll come today to pray.
Or if they have a need to worship Him who leads the Way.
Are they filled to overflowing with the thankfulness of love
For Him who gives them life and breath descending from above?

I hope that they are really not depending on man's way
Of filling their reserves of strength to meet their "come what may".
But would that they will use their church to have their cup filled full
With lessons from the mountain top and from the Golden Rule.

The hour was fast approaching when the service would begin.
As the preacher called on high for the Lord's help deep within.
He was used to dwindling numbers 'cept for high days twice a year.
Would he ever reach his full flock with the words that they should hear?

Now remember he was dreaming, as this story can't be true,
For he went inside and found the members filling every pew!

THROUGH THE WINDOW

Someone lit the candle;
Someone fed the bird;
Someone crossed the bridge
To hear His holy word.

His church is ever ready
Where we can join in praise
Of Him who loves us ever
Through all our live-long days.

Join in the hallelujahs
Sung out in celebration
Of Him who came to give us
His gift of our salvation!

Sending glad tidings of great joy to you this year of 2006.

The Stumpf Family

ON SOLDIER HILL

The Flags are flying on Soldier Hill
For those that lie there, silent, still.
Each Flag a symbol of its own
For some who marched, for some who'd flown
To meet their destiny unknown,
Like all brave men of centuries past
They won their laurels, and at last
Can sleep in peace on Soldier Hill.

--M.Swisher

ON MY KNEES

When things begin to worry me
I feel all old and want to be
Just let alone and wait and see
If something good could happen me
I know I'm wrong.

I take the book so old and true
And search its pages through and through
To find some gleam of hope and light
To guide and lead me back ere night.

I do not want the Lord to find
That I have lagged so far behind
When other sheep press in the fold
And I've not done what I was told.

I'm not supposed to think strange thought
Or follow roads ---when I've been taught
To trust the Lord --I follow him.
Another way would be a sin.

He has a way I know not of
Of bringing good to all who love
And do their good to fellowman
Instead of grabbing all they can

So, on my knees I'll stay a while
And wait until I feel Him smile.
Then time and things will fade away
When we give God our trust each day.

---L. Quinlan

COLLECTION B -those by M.I.McCreight

OPEN SEASON for the DOE HUNTER - 1947

When the sun sinks low and the hills are white;
when mother does are hungry and tame;
Mighty Hunter - special license bright
slips away for his share of the game.

Tho he suffers all the discomforts of hell ---
he'll go hungry and sleepless, and freeze
For his doe-fawn kill, and boastfully tell
how fawn-stew blends in with his cheese.

So, stealthful, he hides in a quiet nook
where an innocent wild thing might pass
On its way to drink at a tiny brook -
or nibble wild moss or some grass.

At sight of the gentle lamb-like doe,
or a fawn that would follow a child,
Mighty Hunter shivers from head to toe -
and tries hard to be reconciled.

Doe stamps and looks - from her big round eyes;
Mighty Hunter grips his Remington;
he shakes and chokes, holding low and high
in vain effort to steady his gun.

Flash! He repeats with the second volley;
down comes doe - from the double shot.
Up courage - 'twasn't fear - only folly --
doesn't license show it was legally got!

Doe crumpled and fell in a lifeless heap -
Hunter sheathed his knife in her slender neck:
he's sorry now - but - the hide will keep -
paid, with his license, and cancelled check!

She, he had taught freedom, he murders now
for the good of the great sporting guild -
which wrote Bill of Rights - for Man anyhow -
doesn't say that all else be Not killed!

And the papers say that four hundred thousand Mighty Hunters are on the deer trail this week.

Wigwam, Nov. 30, 1947
M. I. McCreight

True happiness will only come
To him who sees and properly defines
The passing show; 'tis only for the one
Who reads the bill and knows the lines
Aright.

This card admits you to the Human play
Where seats are choice.
'Though price is high,
It guarantees you pleasure all the way,
From Overture to Curtain-fall.

M.I. McCreight

CHRISTMAS 1914

In age-old Yuletide once it was proclaimed:
"Peace on earth; good will toward all!"
Once sacred unto Christians killed and maimed;
Those now living repeat; then fight and fall.

CHRISTMAS 1915

So here is penned at this year's end
A note of gloom and sadness,
'Tis this I send to you, my friend,
Instead of word of gladness:
My heart is stone when nations moan
For dying---dead of Mammon.
It turns to ash when rifles flash
From men at breast of woman.

CHRISTMAS 1916

They sometimes call me Pessimist;
I own 'tis partly true.
When Girls are killed
Instead of kissed
I do get sort of blue.
I'd always be an Optimist
If killing Men would do,
When "wife," "child," "mother,"
Swells the list
I say:"Let's quit," don't you?

