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You Can’t Tame Babe

Snowy peaks before him
the valley now behind 
wonder all around him – 
a scene he’d rarely find

The corral now before him
 rodeo in full swing
laughter, whoops and hollers
in his ears did ring

Dust was a’flying
tails waving high,
sunlight above the saddle,
rider’s hat raised to the sky

He knew he’d never tire 
of the beauty he did behold
The wilderness called his name –
True words he had been told

You can’t tame the mountains
You can’t hold back the streams
You can’t harness the wind
or live on yesterday’s dreams

You might shoe an untamed filly,
make a bucking bronc dance,
but you can’t tame Babe,
you dare not take a chance

Amidst all the commotion,
there across the way,
he saw an untamed filly
on which his eyes did stay.

Her braids were black and shiny
Her eyes were ablaze
Her olive skin did glow –
his heart now in a daze.

Like the mighty river
his beating heart roared
Like the eagle overhead
his smitten spirit soared

Surrounded by this beauty
little did he know
that deep into the mountains
his roots now would grow

You can’t tame the mountains
You can’t hold back the streams
You can’t harness the wind
or live on yesterday’s dreams

            He shod an untamed filly
            made a bucking bronc dance
            though he didn’t tame Babe,
             he dared take that chance.

Babe & Bud
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Shall I?

Shall I walk upon
a distant shore
and write my name
upon the sands?

Shall I sail across
open seas
into 
foreign lands?

            Shall I climb to top
            of mountain peaks,
            reach up and touch
            the sky?

            Shall I write a poem
            or sing a song
            or hush 
            a baby’s cry?

                        Shall I walk through
                        fields of flowers,
                        marvel at
                        the setting sun?

                        Shall I gaze into
                        the starry night
                        after the day
                        is done?
sa

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A Day’s Ride

The day arises
and shakes off the night
as the sun erupts through the eastern sky

Through country roads
and little towns
laden with historic treasures
Stories beg to be told
toothless men sitting
on wayside benches

Drinking tea from quaint shops
tales sparked by forsaken barns 
shattered glass and fallen timbers

Rolling hills
through southern mountains
dense forests
with water falling from rocky mountainsides
streams cut a path deep into the earth

Fields in open valleys impatiently wait
for the coming summer
seeds placed within her warm bosom
impregnated to bring forth new life

a blanket spread among wildflowers
the colors of the evening sky
paint a brilliant sunset from her pallet of oils
twinkling stars scattered 
against the darkening canvas

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Nature’s Alarm Clock

by a special lady, Dr. Grace,
inspired by Proverbs

You will be a good influence,
for your voice is far above 
the clamor of the plain and the dull.

You will do good, and not evil,
 because you arise early in the morning
to declare the glory of God.

Your neighbors shall hear your song
and rejoice.

Your children shall behold your diligence
and model their behavior from it.

The seasons will come
and the seasons will go
but you shall declare the
Maker’s joy forever.

Never forget that each sun rise
is a declaration from God
of the promise of a 
beautiful day.

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‘Twas the Christmas Season

‘Twas the eve before Christmas
And all through the house
We sensed something stirring –
A viral louse

With teeth set on edge
And long sharp claws
It was ready to pounce
On Santa Clause

‘Rona came to visit
And sent us to bed
While prayers of healing
Swam in our heads

On Christmas morning
No children came
So we zoomed with the others
With ‘Rona to blame

I kept my taste,
Though nose works quite well,
To my nostrils were added
An unpleasant smell.

I popped lots of pills,
Chicken soup and hot tea
And almost overdosed 
On vitamins C and D

A little cough and fatigue
With no fever to tell
Amid a few aches
We’re healing quite well

If ‘Rona visits you
Send her (or him) away
There’s no room for ‘Rona
To come and stay

2020

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Ivories of Pearly White

Reminiscing through boxes of junk and jewels
I found memories hidden away.
Some trinkets drew a blank slate –
Potential stories for another day.

Sorting through layers of the years
I found ivories of pearly white,
Treasures that were once held dear
And hidden under a pillow for a night.

I felt a pang of guilt
Not knowing from whom they came,
Maybe I bit off more than I could chew,
Yet, in my decision I felt no shame.

There was no need to keep the jewels
Though there were enough to form a wreath.
Practicality and wisdom won the debate
And I threw away the teeth.

sa/2020

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Thanksgiving

My Guest Author is my Daddy, this poem taken from his book
“Great and Mighty Are God’s Ways – Stories to Stir Our Insight”

A BODY OUGHT to give thanks and praise to God for whom all praise is due.
Sixteen-hundred and twenty-one years ago God’s Son was born,
but it took me until last year to know
I should have praised Him long ago.
Last year I learned
God rides white capped waves
and camps on the edge of the wilderness.
Nor storm, nor night, nor death can turn away His face!

From tough hewn men and thrifty women,
I heard the words of thanks
Which had not sounded from under well thatched roofs
On cobbled streets,
Where ladies carried parasol
And gentlemen had servants to drive their trotting teams.
A year ago I learned thanks
Which I should have known before – the lesson came hard.

For a lark I joined, at Plymouth Town
The Captain Jones and seasoned crew
On MAYFLOWER heading all points west.
’Twas then the lesson came.
I saw it in the settlers’ eyes,
I heard it in their prayers.
Exiles they were,
But not exiled from the Lord Almighty,
Exiled from England – leaving Holland – two ships strong,
Seeking new lands they came,
Sailing with Virginia on their minds.
The larger ship turned back
And only half could carry on.
But they gave thanks and sailed.
The sea was rough, Green faced men grew sick in storm.
Whitecaps drove courage from sailor’s hearts.
However Pilgrims turned not back.
MAYFLOWER creaked and MAYFLOWER groaned
Like a coffin on a watery grave.
And in it all, they sang a song,
And raised their hands in praise.
At sea the snow blew thick.
Ice coated riggings; sails broke down.
A newborn baby cried her protest.
And we journeyed on while they gave thanks.

