Other Written Work

 I wrote Many of the following poems
back in the 70s & 80s


 A poem is like a budding rose,
Before the bloom has come,
Or the humble caterpillar
That the butterfly is from.

A poem is like new sherry
Before ageing makes it sweet,
Or the passion of two lovers
Yet to meet.

When a poet writes a poem
He builds it word by word,
But until it’s read by one who cares,
It’s but a whisper yet unheard.

And though a poem can live forever,
A book may be its tomb;
For though the poet plants the seed,
Only you can make it bloom.

April 1976



When friends are new and life unsure,
And future filled with doubt,
Sometimes it’s hard to find a way
To bring true friendship out.
Much like a roulette wheel,
Racing, twirling, spinning,
Relationships, like games of chance,
Cause loss along with winning.
Likes and dislikes must be known
And feelings all expressed,
But often times, while finding out,
We lose what we love best.
And if we say too much, too soon,
And try to learn in haste,
Misunderstanding may result,
And crush friendship to waste.
But as in chess, we learn to risk
The loss and tearing pain,
In hopes of understanding more,
And being close again.




Oh melancholy summer,
Your visit is but brief.
All it takes to mark your passing,
Is the falling of a leaf.
High in the crimson maple,
Where your breezes play their tune,
Your melodies will touch a leaf,
Some drowsy afternoon. 

And it shall drift with golden sail,
To settle in the shade,
Where the pool will spread the message,
That the ripples have relayed.
For seasons come and seasons go,
And summer is but brief.
All it takes to mark her passing,
Is the falling of a leaf. 



October passes quietly in a flourish of pastels.
Its brightest days are as special as they are brief.
Its touch is deep and long-lasting,
And its passing leaves us, as it does all of nature,
Grey, exposed and vulnerable.
When November comes the trees have dropped their leaves;
The sun is sluggish with the cold, and rides atop a sullen mist,
Just above the oak tops, to the south.
The breezes, like rowdy children, toss the leaves in each other’s faces.
The rustling and the rattling is their laughter,
And the memory of their laughter is our joy.



The Mask

If I were a tree as fall creeps in,

With summer dripping from his chin,

I think I’d see through falls disguise,

And linger not to eulogize.

For sure as summer days grow still

And find new ways to steal our will,

Right behind on summers heels,

Fall’s sniffing at persimmon peels.

Before the trees can shake the spells

Of buzzing bees and summer's smells,/

Fall slithers in on morning mist,

And wipes his chin with an icy fist.

While weasel eyes and sharp goat’s feet,

Search cold fall skies for things to eat,

Summer’s gone without a trace,

And fall's mask slips from winter's face.

November ‘90


Summer Rain

 Oh how sweet that summer rain,
That stays but brief, then fades away in mist.
Oh how refreshed those graying fields,
That for a time forgot their grief as Heaven kissed them.
Oh how deeply must that interlude be felt,
When from the barren vastness where they knelt,
The grasses and the woodlands may renew,
However brief that ageless rendezvous,
To bathe our very souls in summer rain,
To be alive, and feel life’s worth again.

August 1977



Oh windmill you are luckier than I,
For you know well the wind that is your strength.
While failing in this cause as oft I try,
I know not my source of power or its length.
Your arms reach out and catch the wind in turn,
While I know not which way I am to reach.
This be the only lesson you must learn,
While mine outnumber pebbles on the beach.
But windmill, with your flashing blades of tin,
Tell me if you can, who makes the wind?


The Sea

I’d love to get to know the sea,
And watch her waves rush up the beach,
And chase the gulls among the rocks,
As far as her frothy fingers reach.
I’d love to stretch out in the sun,
And be a part of the hot white sands,
And feel the oceans currents flow through me,
And hold their awesome power in my hands.

I’d love to have the ocean take me in,
And recall that she was mother to all men;
That she might know the doubts that I feel now,
And she and God might take me back again.





Do not lament a moment past,
A fleeting moment made to share.
Do not feel it lost in passing,
For to be past, it need be there.
And in existing, only seconds,
Its donation subtly paid,
Enriches life and heart and soul,
With vast impressions it has made.
Foolish is the heart that lives one moment,
And its passing grieves,
For in the volume of our lives,
Each page must turn to reveal new leaves.
Each second gives us priceless life;
It also gives us age.
Take care my friend, as chapters end,
Don’t stop to mourn the page.
Read on and on; each second counts;
Each chapter grows more fine,
And often as not, what we fear is lost,
Is ahead just one more line.




Fear and freedom, hand in hand
Are passions of the mind;
Thus when with one we choose to stand,
The other falls behind.
As one who finds contentment in the beauty of a rose,
Is unlikely to be pricked and show it scorn,
For his mind retains its fragrance and its beauty as it grows,
And not the pain and torment of its thorn.
So through all be optimistic, and never seek the strife,
For fear must fade when we hold freedom true.
Thus worry not with rose thorns or the living of your life,
But tend the bloom, and just let life live you.


