My childhood days
are remembered a little faintly.
Both happy times and foolish ways--
I'd not return
To re-live or change--
I look forward,
Even if a bit dubiously.
Then came the years
Of deciding what to be:
Sampling enough of both good and evil
Which fruits I tasted,
I grew to know and desire what was sweet,
Mourning bitterly the tasting that seemed wasted.
I went out to bless and gather,
But found myself the blessed, rather,
And deep sank insight.
When I married I meant to bless,
And found myself a 'saint' much less
Than ever I had considered:
Still more insight gained.
I bore a child, and she was all to me,
As were my Church and Family.
And more and more I knew
What was worth most in Life,
And what I wanted to do.
Then more major trials came--
So deep I nearly drowned--
Lost my course and my direction;
The storm was fierce and worsened.
I could only 'hang on'
Whatever rope I could grope with all I had
Hoping rough seas would not continue longer.
Suddenly all was changed--
I seemed in a different boat!
(At least this boat did float . . .)
If wisdom I have not gained,
I know not how to name,
Only call it "Experience".
Far humbler than the poet whom I appeal
As tutor, in aspiring to convey
And 'scribe in characters of the Ideal
Those worthy merits, in this worldly fray,
Which we would urge on any that we may--
Most 'specially our children and their own--
That seem to us appropriate array
For one who hopes to win wherewith to don;
I, trembling, take my pen and timid make this poem.
In olden time when poets sought to rhyme,
A meter and a rhythm they adop'd--
Adhered they well to form they self-assigned--
In the present matter so I shall opt.
Ancient symbol rallied ardor, held aloft,
So too, our clan designed a coat of arms:
Historic emblem, archetype undrop'd,
Not obsolete, though touched by modern larmes--
So may this verse prevail with such archaic charms.
Then, too, the poet would sincere implore
To help him in his overwhelming charge
Some muse, or two, or even yet a score--
Whomever may've been roaming then at large.
But I must, sadly, thus my work dispar'ge:
That I have none of Muse to help amuse.
So if I'm dull or my meter seems to barge
The very doors of hearing, and you lose
The sense--you then may well my labors all refuse.
"A Gentle Knight was pricking on the plaine,
Ycladd in mightie arms and silver shield . . ."
Edmund Spencer, The Faerie Queene
"Come forward sir," the heralde loud doth crie,
"Show forth thy colours, blazon aegis bold.
Tell out thy kin, thy motto carry high--
If thou art noble, thy heritage up-hold!"
Proud the champion raised, the crowd behold:
Th' exalted standard gleamed so splendidly
The trumps blared out as if they had been told,
And steed and man reared up in harmony;
Then all the crowd roared out a shout majestically.
Who is this knight, magnificent to see?
Interpret now his lordly coat of arms.
A ram, as head, depicts his family:
For Rahms who came of Switzer, land of farms--
Hallau yet bears the Ram-crest o'er its barns.
Harry, born Rahm, transmits this legacy
Of strength--in silver-grey the pledge is sworn:
Not only strength, but adding Purity.
In blue discerne ye Honour, Truth, and Loyalty.
Precious yellow gold, valued, ever-searched,
Crowning richly earthly kings--but, seeks he
Honour more precious, more valuable Truth,
A more kingly crown: priceless Loyalty.
A crown, in truth, denotes proud royalty,
And so traced in his ancestry are kings;
Of Heaven, too, his worth comes honestly--
Redeemed from Death, to Christ he stalwart clings,
And of God our Father his soul took buoyant wing.
Chivalrous Knight, protect from every foe
Thy Kindred, thine Honor, and thy Beloved,
As thy helmet protects thee from death's blow;
These look to thee, their defense--so do prove
Nor whom, nor what, nor traps for them awov'n
Shall bring them down to ruin or ravage dread--
Evil by thy tongue or sword is cloven;
Nor let thy cherished want in lack of bread,
But give thou of thy board, and of thy table, spread.
Thy shielde bear'th bravely sword and star and scroll;
The sword points to thy virtues previous told--
Defend them well, let not that keen edge dull;
But n'er aggressor, as the pattern old
Intended not, provoking, to be pulled.
The star points, too, give direction and light
To those who watch the Heav'ns as they unfold--
Wise men, the ancients mapped the starry night,
And sought for, ever, knowledge, prophecy, and Right.
Upon the scroll a tree be ascertained,
Symbolic Knowledge, Life, and Family.
Both generations gone and that remain
Are written in its branches, rootes, and leaves:
An unfinished legende that grows and breathes;
On other leaves are written all the lives
For those who come yet later in Life's weave:
A tapestry of children, husbands, wives . . .
