IT COULD BE VERSE

COLLECTION E -various poets and wags

REMEMBER

When to the flowers so beautiful
The Father gave a name,
Back came a little blue-eyed one
(All timidly it came):
And standing at its Father's feet.
And gazing in His face,
It said in low and trembling tones,
"Dear God, the name Thou gavest me,
Alas! I have forgot."
Kindly the Father looked Him down,
And said, "Forget-Me-Not."

FLOWERS FOR MOTHER STUMPF

How sweet to think at close of day
You've blest someone along the way
Or as the day draws to a close
That you have earned a night's repose.
How fine to live a long life through
With hosts of friends to honor you
And as you count each closing year
To feel that they are glad you're here.
I'm thinking of a friend like this
Whose life a benediction is.
She soon will reach her fourscore five.
We hope she's many more to live.

An "April lady" fair was she
Of dainty personality.
In youth she gave her heart and hand
To one who followed the command,
Go tell the tidings far and wide
"That men might live, the Saviour died."
Right nobly did she do her part,
She worked with head and hand and heart.
And now she takes a well-earned rest.
By two devoted daughters blest.
Three stalwart sons, pride of her age
Their mother's daily prayers engage.
Her daily walk is witness meet
For Him who makes a life complete.

Now as we scan the dear, kind face
And every honored furrow trace,
We find life's story written there
The imprint of each joy and care.
Some tell of resignation calm
When faith applied her healing balm
And joyous hope and love were blent
To leave a record of content.
Some furrows tell of conflicts won,
Some, deep concern for girl or son,
How make one dollar cover two
As most of preachers' wives must do;
And some by broken heart were sent
When from her arm some dear one went.
Beauty in youth is accident;
Beauty in age means life well spent.

And when her sands of life run low,
May there be radiant evening glow;
And may the clouds all lift at night,
For her may "evening time be light."

--- Written in honor of Emma Yount Stumpf's 85th birthday by Flora M. King, Columbus, IN for April 25, 1941.

*Note--Granddad Adam Stumpf died before my birth. This poem reflects well the person of Grandmother Emma Stumpf. She was unfailingly polite and bore herself as a regal commoner. I never saw her dressed in anything other than long-sleeve high-necked dainty-patterned lilac or light-blue (to match her eyes) long-skirted dresses. I presume she wore a frilly apron when she cooked. ---R.A.Stumpf

AS TO FLIES AND OINTMENT

Life's little ills annoyed me
When life's little ills were few.
And one little fly in the ointment
Put me in a terrible stew.

But experience has taught me
Life's little joys to prize.
Now, I'm glad to find some ointment
In my little pot of flies.

JESUS LOVES ME--Senior Version

Jesus loves me, this I know,
Though my hair is white as snow,
Though my sight is growing dim,
Still He bids me trust in Him.

CHORUS

Yes, Jesus loves me,
Yes, Jesus loves me,
Yes, Jesus loves me.
The Bible tells me so.

Though my steps are,oh, so slow,
With my hand in His I'll go.
On through life let come what may
He'll be there to lead the way.

Though I am no longer young
I have much which He's begun.
Let me serve Christ with a smile
Go with others the extra mile.

When the nights are dark and long,
In my heart He puts a song,
Telling me in words so clear,
Have no fear for I am near.

When my work on earth is done,
And life's battles have been won,
He will take me home above
In the fullness of His love.

THE MYSTIC ROLL

But we hold them in sweet memory
And we know they are not dead
To the heavenly land eternal
They've just slipt away ahead.

And ere long we know we'll meet them
In the realms of endless day
When our tasks on earth are finished
And like them we've gone away.

Great and many the reunions
In that "Land of Yet to Be"
Where there'll be no separations
Throughout all eternity.

1920

Here's a joyful Christmas greeting,
And I'm mighty glad to send it.
If you've a broken head or heart
I hope today will mend it,
And that the New Year stretching out
With all its days before you,
Will bring enough of everything
Completely to restore you.

---Spencer M. Free

CHRISTMAS 1938

The Pessimist

Why should we try, when things seem all awry;
Why strive to whip our spirits high,
When heaven knows, we've cause enough to sigh.

Why spend our scanty coins for gauds and toys,
When over seas, men die mid clash and noise;
Why celebrate, when worlds have lost their poise.

Why rely on Heaven to heed their anguished cries,
When death to all rains from the very skies;
And Mercy hides her face and freedom dies.

The Optimist

Would you then have us silent be when wrong prevails?
Bow heads in truckling shame when lustful greed assails?
Seek coward's shelter, when ruthless power rides the gales?

Pray then, has honor lost all charm for men?
Is courage but a sorry invention of the tongue and pen?
Is love but a tawdry jade, kept hid from human ken?

Nay, ten thousand years of human groping in the dark,
Ten thousand years of searching for a Divine spark,
Have taught us FAITH, shrined in a covenantal Ark.