Great Grandma’s Eyes

Great Grandma knew a different time,
And the burdens she had bore,
Had left her stooped and crooked,/
With shoulders round and sore.
Her silver hair in ringlets,
Around a weathered face,
Her thin lips sipping herbal tea,
From a saucer held with grace.
She would rock, and we would talk,
By the wood range in her home,
And I would plead for her to read
From a muslin book of poems.
Soft eyes of grey seemed far away,
So often left alone,
Gentle as a baby’s touch,
Or hard as river stone.
She had known our Nation’s youth.
She’d preserved it through the years.
And as she spoke, the past awoke,
To fill my eyes with tears.
For she spoke of fragile meadows,
And forests wild and free.
She cared for them through all those years.
Their future’s up to me.
She spoke of elk in golden fields,
And eagles in pristine skies,
Then she spoke of God, and gave a nod,
And gazed into my eyes.
She implored me to remember
The stories we had shared.
And remember then that all great men,
Were great because they cared.
So put your faith in God above,
And always find the time,
To share your life with those you love,
For all the world’s a rhyme.
That was many years ago.
Great Grandma’s passed away.
But still I find life seems more kind,
Remembering things she’d say
I remember my great grandma, and now I realize,
That much of what I see in life is through great Grandma’s eyes,
And much of what I love in life,
Is through great Grandma’s eyes.

October 1976




Sometimes when it’s raining,
And there isn’t much to do,
I get out some paper and crayons,
And I draw a sky of blue.
I draw a great big rainbow,
And a bluebird in a tree.
And I color the weather beautiful,
Just as far as I can see!
I color the sun so big and red,
It shines all over the place!
And right in the middle I color me,
With a huge smile on my face!
And sometimes when I’m finished,
And my drawing is all done,
When I look outside the clouds are gone!
And I can see the sun. 


Little Gray Bird

High upon a sapling oak, a little gray bird sat.

He sat and sat in that lonely tree, and sang.

Through sunny days and showers, and melancholy hours, he sat and sang.

Many people passed the tree; some would pause to smile,

And once in a long while one would stop and listen for awhile.

But no one seemed to care very much.

And then one pale, green morning, a young lady heard him sing.

And she sat in the shade beneath his tree, and her smile was fresh as spring!

She said she thought his songs were sweet; she really seemed to care.

So he sang and he sang every song in his heart, as long as she was there;

For though he dared not touch her, he had his songs to share.

From time to time their paths would cross, and they would share his song,

But she had worlds of things to do, and couldn't stay for long.

And life was too important, to waste upon a song.

Soon she spared but little time for visits to his tree,

And his songs grew sad and plaintive, in search of sympathy.

The gray bird sat there all alone and sang about the weather,

Till finally that grew tiresome too, and his songs ceased all together.

Then one morning on a distant path, the young lady hurried by,

And as the gray bird listened, a tear formed in his eye.

And then another tear formed, and both eyes were a blur,

For the song that she was humming, was the song he’d sang for her.

And though he still was lonely, a smile began to start,

For at least he knew some part of him was forever in her heart.



High School

When grammar school is over, you relax; you've reached your goal,

But summer passes quickly and you’re in the same old role,

Of a student of geography, of history, and of math,

And once more you humor enemies and friends and teacher’s wrath.

Now enemies are expendable; they’re often pretty dense,

But what do you do when your mixed up friends have their laughs at your expense?

From club initiations, you smell of rotten eggs!

Your homecoming float was massacred, and your class princess has bony legs!

In driver’s education, you run a traffic light.

Your instructor takes his pencil out and things are getting tight!

You slow it down a little; you know you’re on your own.

Then you find you’re doing 25 in a 65 mile zone.

You try to gain attention, but you’re not paid any heed.

All you gain is responsibility, and you think you have all you need!

You desperately seek companionship; you ask a girl to a dance.

But during the preceding football game you spill Coke down your pants!

You ask her if she’d like to dance; you’re not sure she’ll accept.

When she does her face turns hemorrhoid blue, ‘cause on her foot you’ve stepped!

You have important things to say, but the dance draws to its ends,

And you stare at your feet with your teeth clenched, for fear your breath offends.

Money’s scarce without a job. You’re not sure what to do!

And everybody overflows with great advice for you.

There are times you wish would never end and times you’d like to curse!

And Dad’s favorite admonition is: enjoy it; it just gets worse!


'70 RULES!



You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, and much, much more.
You’re my desire today, my hope for tomorrow,
And my best memories of yesterday.
You’re the youth that I remember,
And the maturity I’ve sought.
You’re the gentle thought that slips into my consciousness
And fills my entire being with new life.
You’re the freshness in the crisp morning air,
The inspiration behind each pleasant thought,
And the contentment that I feel when I sleep.
You’re the reason that I pray and dream and care.
And Lord willing, you’re the answer to a prayer.

September 1981

A Father’s Blessing


Joel & Cassie

Pledges pledged,
Rings exchanged,
Promises made, witnessed,
Steeped in timeless tradition,
& sealed with a kiss.
And now a lifetime of commitment;
Remember each day:
Your vows are not set in concrete,
But in Christ;
And in all the infinite universe,
There is no stronger bond,
Than He who holds the stars in space
And binds two souls
As one.



January 6, 2007 



Happiness is transient,

Fleeting pleasure many find.

Passing quickly, like lost youth,

Or morning mists.

Joy is everlasting,

Joy soothes a weary mind.

Joy discreetly fills our heart,

Then joy persists.