Many-colored coats . . . some leaving, some just arrived.
A braid entwines six offspring bound in love,
Resolved amongst them to the self-same end,
That like them, all their children will be one:
Stars that in their spheres to harmony lend,
Each his own part, each his voice well blends
In order, method, symmetry--transposed
To meet each challenge Life may haply send;
In other key the melody composed
Sings still as sung before, and on and on it flows.
And tell us of the flow'r he wears so gay,
And whose that mantling scarf may be--her name.
The Rose is Vera, Gerber was she nee,
Then married Harry, Clark she then became.
For he, as child, when adverse trials came,
Was fostered by the Clarks--the scroll recalls
That "clark" and "clerk" once were the very same.
So Rahm was Clark, and Vera, Clark--it falls
That tot and tribe are known now as "the Clarks", withal.
Amidst the storm I am startled to see
My Savior, my Lord, beckoning to me:
"Come out of your boat, and walk on the sea."
Amazed, confused, but enthusiastically
I climb o'er the rail and touch the sea.
My Savior, my Lord, has faith in Me!
A step, and two, eyes only for Thee,
I come still forward, reach toward Thee--
But the Storm, the Depths, all Reality:
Great waves of fear wash over me!
I gasp, and gurgle, and start to sink
And salty despondence begin to drink.
"I am the least of mortals, what else can I be?
Thy call bids me wend a way that for me
Can only be called impossibility!"
I cry out, "O save me!" limbs all a-flailing,
"Please, please," I plead, "Please don't fail me!"
The storm just roars with awful glee.
But then a hand is lifting me,
Pulls me up to His bosom safely,
Comforts the inward storm, and asks calmly,
"Wherefore didst thou doubt?"
Although
I know
That Thou art Good and Kind
I know
Also
That I do not know Thy Mind.
So when
I fear,
It's not my faith that's undermined,
My fear
is, then,
That my suffering fits Thy Plan Divine.
Taking a journey to the Promised Land:
A fight, a flight, a struggle on every hand.
Life's former employ all left behind,
Seeking now gods of a different kind.
Though my past come to challenge,
Search my integrity--Let God avenge
The promise made with subtlety;
This Stone witness my honor, my sacrifice, my faith:
Neither cross I for evil, nor shall ye hinder my way.
Before me, my Brother: will He accept
My person, after the company I've kept?
Long been away, hiding my face,
Now at His mercy, begging His grace.
I offer earnest evidence, the best I have got--
When He comes, will He kiss me,
Or will His anger be hot?
"O God, if thou hear me, come to my aid . . .
Remember, I plead, the promise Thou hast made."
All alone . . . through the night I struggle:
Who is this, come to trouble
Me--a mere man--
Yet I'll triumph, and I am . . .!
From God art thou, come to test and to try?
Why reachest thou for the hollow of my thigh?
At thy touch I am lame,
Shall I not know thy name?
Then, face to face, I see and I know;
Leave me not 'til a blessing you bestow--
About to shine forth is the breaking of day,
O lend me a staff as I limp on my way;
For I am journeying to the Promised Land:
Walking is hard in the desert sand,
I can make it--if Thou wilt preserve my soul--
Though I have yet much further to go.
"He's going through a stage," is all that need be said,
And so say they all
Of all a child goes through:
Innocence, importance, and impudence
Are played and played again--
By parts and turns--authority's role
Varies as protector, tyrant, friend.
Seasonings
Then learning, earning, and making,
And stirring up the pot--
The young taste life and love--
Some like it cold, some relish it hot . . .
Mild or medium or merciless
They seek the "spice of life":
Man grows into husband-man,
And woman becomes a wife.
Seasoned
A parent as an experienced child--
Though the child thinks he has forgot--
Nods as grandfather wisely counsels his son
With counsel that is still unsought.
Re-tired or re-tread the old man rests or runs--
The pace is slower as the body lowers,
But fiercely he fights on--
To never leave, or to leave behind some mem'ry and meaning
of his life.
"It never fails!" she says as she gives me a no-fail fudge recipe. And, sure enough (it never fails), it fails! As if to prove that we of limited skill in the culinary arts are, after all, only cracked pots in the kitchen. Are we to blame when every recipe for every item for that special dinner reads "serve immediately"? No wonder part of the dinner is somewhat unflavorful, part is rather too flavorful (charred), and the rest is forgotten in the fridge. Can't some recipes say "set aside 20 min to an hour while you fix the next part of the meal"? Must they all be "served immediately"?
Somewhere in the land of fantasy (perhaps riding off into the sunset, or at the end of some rainbow) lives that superwoman supermom. She hops out of bed promptly at 5am (if not earlier), bids herself a cheery "Good Morning" in the mirror, then engrosses herself in meditation of some profundity for an hour. She gently wakes her husband and five children with a kiss and an "I love you."