Faith supplies to human mind our life's most pressing need;
Faith teaches us that Goodness yields a reproducing seed;
And Virtue is the certain product of unselfish deed.

Faith and Courage are right's most potent shield;
Before which tyrant power must ever surely yield;
Leaving Truth and Justice full victors of the field.

Bruce B. McCreight - DuBois, PA -Dec. 23rd., 1938

THE DIRTY OLD MAN - A Lay of Leadenhall

[A singular man, named Nathaniel Bentley, for many years kept a large hardware-shop in Leadenhall Street, London. He was best known as Dirty Dick (Dick, for alliteration's sake, probably), and his place of business as the Dirty Warehouse. He died about the year 1809. These verses accord with the accounts respecting himself and his house.]

In a dirty old house lived a Dirty Old Man;
Soap, towels, or brushes were not in his plan.
For forty long years, as the neighbors declared,
His house never once had been cleaned or repaired.

'Twas a scandal and shame to the business-like street,
One terrible blot in a ledger so neat:
The shop full of hardware, but black as a hearse,
And the rest of the mansion a thousand times worse.

Outside, the old plaster, all spatter and stain,
Looked spotty in sunshine and streaky in rain;
The window-sills sprouted with mildewy grass,
And the panes from being broken were known to be glass.

On the rickety sign-board no learning could spell
The merchant who sold, or the goods he'd to sell;
But for house and for man a new title took growth,
Like a fungus,--the Dirt gave its name to them both.

Within, there were carpets and cushions of dust,
The wood was half rot, and the metal half rust,
Old curtains, half cobwebs, hung grimly aloof;
'Twas a Spiders' Elysium from cellar to roof.

There, king of the spiders, the Dirty Old Man
Lives busy and dirty as ever he can;
With dirt on his fingers and dirt on his face,
For the Dirty Old Man thinks the dirt no disgrace.

From his wig to his shoes, from his coat to his shirt,
His clothes are a proverb, a marvel of dirt;
The dirt is pervading, unfading, exceeding,--
Yet the Dirty Old Man has both learning and breeding.

Fine dames from their carriages, noble and fair,
Have entered his shop, less to buy than to stare;
And have afterwards said, though the dirt was so frightful,
The Dirty Man's manners were truly delightful.

Upstairs might they venture, in dirt and in gloom,
To peep at the door of the wonderful room
Such stories are told about, none of them true!--
The keyhole itself has no mortal seen through.

That room,--forty years since, folk settled and decked it.
The luncheon's prepared, and the guests are expected,
The handsome young host he is gallant and gay,
For his love and her friends will be with him today.

With solid and dainty the table is drest,
The wine beams its brightest, the flowers bloom their best;
Yet the host need not smile, and no guests will appear,
For his sweetheart is dead, as he shortly will hear.

Full forty years since turned the key in that door.
"Tis a room deaf and dumb mid the city's uproar.
The guests, for whose joyance that table was spread,
May now enter as ghosts, for they're every one dead.

Through a chink in the shutter dim lights come and go;
The seats are in order, the dishes a-row;
But the luncheon was wealth to the rat and the mouse
Whose descendants have long left the Dirty Old House.

Cup and platter are masked in thick layers of dust;
The flowers fallen to powder, the wine swathed in crust;
A nosegay was laid before one special chair.
And the faded blue ribbon that bound it lies there.

The old man has played out his part in the scene.
Wherever he now is, I hope he's more clean.
Yet give we a thought free of scoffing or ban
To that Dirty Old House and that Dirty Old Man.

-William Allingham

A CRABBIT OLD WOMAN WROTE THIS....

What do you see, nurses; what do you see?
Are you thinking when you are looking at me...
A crabbit old woman, not very wise,
Uncertain of habit, with far-away eyes,
Who dribbles her food and makes no reply
When you say, in a loud voice, "I do wish you'd try!"
Who seems not to notice the things that you do,
And is forever losing a stocking or shoe.
Who, unresisting or not, lets you do as you will
With bathing, and feeding...the long day to fill.
Is that what you're thinking, is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse; you're not looking at me!

I'll tell you who I am as I sit here so still,
As I rise at your bidding, as I eat at your will.
I'm a small child of ten with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters, who love one another.
A young girl of sixteen with wings on her feet,
Dreaming that soon now a lover she'll meet...
A bride soon at twenty--my heart gives a leap
Remembering the vows that I promised to keep...
At twenty-five now, I have young of my own,
Who need me to build a secure, happy home.

A woman of thirty, my young now grow fast,
Bound to each other with ties that should last.
At forty, my young sons have grown and are gone,
But my man's beside me to see I don't mourn.
At fifty, once more babies play 'round my knee,
Again we know children, my loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me, my husband is dead,
I look at the future; I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing young of their own,
And I think of the years and the love that I've known.