A CHRISTMAS PRAYER - 1916

Father of all! we humbly beg of Thee
To give us power;
We ask Thy aid in this,
Earth's darkest hour.

Send Thou abroad a trumpet call
That shall dissolve war's battle pall.
Send forth a message that will bring
Back from barbarism, men who sing
Proudly their hatred of fellow men,-
They who butcher and kill and pen
Their brothers in foul prisons.

We ask Thee to forever quench
The deadly blast, that Teuton, French
And Briton long have fanned;
Flames that consume the thing Thy hand,
Once beautiful, sublime and grand,
Had'st age on age created.

Utter Thy proclamation unto king
And czar and kaiser. Let them bring
Back to widows: husbands, sons;
To mothers: babes; to maids: loved ones.
Set'st Thou again in time and place
To working, by Thy kindly grace,
The laws of Thy Divinity.

CHRISTMAS GREETING - 1918

My compliments to you, my friend!
Christmas comes in the world of men.
My greeting goes to you from pen
Fed from a crimson sod.

I've written these few lines to send
My love these hopeful holidays.
Good health! Success in other ways!
Tho sadness is abroad.

If men in needless wars contend
And millions have bled and died,
There still remains true hearts and tried--
Still, there remains a God.

---M. I. McCreight
DuBois, Pa.

CHRISTMAS 1925

The only God the Red Man knows
is the one that gives him light;
gives birth to seed; to stream that flows;
to worms and the birds of flight.

To the Sun his supplications go;
the Power that shines above;
that gives and governs life below,---
to all things that live and love.

I'm sending a bit of sunshine
for painting red on your face;
it will be your future countersign
as one of the colored Race.

CHRISTMAS 1937

[This postcard poem sent to M.I.'s grand-daughter, Janet, who was in West Penn school of nursing, Pittsburgh. Added note:"To all the M.D.'s that I met and also the girls, my Squaws."]

For ages the sun has come and gone,-
Lighting trails for her sons and daughters.
The moon shines only from dark to dawn
For fairies to dance on the waters.

Always the Red man's trail grows dimmer,
Like shadows that tell of the night,-
Fading away with but a glimmer,
To guide them from turning left or right.

But soon another bright sun will rise
Over the Hunting Ground's golden gate,
Where they will open anew their eyes

On a life with a happier fate.

THE OLD WEDDING GOWN

Down the Long Trail we've skidded along,
over the ups and downs.
There was sorrow and gladness
but in this time of Madness
the old Smiles are mostly frowns.

We've seen the old world made over;
it isn't at all what it was;
Then we walked or rode saddles
ate our taffy from paddles
and wore mustaches, mostly of fuzz.

But now, as the Trail grows dimmer,
and the grade tends rapidly down,
We've put on the brakes,
taboo'd cocktails and cakes
and brushed up the wedding gown.

Tho' now it's half a century old
it still holds a potent charm;
Its lace and its frills
for us always has thrills,
For it's sacred to those at the Farm.

But the filmy tress of blue and gold
is meaningless,-all of itself;
'Twas the girl it contained
and the place she has gained
atop of the highest shelf.

The mother, and 'grand' of twenty-two,
a flock that cannot be beat;
Count thirteen boys and nine of girls,
the youngest with frizzles and curls,
and all of them on their own feet.

So now on the Golden Wedding Day
they come for felicitation,
to shake hands and go
to rejoin the Big Show
that is making or breaking a nation.

If they just remember the wedding gown,
and the spirit that fashioned and wore it,
they will not go far wrong,
and the time won't be long
when the PEOPLE wake up to restore it.

Tchanta Tanka (M.I.McCreight), for Reunion at his and Alice's 50th. Wedding Anniversary, July 20,1937.

WAR II DECEMBER 1943

For three centuries the white man fought the red--
robbed him of his birthright--slew his race;
but when the Hun and Jap thrust up their dragon-head
who but the red man saves the white man's face!

He heads the Marines in jungle path--by day or night--his cushioned feet trails Nippon to his death
with his unerring aim--as fatal too at airplane height
as his torpedo is from submarine at depth.

His dialect by radio from every warring front
alone outsmarts the cunning foreign message-spy;
nor does he ask deferment--as is white man's ready want,
but fights, buys bonds in millions. And whites wonder why!

DECEMBER 1946

White man's world war II is over--
war that Indians helped to win--
who, ready to fight by day or night!
and never fled from danger.

Now and then they went to cover
to save a scalp from bomb-pin
but with war club and hatchet ever bright
they rounded up Huns like a ranger.
They never complained nor ever explained
why or how wars are won by the redskin.



	home	next page