Humming like a bird light-heartedly she fixes breakfast: bacon, eggs, pancakes and fresh-squeezed orange juice--all the while sharing a moment of undivided attention for 3 children and their little surprises: "Oh, mom, I need a show and tell!", "Mom, I'm supposed to bring cookies today . . . I forgot to tell you", and "Mom, I've got to have my blue sweater for school colors day today! It's at the dry cleaners." Alternatively, someone needs a science or history panorama project that hasn't been started. Like a military strategist (of the gentlest sort), she resolves every crisis.
When once her family is all sent on their way to school and work, except the 2 preschoolers, she efficiently tidies the house and tends a neighbor's children while preparing a scout presentation. She takes lunch to a shut-in, and visits 45 min with the lonely little old lady, or it may be the sick, the needy, or the overwhelmed.
She plays with her preschoolers in the park, does work for the PTA and the CIA (Committment In America, that is), picks up a bargain at the Mall, and her kids from school.
After school she spends 10 minutes with each child to ask about his/her day, prepares a fabulous dinner, greets her husband at the door with a kiss and allows him some winding down time while she helps with homework. This simultaneous with running 3 loads of laundry. And just then the dinner is ready. When the repast of scintillating conversation is done, she oversees clean-up in the kitchen and around the house. Although it would be quicker to do it all herself, she knows that she is preparing them to succeed on their own someday, which she patiently reminds them for the 3486th time (not that she's counting).
Pressing her husband's shirt and slacks for tomorrow, she is memorizing Proverbs 31 with the most sincerity possible. She reads stories, bathes & prays with the kids, and puts them all to bed (with a wink at her amorous husband).
But then he needs to unload about his stressful day . . . ah, that is, share his day's experiences--to which her unfailing insight and encouragement is given so compassionately and cleverly that he believes he has solved every issue. They undress for bed, pray, kiss, and our superhuman supermom swoons into his arms . . . in a coma.
In a forest green and wild
I spied by a brook a little child
babbling a current of indistinguishable joys,
playing some little game, twigs and pebbles for toys.
In a jungle where jealousy's flame was fanned
I looked at the torrent that passed for a man,
of passions ablaze--that ran to and fro--
toying with people, using them, stones & sticks to throw.
In a steppe all barren and waste
I wandered, searching, in that lonely place
for someone to talk to, someone to hear--
someone to laugh, then solace my tears.
At the end of my life in a cultivated place
I thought there I recognized an old man's face--
furrowed the brow in contemplating the ground:
he looked up, his eye chuckled, my peace was found.
Mother Bunny, in her flow’ry Baking-Day Dress and apron, raised both her mitted paws and shrieked. Out the kitchen window she saw Robbie Rabbit running with the third of the Nummy-Yummy Carrot pies she’d baked today. Off he ran, Mother watching and scolding. This time “a little birdie” didn’t have to tell Mother anything.
“He’s going to get it now,” said Buster Bunny to Grandpa Rabbit, his paw guarding his words from Mother’s long ears.
“Looks to me like he’s already got it,” Grandpa answered with a wink.
On the window ledge sat the other 2 Nummy-Yummy Carrot pies so freshly from the oven. But two would not do! Leaves were budding, it was time for inviting Everybunny home for the annual Family Dinner. All kinds of Cousins and Kindred would be coming, and all were looking forward to Mother’s special recipe for Nummy-Yummy Carrot Pie.
“That Robbie!” Mother exclaimed, and she pounced her paws upon her hips to emphasize her perturbation and peevery. “When is he going to start thinking of others?”
Robbie ran on to his favorite Buckleberry Bush hideout, laughing all the way. How he loved to tease!
Just then he tripped. Splat! He fell flat, with his face in the pie. He lifted his face out of the pie with tears, not twinkles, in his eye.
“Owww! My nose!” he said, then with alarm, “I think it’s bleeding!” His head hurt, too. He started to get up to go wash his face in the pond, but he felt dizzy and fell down again. A fly flew about his face, looking for a good spot for a licking.
“Go away!” Robbie cried. He didn’t feel good at all. He didn’t want a fly buzzing about in his business, with his face covered in carrot pie and blood. His dizzy head was aching. He laid down and began to sob. The fly did not go away. It kept buzzing around, sneaking in a lick here and a dab there.
Robbie got angry. “Stop teasing me!” he yelled at the fly. The yelling made his head hurt more.
“But I love to tease!” laughed the fly.
“Well it’s not nice!” Robbie cried.