I'm an old woman now and Nature is cruel...
'Tis her jest to make old age look like a fool.
The body is crumbled, grace and vigor depart;
There is now a stone where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass a young girl still dwells,
And, now and again, my battered heart swells.
I remember the joys..I remember the pain,
And I'm loving and living life over again.
I think of the years all too few-gone too fast,
And accept the stark fact that nothing can last.
So, open your eyes, nurses...open and see
Not a crabbit old woman; look closer...see ME!

Note: This poem was found among the meager possessions of an old lady, "Kate", who was unable to speak, but was occasionally seen to write. When she died in the geriatric ward of Ashludie Hospital, near Dundee, Scotland, it was assumed that she had nothing of any value; then the nurse, going through her things, found this poem. The quality of this so impressed the staff that copies were distributed to every nurse in the hospital.

A Nurse's Replyx
(To the 'Crabbit Old Woman')

What do we see, you ask, what do we see?
Yes, we are thinking when looking at thee!
We may seem to be hard when we hurry and fuss,
But there's many of you, and too few of us.
We would like far more time to sit by you and talk,
To bath you and feed you and help you to walk.
To hear of your lives and the things you have done;
Your childhood, your husband, your daughter, your son.
But time is against us, there's too much to do -
Patients too many, and nurses too few.

We grieve when we see you so sad and alone,
With nobody near you, no friends of your own.
We feel all your pain, and know of your fear
That nobody cares now your end is so near.
But nurses are people with feelings as well,
And when we're together you'll often hear tell
Of the dearest old Gran in the very end bed,
And the lovely old Dad, and the things that he said,
We speak with compassion and love, and feel sad
When we think of your lives and the joy that you've had,
When the time has arrived for you to depart,
You leave us behind with an ache in our heart.
When you sleep the long sleep, no more worry or care,
There are other old people, and we must be there.
So please understand if we hurry and fuss -
There are many of you, and too few of us.

ODE TO A BED PAN

While recovering from my operation
I was terribly annoyed
For the toilet was denied me
And the bed pan was employed.

I much preferred the bath room
But the nurse just shook her head
And said, "You're much too weak to think
Of getting out of bed.".

My experience with the bed pan
To this day makes me quail
And so I've been prevailed upon
To tell this harrowing tale.

In the wee small hours of morning
Before the break of day
Came a warning I could neither
Ignore nor yet delay.

The nurse brought me the bed pan
Slipped it under my backside
While chills ran up and down my spine
As the cold thing touched my hide.

I tipped back on my shoulders
Soon my legs were stiff and numb
The odds were all against me
I'd die ere it would come.

In this upside down position
The leverage was not there
But with a little effort
I passed a little air.

When at last I got results
I then grew faint with dread
I wondered if it hit the pan
Or was it in the bed.

My heart was weakly fluttering
I felt with cautious care
With a sigh of satisfaction
I discovered nothing there.

But my troubles were not over
As I was soon to find
For how was I to manage
To wipe the place behind.

My muscles in my back bulged out
As I stood upon my head
And made a few wild passes
And fell weakly out of bed.

With patience I continued
Regardless of my pain
For modesty prevented me
From leaving any stain.

I had no more than finished
The Herculean feat
When I became aware of something
Sticking on my sheet.

Cold sweat beaded on my brow
As I slowly raised my gown
And there upon my snow white sheet
Was a hideous spot of brown.

So the law of gravitation
Has proved as sure as fate
That you can't stand upon your head
When you evacuate.

'Twas there I vowed a fervent prayer
As a soul in anguish can
For someone to improve upon
That medieval pan.
Sick people often do grow worse
And I know the reason why
The bed pan is the rack on which
They're tortured till they die.

There is a future for some genius
To invent some kind of diaper
Or a back-adjusting thunder mug
With an automatic wiper.

RESOLUTION

Beauty ostentatious,
Rich as set cream;
Roses, sodden with scent,
Drip a red seam
In grass like emerald.

Summer confident
Spreads light and languid
As the sound of bells
In vaulted liquid,
Near mute, and manifold.

I will be cautious
With close-clipped senses,
For I well remember
The snow-sunk fences,
The roses dead of cold.

Edna Stumpf
March 1962

When a bit of sunshine hits ye,
After passing of a cloud,
When a fit of laughter gits ye
An' ye'r spine is feelin' proud,
Don't fergit to up and fling it
At a soul that's feelin' blue,
For the minit that ye sling it
It's a boomerang to you.

--Capt. Jack Crawford

ROSEBUD

It is only a tiny rosebud
A flower of God's design;
But I cannot unfold the petals
With these clumsy hands of mine.

The secret of unfolding flowers
Is not known to such as I.
GOD opens this flower so sweetly,
When, in my hands, they die.

If I cannot unfold a rosebud,
The flower of God's design,
Then how can I have the wisdom
To unfold this life of mine?