Land met us, bleak and cold.
Death trudged through forest trails.
Then Brewster said, “He’ll see us through.
The Almighty God, who brought us here,
Will walk before us in this land.
In the snow-drift harbor, I caught a faith.
Dying men tossed it to me like an extra garment.
“Wear This,” they said.
“It will keep you warm.”
And it did.

Then Spring danced across the land,
And with the south breeze the Red Man came.
My timid heart leaped to my throat,
But the faithful rose their voice in prayer,
And, when the Indian came, he came in peace.

“Twas in the spring – John Carver died
– and MAYFLOWER sailed back to England.
I stayed behind with those who taught me praise.

And now, wide furrows, live with ripening corn,
A whisper, “Harvest has come.”
“Tis Thanksgiving time!” God holds his hand to his ear!
Lift up your voice and shout
The Lord God Almighty,
Who leads pilgrims to new lands,
Is listening now to hear your praise. rbw

Children of the Mayflower

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– and this part –

Okay, so I’m a genealogy, family history nerd, geek, fanatic, extremist, or whatever you want to call me. When I get on the scent, I’m off and running.

I’d like to say that I dug up this poem written by my 4thGreat Grandfather – but I didn’t. One of my cousins (along with her sisters) who is a genealogy, family history nerd, geek, fanatic, extremist, or whatever you want to call her, is responsible. Her Grandmother, my Great Aunt, collected family history, too. She had this poem in her amassment of oral and written archives.

Lawrence Gordinier was born about 1801. Some records list his birthplace as Holland, and other documents, New York. He died in Eaton County, Michigan in May 1865. This poem was written by him and is the oldest family poem that we know of.

“Oh how hard it is to tell,
with scarlet fever also fell”
and this part –
“so we all must pass away
tho bitter struggles on our way.
We travel up a rugged road
in hopes to meet a smiling God”

This was all my Great Aunt could remember of the poem, but that was at least 125 years after the poem was written.

I wonder what filled in the gap listed as, “and this part.”

We can only speculate as to the timing and events that led to the composition. Did he suffer from scarlet fever or maybe a child or grandchild succumbed to the sickness. We may never know.

This photo is Lawrence Gordinier’s daughter, Mary Ann Gordinier Spencer, my 3rd Great Grandmother.

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You Must Go On

One thing my Mother taught through word and deed was that no matter what comes your way, you must go on. She faced many trials, made ends meet with meager supplies, managed a tribe of kids, wore many hats, and encouraged our individualism. She also taught us the principle of priorities. Each day I am reminded that life is short.

This is a true story, written in verse, of an event in her young life that spoke of staunch survivalism on the open prairies of Montana. I believe that God called her name that day and gave her the determination to survive the storm. “You must go on!” – and she did time and again….

  • My Aunt & my Mother

Bundled against the wind,
they sent her on her way.
She headed off to school
on that blustery day.

Braced against the onslaught,
wind whipped the blinding snow.
No longer did she see her way –
her distance she did not know.

Icy fingers beckoned her,
drawing her from the path.
She heard voices in the wind,
but ‘twas only the blizzard’s wrath.

She wanted to turn aside,
tired from the storm.
Yet she knew that just over the hill
she would find a fire warm.

Guided by an unseen hand,
urged by a rising voice,
“You must not stop, you must go on.”
There was no other choice.

Pressed to the wind she turned to see
the one who spoke her name.
It was her father’s face she sought –
she thought the storm he’d tame.

“I was not with you child,”
he said as he heard her tale.
He took her in his arms
and stroked her face, so pale.

“A miracle from heaven,”
is all that I can say
for it was her father’s voice
that led her on that day.

Guided by an unseen hand,
urged by a rising voice,
“You must not stop, you must go on.”
Let that be your choice.

sa 2012

Urged by her father’s voice that she heard on the wind, she made it to the neighbor’s house. It was there he found her warm and safe from the storm.

  • My Aunt & my Mother
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Winter – The Best of All

This is a poem written by my Grandmother who
lived many winters on the Montana prairie.

Winter has its draw backs,
Of that there is no doubt.
But what a thrill it gives one
To hear the children shout!

Sliding down the snow drifts,
Rolling in the snow,
Building big snow houses;
How their faces glow!

The snow birds and the chickadees
Thot last summer flew away
Now perch outside our window
Begging bread crumbs everyday!

When on the porch they’re hopping
When I hear them call,
I sometimes think that winter
Is the best time of all.

For then I see them right up close,
See how each one is dressed
Why one young fellow even has
A brown button on his vest!

The pheasants and the bunnies
Explore tracks in every drift,
The pheasants working day times,
The bunnies take night shift.

Of course it isn’t easy
To keep the stock all fed,
To see that they get water,
And also have a bed.

But now and then the snow plow
Will throw the snow aside,
Then we can jump into the car
And take a little ride.

We’ll get a barrel of fuel oil
Enough to keep us warm
Some extra flour and coffee
To take out to the farm.

Then when again the snow drifts
And we can’t get around
We’ll have lots of company,
These feathered friends we’ve found!

Pheasants, ducks and bunnies,
Chickadees and all,
I think winter must be
The very best of all!