“But I thought you loved to tease,” mocked the fly. “I saw you take the pie and run laughing. I thought I’d follow and join the fun!”
“Well I’m not having any fun,” Robbie returned.
“But I am!” the fly laughed again, and teased even more as Robbie swiped at him with a left paw, and a right paw, and a left again.
“Just go away and leave me alone,” yelled Robbie.
“You go away, and leave me alone–with the pie!” grinned the fly.
“I will not,” said Robbie. He got up and picked up what was left of Mother’s beautiful pie. “I’m taking it back to Mother, and I’m going to help her bake another,” Robbie said firmly. His head still hurt, but it was full of decision. He knew teasing wasn’t fun for the one getting teased. He was not going to tease Mother any more. He was going to help her.
Mother Bunny, in her flow’ry Baking-Day Dress and apron, raised both her flour-y paws and shrieked. Out the kitchen window she saw Robbie Rabbit with the third of the Nummy-Yummy Carrot pies she’d baked today–at least what was left of it. It was all over his face and front–and his nose was bleeding!
Mother ran out of the kitchen and put one paw around Robbie, and with the other used her apron to wipe his face.
“Oh, Robbie, what happened?” she hugged him.
Tears kind of trickled from Robbie’s eyes as he told her the story.
“Mother, may I help you make another pie?” he asked. “And I won’t tease you any more.”
“Oh, Robbie,” Mother cried, “of course you can.”
Robbie began to think of other pies, and other people.
“Look, Momma, I’m making ice cream,” Jeffy proudly proclaimed to his mother, who was planting a rainbow of spring flowers in her garden. He whirled the pedals of his upturned tricycle. Momma smiled at her creative boy, though she didn’t look over to see.
“That sounds like just what I’ll need when I finish here,” she replied, and he beamed.
“I’m going to make lots. I’ll make them the colors of the rainbow like your flowers,” he spoke as he imagined bowls of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple ice cream. In his mind he put them together and giggled about stirring them all up. He didn’t know yet that such a mixture would come out brown as the ground.
After a few minutes Jeffy was tired of his work, and came to watch Momma.
“Can I help?” he asked, knowing from past experience that a kid should ask before digging in Momma’s garden.
“I wonder if you would get me a drink of water,” she dodged his offer.
“I need one, too,” he suddenly realized, and ran into the house. A few minutes later he brought her a glass that was less full of water at each stride as he bounced back to her. She was thankful for the invention of plastic glasses.
“I already drank mine,” he announced authoritatively.
Jeffy glanced around Momma’s garden. Suddenly he spied a hole. He knew he didn’t make it, but who had?
“Momma, someone’s been digging in your garden,” he declared with alarm, and quickly added, “and it wasn’t me!”
“Hmmmm,” Momma mildly voiced her displeasure.
“Was it Boxer, the dog next door?” He had been the guilty culprit not a few times.
Jeffy looked at the hole. He remembered the holes that Boxer had dug in the past.
“This hole is smaller than Boxer’s holes,” he said thoughtfully.
“Was it Capricia the cat from down the street?” Momma surmised another fairly frequent guilty party.
“No . . .” Jeffy considered the look of the dirt after Caprica had left her mark. “This is a hole, not a hill,” he said.
“Who do you think dug that hole, then?” she offered him a way to make a good guess.
Jeffy continued to look at the hole as he thought about animals he knew that dug holes.
“It’s too small a hole for a rabbit to live in the winter,” he spoke, absorbed in contemplation. “It’s too big for a worm,” he continued.
“How big is it?” Momma asked, thinking the estimation process would be a good recap of size comparisons they had explored more than once at the kitchen table.
Jeffy used his imagination to see different sized fruits, vegetables, blocks, and balls in his mind. This hole wasn’t shaped like a carrot, so he tossed out vegetable thoughts. It was much smaller than a watermelon, bigger than a pea (oops, that’s a vegetable). A grape? No, this hole was larger than a grape. Smaller than a baseball, maybe a golf ball or a ping pong ball?
Just then a quick movement caught Jeffy’s eye at the other end of the garden. He knew he had to look slowly and carefully so that the animal would not get scared and fly or scamper away. It was a squirrel, with a peanut, and it was digging in Momma’s garden!
“Momma!” He said excitedly, forgetting not to run over to her, “It was a squirrel! I just saw one burying a peanut in your garden!” He was jubilant. He had figured it out. He went over to the new hole and picked up the peanut the squirrel had dropped in its haste to get away safe from this big boy-threat. Jeffy ran back to Momma proudly showing her the peanut. Momma hugged him.
“I’m so proud of you, my smart boy,” she truthfully admitted to herself as well.
My Stories 