So, I'll trust in Him for leading
Each moment of my day.
I will look to Him for His guidance
Each step of the Pilgrim's way.

The pathway that lies before me
Only my Heavenly Father knows.
I'll trust him to unfold the moments,
Just as He unfolds the rose.

Anon.

THE LITTLE THINGS

Oh, it's just the little homely things,
The unobtrusive friendly things,
The "Won't you let me help you" things
That make our pathway light.

And it's just the jolly, joking things,
The "Never mind the trouble" things,
The "Laugh with me, it's funny" things
That make the world seem bright.

For all the countless famous things,
The wondrous record-breaking things,
Those never can be equalled things
That all the papers cite,

Aren't like the little human things,
The everyday-encountered things,
The "just because I like you" things
That make us happy quite.

So, here's to all the little things,
The done and then forgotten things,
Those "Oh, it's simply nothing" things
That make Life worth the fight.

THE WORLD IS MINE

Today upon the bus I saw a girl with golden hair.
She seemed so gay I envied her and wished that I were half so fair.
I watched her as she rose to leave and saw her hobble down the aisle;
She had one leg and wore a crutch, but as she passed---a smile.
Oh, God, forgive me when I whine;
I have two legs and the world is mine.

Later on I bought some sweets. The boy who sold them had such charm,
I thought I'd stop and talk awhile. If I were late, 'twould do no harm.
And as we talked he said, "Thank you, sir. You've really been so kind.
It's nice to talk to folks like you because, you see, I'm blind."
Qh, God, forgive me when I whine;
I have two eyes and the world is mine.

Later walking down the street I met a boy with eyes so blue;
But he stood and watched the others play---it seemed he knew not what to do.
I paused, and then I said, "Why don't you join the others, dear?"
But he looked straight ahead without a word, and then I knew he couldn't hear.
Oh, God, forgive me when I whine;
I have two ears and the world is mine.

Two legs to take me where I go;
Two eyes to see the sunset's glow;
Two ears to hear all that I should know.
Oh, God, forgive me when I whine;
I'm blest indeed--this world is mine. -----anonymous

LONGIN' FER YOU

I reckon the reason I feel like I do,
So kinda dissatisfied, lonesome an' blue,
So plumb full of yearnin' an' hankerin's clear through,
Is jes' 'cause I'm longin' an' wishin' fer you.

--- anonymous

TO ALL PARENTS

"I'll lend you, for a little while, a child of mine," He said,
"For you to love while he lives, and mourn when he is dead.
It may be six or seven years, or twenty-two, or three,
But will you, 'til I call him back, take care of him for me?
He'll bring his charms to gladden you, and shall his stay be brief,
You'll have his lovely memories as solace for your grief."

"I cannot promise he will stay, as all from earth return,
But there are lessons taught down there I want this child to learn.
I've looked the wide world over in my search for teachers true,
And from the throngs that crowd life's lanes, I have selected you.
Now will you give him all your love---not think the labor vain,
Nor hate me when I come to call to take him back again."

"I fancied that I heard them say," 'Dear Lord, thy will be done.
For all the joy this child shall bring, the risk of grief we'll run.
We'll shower him with tenderness and love him while we may,
And for the happiness we've known, forever grateful stay.
And should the angels call for him much sooner than we planned,
We'll brave the bitter grief that comes, and try to understand.'

---Author unknown

PASS IT ON

Have you had a kindness shown?
Pass it on!
'Twas not given for thee alone,
Pass it on!
Let it travel down the years,
Let it wipe another's tears,
Till in heav'n the deed appears---
Pass it on.

Did you hear the loving word?
Pass it on;
Like the singing of the bird?
Pass it on;
Let its music live and grow,
Let it cheer another's woe;
You have reaped what others sow,
Pass it on.

'Twas the sunshine of a smile,
Pass it on;
Staying but a little while!
Pass it on;
April beam, the little thing,
Still it makes the flow'rs of spring,
Makes the silent birds to sing---
Pass it on.

Have you found the heav'nly light?
Pass it on.
Souls are groping in the night,
Daylight gone;
Hold thy lighted lamp on high,
Be a star in someone's sky,
He may live who else would die---
Pass it on.

Be not selfish in thy greed,
Pass it on;
Look upon thy brother's need,
Pass it on;
Live for self, you live in vain;
Live for Christ, you live again;
Live for Him, with Him you reign---
Pass it on.

€ Anonymous

Well That Will Never Run Dry

by James P. Speer, Lack. Twp., Mercer Co., PA

I spent all my life in the desert,
I know what it is to be dry...
So I dream of clear, cold water
From a well that will never run dry.

Some folks may dream about whiskey-
Maybe bourbon or rye...
So I dream of clear, cold water
From a well that will never run dry.

I know the heat and dust of the desert
Where there is seldom a cloud in the sky...
So I dream of clear, cold water
From a well that will never run dry.

When I leave this place in the desert
And go to my home in the sky,
I hope they will have some green pasture...
And a well that will never run dry.

FARMERS HAVE FAITH
by Ralph G. Johnston, Apple Castle, 2006

We need the faith of the farmer
Who every morning will rise
And start his daily labors
No matter how gloomy the skies.

Who plows and discs and harrows
His field 'til level and fine
Then sows the seed of his choosing
To feed your family and mine.

He believes his investment in labor
And cash for plant food and seed
Will be supplemented with sunshine
And moisture to fill every need.

But sometimes for grievous reasons
The crop is a failure, what then?
He hitches the plow to the tractor
And heads for the fields again.

MERRILL'S MARAUDERS

Note: During World War II, I was fortunate in that I flew OVER the jungles of Burma instead of walking THROUGH them. This poem gives an inkling of what I missed. -RAS

By Lt. Charlton Ogburn,Jr.

Where the Jap has placed his outposts,
Where his road-blocks guard the trail,
Where the lone patrol is moving,
As the dark begins to pale;
There's a whisper through the jungle,
There are shadows on the tracks,
And the sentry wheels to fire
When a twig behind him cracks.

For Merrill's men are marching,
They've been seen at Masakawng;
They have crossed the Tanai River,
And they're threatening Warong.
Jungle trails are close and silent;
Merrill's troops move swift and far;
They may pass today through Sharaw
And tomorrow through Sana__.

Tokyo has maps of Burma
That will show whence they have come.
See that red line down the Hukawng,
See the cross at Walawbum?
There's another at Shaduzup,
And below, Inkangahtawng.
The Marauders' roll of victories
Is both barbarous and long.

From Nhpum Ga on to Ritpong,
(Add a cross at each of these.)
Red lines lead to Myitkyina--
Just you ask the Japanese.
Stealthy files that strike and vanish,
No one knows where they may be,
Till the Browning automatics
Leave dead Japs for Japs to see.

But if you want to see us,
There's a way you can't go wrong.
Pick a trail that goes behind them
Where our enemies are strong.
Where the trail goes through a rice field
You may see the column clear;
But--we're not so much to look at,
And we're worse than that to hear.

Comes a line of weary scarecrows,
Bearded, pale, unclean and hot.
Never would you think of soldiers,
(Which we wish that we were not).
"Damn the mountains!" How we curse them!
"Damn the food, or what there is.
"Damn the mules, and General (Censored).
"God, we wish our feet were his!"

"Regiment of volunteers--"
Well, it's true, and it's because
Everyone had reasons why he
Did not like it where he was.
We're the misfits of the Army
That the system can't digest;
There's but one way to control us,
And it's not to let us rest .

Doctors, farmers, drunkards, failures,
There's no trait we share but one;
We have to butt our heads into those
Things that aren't or can't be done.
"Put 'em on---The column's moving!"
Come on, then, you're not yet dead.
And there's fighting left a-plenty
While the trail still leads ahead.

Let the fevers try to stop us;
We've got dysentery now;
Still we'll keep the column rolling,
Though we could not say just how.
Half a thousand miles we've walked,
Over hills in rain and heat,
And the marches all have measured
That much more of Jap retreat.

For Merrill's men are marching;
We have come both fast and far,
And we've opened northern Burma
From Maingkwan to Myitkyina;
And there'll be no final halting
(So we fear it's bound to be)
Till the last mule's legs have buckled
Or we've reached the China Sea.

[Note: But the following poem does reflect the ultimate of what I could have experienced if I had been scheduled for a certain flight., RAS]

THE FLIGHT of NO RETURN
by Sunny Young

"A streak of silver in the sky... the engines roar... propellers try...To lift the giant screaming plane... above the mountains drenched with rain..

Black ominous clouds and gale winds blow... amid the ice and swirling snow..As plane and crew, with every breath... tries to win a fight with death...

To climb above the snow capped peak... a place not for the very weak...The plane is in a mighty grip... the crew can hear the metal rip...

As suction lifts them like a kite... above the peaks into the night...Then, just as quickly dropped like snow... into the jutting rocks below...

Time has run out for plotted goals... a cry aloud, "God save our souls"!...A crash like thunder, a flash of light... then silence in the blackened night...

Crumpled engines, wings and tail... help pave the "Hump's" Aluminum Trail...A dog tag here... a jacket there, a picture worn by love and care...

A parachute unopened lay... no time to jump, no time to pray...In this far, forgotten place, of jungles, mountains, rocks and space...

The wreckage lay like broken toys... discarded by mischievous boys...And boys they were of tender years... and families weep in silent tears...

To know the sacrifice they made... the part their gift for freedom played...Lieutenants, Captains, Sergeants too... Privates, maintenance, or crew...

Whatever rank, whatever job... they did their best with each heart throb...Some gave their lives to save a friend... a brother to the very end...

They gave their lives, so we might live... what more can any person give?"

Folks-- This poem was written by Joe Rojahn, a friend of ours from Dallastown, a suburb of York, PA., after he saw the film, The Passion of The Christ. He is a retired school teacher and a Barbershop singer. A great guy. Jan

Calvary Witness

The skies grew black, the winds were chill,
As I approached Golgotha's hill;
A cross stood there for all to see,
Today I witnessed Calvary.

And there crowned with a crown of thorns,
With hands and feet by nails fresh torn;
My Lord hung high upon that tree,
Today I prayed at Calvary.

His loved ones watched through helpless tears,
His foes drew nigh to mock and jeer;
"Forgive them," was His anguished plea,
Today I wept at Calvary.

"It's finished," then he weakly cried,
A Roman sword then pierced His side;
He drooped His head, the deed was done,
Today I mourned God's only Son.

And so before His cross I stand,
A witness to redemption's plan;
Today His love reached out to me,
His dying love at Calvary.

I'll not forget what happened here,
A world washed clean by blood and tears;
And through His sacrifice I see,
The dawn beyond dark Calvary!

Joseph D. Rojahn - 2004 -

PA WINTER

When it's winter in Pennsylvania, and the gentle breezes blow,
About seventy miles an hour and it's fifty-two below,
You can tell you're in Pennsylvania 'cause the snow's up to your butt,
And you take a breath of winter air and your nose holes both freeze shut,
The weather here is wonderful, so I guess I'll hang around,
I could never leave Pennsylvania because I'm frozen to the ground!

Author unknown

The following poem, I presume, was a favorite of the disabled son of a CBI veteran and his wife. I can imagine it was repeated to him daily until his death in his thirties.

If

If apples were pears
And peaches were plums
And the rose had a different name;
If tigers were bears
And fingers were thumbs
We'd love you just the same.

THE CIRCUIT RIDER

With touseled mane unruly,
Nor the shadow of a smile...
He proclaims hisself ta be
Parson Ebenezer Pyle!

The Territories preacher,
Got no parish of his own;
He rides his far-flung circuit
Black-frocked...lank as a bone!

He preaches Hell an' Brimstone,
An' Damnation of the soul;
But when his sermon's over...
A good stiff drink 's his goal!

He kisses all the babies,
An' he fondles the yung gurls,
He sez 'Love is a necklace...
All the females is its pearls!'

He thunders 'Hally-looyas,'
An' "Praise Lawd" by the pound;
Seduces lonesome housewives...
When their men-folk ain't around!

He romps with all the 'ladies'
Nightly at the bordello...
An' each wun ready vouches
That he's a robust fellow!

He rants about Intemperance
As a low-down, dirty sin...
But gets hisself a bottle
Each saloon wot he goes in!

One day down by the river,
A big gal, three hunnet pound;
Hung tight whilst bein' baptized,
An' por Parson Pyle wuz drowned!

-Ernest E. Wegner

I'm Glad You Are In My Dash

I read of a man who stood to speak
At the funeral of a friend.
He referred to the dates on her tombstone,
From the beginning...to the end.

He noted that first came her date of birth
And spoke the following date with tears,
But he said what mattered most of all
Was the dash between those years.

For that dash represents all the time
That she spent alive on earth...
And now only those who loved her,
Know what that little line is worth.

For it matters not, how much we own;
The cars...the house...the cash,
What matters is how we live and love
And how we spend our dash.

So think about this long and hard...
Are there things that should be changed?
For you never know how much time is left,
That can still be rearranged.

If we could just slow down enough
To consider what's true and real,
And always try to understand
The way other people feel

And be less quick to anger,
And show appreciation more
And love the people in our lives
Like we've never loved before.

If we treat each other with respect,
And more often wear a smile..
Remembering that this special dash
Might only last a little while.

So, when your eulogy's being read
With your life's actions to rehash...
Would you be proud of the things they say
About how you spent your dash?
----------------------------------------------------- ROSEBUD

It is only a tiny rosebud
A flower of God's design;
But I cannot unfold the petals
With these clumsy hands of mine.

The secret of unfolding flowers
Is not known to such as I.
GOD opens this flower so sweetly,
When, in my hands, they die.

If I cannot unfold a rosebud,
The flower of God's design,
Then how can I have the wisdom
To unfold this life of mine?

So, I'll trust in Him for leading
Each moment of my day.
I will look to Him for His guidance
Each step of the Pilgrim's way.

The pathway that lies before me
Only my Heavenly Father knows.
I'll trust him to unfold the moments,
Just as He unfolds the rose.

Author unknown

IF TOMORROW STARTS WITHOUT ME

[A few weeks ago a woman was killed in an auto accident. She was very well liked, so the office shut down for her funeral and it was on the news and so on. On the day the workers came back to work, they found this poem in their e-mail that the deceased woman had sent on Friday before she left for home.]

"If tomorrow starts without me,
And I'm not there to see,
If the sun should rise and find your eyes
all filled with tears for me;

I wish so much you wouldn't cry
the way you did today,
While thinking of the many things,
We didn't get to say.

I know how much you love me,
As much as I love you,
And each time that you think of me,
I know you'll miss me too;

But when tomorrow starts without me, Please try to understand,
that an angel came and called my name,
And took me by the hand,

And said my place was ready,
In heaven far above,
And that I'd have to leave behind
all those I dearly love.

But as I turned to walk away,
A tear fell from my eye,
For all my life, I'd always thought,
I didn't want to die.

I had so much to live for,
So much left yet to do,
it seemed almost impossible,
that I was leaving you.

I thought of all the yesterdays,
The good ones and the bad,
I thought of all that we shared,
And all the fun we had.

If I could relive yesterday,
Just even for a while,
I'd say good-bye and kiss you
and maybe see you smile.

But then I fully realized,
That this could never be,
For emptiness and memories,
would take the place of me.

And when I thought of worldly things,
I might miss some tomorrow,
I thought of you, and when I did,
My heart was filled with sorrow.

But when I walked through heaven's gates,
I felt so much at home.
When God looked down and smiled at me,
From His great golden throne,

He said, "This is eternity,
And all I've promised you."
Today your life on earth is past,
but here life starts anew.

I promise no tomorrow,
But today will always last,
and since each day is the same way,
There's no longing for the past.

So when tomorrow starts without me,
don't think we're far apart,
For every time you think of me,
I'm right here, in your heart "

Offered April 2005

XXXCHAMPAGNE, 1914-15
In the glad revels, in the happy f�tes,
When cheeks are flushed, and glasses gilt and pearled
With the sweet wine of France that concentrates
The sunshine and the beauty of the world,
Drink, sometimes, you whose footsteps yet may tread
The undisturbed, delightful paths of Earth,
To those whose blood, in pious duty shed,
Hallows the soil where that same wine had birth.
Here, by devoted comrades laid away,
Along our lines they slumber where they fell,
Beside the crater at the Ferme'
d'Alger And up the bloody slopes of La Pompelle,
And round the city whose cathedral towers
The enemies of Beauty dared profane,
And in the mat of multicolored flowers
That clothe the sunny chalk-fields of Champagne.
Under the little crosses where they rise
The soldier rests. Now round him undismayed
The cannon thunders, and at night he lies
At peace beneath the eternal fusillade....
That other generations might possess --
From shame and menace free in years to come --
A richer heritage of happiness,
He marched to that heroic martyrdom.
Esteeming less the forfeit that he paid
Than undishonored that his flag might float
Over the towers of liberty, he made
His breast the bulwark and his blood the moat.
Obscurely sacrificed, his nameless tomb
Bare of the sculptor's art, the poet's lines, Summer shall flush with poppy-fields in bloom,_
And Autumn yellow with maturing vines.
There the grape-pickers at their harvesting
Shall lightly tread and load their wicker trays,
Blessing his memory as they toil and sing
In the slant sunshine of October days.
I love to think that if my blood should be
So privileged to sink where his has sunk,
I shall not pass from Earth entirely,
But when the banquet rings, when healths are drunk,
And faces, that the joys of living fill,
Glow radiant with laughter and good cheer,
In beaming cups some spark of me shall still
Brim toward the lips that once I held so dear.
So shall one, coveting no higher plane
Than Nature clothes in color and flesh and tone,
Even from the grave put upward to attain
The dreams youth cherished and missed and might have known.
And that strong need that strove unsatisfied
Toward earthly beauty in all forms it wore,
Not death itself shall utterly divide
From the beloved shapes it thirsted for.
Alas, how many an adept, for whose arms
Life held delicious offerings, perished here --
How many in the prime of all that charms,
Crowned with all gifts that conquer and endear!
Honor them not so much with tears and flowers,
But you with whom the sweet fulfilment lies,
Where in the anguish of atrocious hours
Turned their last thoughts and closed their dying eyes,
Rather, when music on bright gatherings lays
Its tender spell, and joy is uppermost,
Be mindful of the men they were, and raise
Your glasses to them in one silent toast.
Drink to them --- amorous of dear Earth as well,
They asked no tribute lovelier than this --
And in the wine that ripened where they fell,
Oh, frame your lips as though it were a kiss.
ALAN SEEGER
SOLDIER OF THE FOREIGN LEGION
KILLED IN ACTION JULY 4, 1916
Yet, sought they neither recompense nor praise,
Nor to be mentioned in another breath
Than their blue-coated comrades whose great days
It was their pride to share, ay! Share even to death.
Nay, rather, France, to you they rendered thanks
(Seeing they came for honor, not for gain),
Who, opening to them your glorious ranks,
Gave them that grand occasion to excel,
That chance to live the life most free from stain
And that rare privilege of dying well.
From a poem written by him in memory of American Volunteers fallen for France, upon the occasion of a memorial service held before the Lafayette-Washington statue on the Place des �tats-Unis in Paris, May 30, 1916

AN AIRMAN DIED TODAY

He was getting old and slower
And his strength was failing fast,
As he sat around the Basha
telling stories of the past.
Of the war that he had fought in
And the deeds that he had done,
In his exploits with his buddies;
They were heroes everyone.
But we'll hear his tales no longer,
For John has passed away;
And the world's a little poorer,
For an Airman died today.
He was just a common Airman
And his ranks are growing thin,
But his presence may remind us,
We may need his like again.
For when countries are in conflict,
Then we find the soldier's part,
Is to clean up all the troubles,
That others often start.
If we cannot do him honor,
While he's here to hear his praise,
Then at least let's give him homage,
At the ending of his days.
Perhaps just a simple headline,
In the paper that might say:
"OUR COUNTRY IS IN MOURNING
FOR AN AIRMAN DIED TODAY"
A. LAWRENCE VAINCORT - RCAF WW II

A SIMPLE SOLDIER

He was getting old and paunchy
And his hair was falling fast
And he sat around the "Legion"
Telling stories of his past.
Of a war that he once fought in,
And the deeds that he had done,
In his exploits with his buddies
They were heroes, every one.
And though sometimes to his neighbors,
His tales became a joke,
All his buddies listened quietly,
For they knew whereof he spoke.
But we'll hear his tales no longer
For old Bob has passed away.
And the world's a little poorer
For a soldier died today.
He won't be mourned by many
Just his children and his wife,
For he lived an ordinary,
Very quiet sort of life.
He held a job and raised a family,
Going quietly on his way,
And the world won't note his passing,
Though a soldier died today.
When politicians leave this earth,
Their bodies lie in state
While thousands note their passing
And proclaim that they were great.
Papers tell of their life stories
From the time that they were young,
But the passing of a soldier
Is unnoticed and unsung.
-Author unknown

CHINA
There's a place across the ocean known as God's forgotten land
Made of mangoes, swamps and paddies, lofty crags and barren land.
It was to this place I journeyed on a sad begotten day,
While the sun beat hotly on me, and the devil had his way.
It was to a place called China, only God and I know why,
Filled with dirty, swampy paddies; lots of filth and mountains high.
It's a land that's filled with lepers, yellow fever, dangers, too.
It was there they chose to place us, just a sad and lonely few.
Yes, I heard the devil beckon and I heard the angels sing,
Heard Gabriel blow his trumpet, said "Death where is thy sting?"
'Tis the land of God's forgotten, where he spent his seventh day.
He let Satan build the framework, and the devil had his way.
Why the Japs would ever want this; why they'd ever take this land.
Why the hell we're fighting for it, I will never understand.
Agriculture would not flourish, and you couldn't raise a bean.
It's the darndest barren wasteland that a Yank has ever seen.
Leave the Joseph Stilwells here and let them lead their lonely way.
Give it to the fighting tigers, let the Yanks go home to stay.
If you ever take a notion that you far away would roam,
Take a tip from one who's been there and for God's sake stay at home.
For your skin will turn deep yellow, you'll have yellow skinny cheeks, And you'll surely catch the fever, be abed for weeks and weeks.
When my days on earth are over, and the bells toll my last smell.
If up there it's like a China I'd prefer to go to hell.
So here's to ancient Cathay, it's the place that God forgot.
Where the food will turn your stomach, and you'll catch the Chinese rot.
When I climb the Golden Stairway, old St. Pete will know me well,
And he'll say, Welcome to heaven, for you've had your stay in hell."
author unknown

HEAVEN

Is there a heaven?
I believe there is.
How many times have you started a prayer with the words
Dear God in Heaven, Lord of Lords?
How many times have you looked up at the sky
And asked God to help, or at least try?
How many times have you looked at the clouds away
And asked God how he formed them in such beautiful
array?
And as God looks down upon us
He sends his love in many ways perhaps
difficult to understand
The loud booming of thunder
Through the clouds and under
Powerful lightning flashes reaching to the ground
Pelting rains and blizzard snows that abound
Hurricane winds and tornadoes engage,
All coming from heave above and for what purpose?
To remind us that we are all sinners,
And that by loving God we can be winners.
Have you ever thought how it could be
To see God's view from above,
To climb above the clouds,
To look down and feel his love?
Well it happened to me.
In a time of conflict between man and cause,
And without pause
Learning to fly, God held me in the palm of his hand
And raised me up on eagles' wings through the dark
overcast band
To a sea of billowing clouds like the breath of dawn,
To shine like the sun without a yawn
Breathtakingly beautiful, serene and infinite
Yes, I have been blessed to have seen it.
Is there a heaven?
I know there is.

..Arthur A. Aymar. 2002



previous page	home