Two Poems

Cochise's Grandson

Looking Back --

What can I see?

I see back to when my people were free.
Before the stealers came.

I see vast plains and unpolluted skies.
Before the spoilers came.

I see enormous herds of animals, buffaloes, deer, elk!
Before the killers came.

I see homes and families working together free and happy
Before the dividers came.

I hear the music of my world -
joyful, rhythmic, haunting

Before you came.

I took a writing workshop in Des Moines. This was one of the things I wrote down there. The really neat thing was reading it aloud to the group and hearing their applause. that is a memory I'm keeping. The picture isn't really Cochise or his grandson but i liked it. It is done with crayola's

A Mason’s Faith

Is Masonry a religion.?
No
Not a religion
But a man must have faith
A Mason’s trust is in his God.

He first came to the Lodge
Was asked to kneel…
A Brother prayed for him.
Another walked with him,
Never alone –
Always upright like the Plumb
Trusting in the Brother and his God.

He walked a path others had walked.
For centuries every Mason has walked that path -- learning and growing
Trusting his Brothers and his God.

Progress brought light, more light and further light.
The light from God “In the beginning.”
The light of learning and knowledge.
Light from the God in whom he put his trust.

The Mason grew as he made his promises.
Secrets to keep – Secrets to look for.
The Master’s Word was lost.
Searched for and never found.
But still he could trust in his God.

Working tools taught him lessons
A good man was made better.
Passions were subdued and the tools helped him build.
Build his character as a stone
Whose rough edges are smoothed
For the Temple of His God.

Almighty Father of the Universe
Great Architect of the Universe
However He is addressed
He is the One to trust.

“Behold how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in Unity” The Mason prayed that discordant passions be subdued,
That Brotherly Love and Affection be spread with the Master’s trowel.
And God is the one he trusts to answer that prayer.

And so may the blessing of Heaven
Rest upon all Masons. May we meet upon the level and part upon the square always trusting in our God.

Not a religion
But a man must have faith
A Mason’s trust and his faith
are in his God.

Jay Cole Simser
March 22. 2004
Inspired by M.W. Brother Tom Eggleston
Dedicated to R.W. Bill Yungclas

Tom Eggleston, PGM is one of my Masonic Heroes.  When I decided to write a tribute to Brother Bill as he became Grand Chaplain I thought of Tom and he was the inspiration for this.

A Poem for Tuesday

Prayer for Children

This prayer, written by Ian Hughes, has been found in a variety of publications and throughout the internet. Via Public Domain, it is a remarkable poem to be shared with others.

We pray for children who like to be tickled,
who put their sticky fingers everywhere,
who like to walk in puddles,
who can never find their shoes.

And we pray for children who stare at
photographers from behind barbed wire,
who have never had a new pair of sneakers to run down the street in,
who live in places where we wouldn't be caught dead,
who never go to the circus,
who live in an X-rated world.

We pray for children who bring us sticky kisses and fistfuls of dandelions,
who like to sleep with a dog,
who insist on burying goldfish,
who hug us in a hurry and forget their lunch money,
who sing off key,
who squeeze toothpaste all over the sink.

And we pray for those who never get dessert,
who have watched their parents die,
who can't find any bread to steal,
who don't have any rooms to clean up,
whose pictures aren't on anybody's dresser,
whose monsters are real.

We pray for children who hide their
dirty clothes under the bed,
throw tantrums in the grocery store,
who pick at their food,
who like ghost stories,
who love visits from the tooth fairy,
who don't like to be kissed in front of the school bus.

And we pray for those whose nightmares
come in the daytime,
who will eat anything,
who have never seen a dentist,
who aren't spoiled by anybody,
who go to bed hungry,
who cry themselves to sleep,
who live and move and have no being.

We pray for children who want to be carried,

We pray for children who must be carried,

We pray for children who will grab the hand of anyone 

kind enough to offer it. 

Tuesday Poem

Advice

There is that within you that can reach a star...

Find it!

A song no one but you can hear ...

Sing it!

There is that without you that would pull you down ...

Fight it!

A bird doesn't get into trouble unless it flies too low ...

Fly high!

The universe is a question ...

Answer it!

A bird flew across the car in front of me one day and I got to thinking that it would not get into trouble if it just flew higher. It gradually grew into this.  For several years I posted it as a poster on my classroom door.

Tuesday Poetry

Most People

Most people sing just one song
give just one speech,
have just one conversation –
usually with themselves.

Most people dance
just one dance,
walk just one walk
Go to just one place - many times.

Most Rock Stars give the same concert
over and over.
Most comedians tell the same joke -
although sometimes with different punch lines.

Most Authors who write just one book
can do it many times.

Most politicians have just one idea –
usually someone else’s.
If you change your audience no one knows you are boring!

Some people however
Sing several songs,
Dance many dances,
Walk in different worlds.

Some people have endless conversations with many people.

Some people never listen
but others always do.

Some people stand out and stand up.

They are original, diverse, endlessly fascinating shining stars.


Jay Cole Simser
April 26, 2005

I went to a concert at Drake University one April evening and I enjoyed it very much. I bought two of the artist's CD recordings Over the next few days I listened to them and discovered that most of the songs sounded alike. That got me to thinking that the speeches that politicians and others give are probably like that also just tweaked a little to suit the situation and thus this poem was born.

Poetry Break

On Being a Man?

You can cry at weddings and funerals
and no one knows it is because your heart is breaking.

You can choke up while singing “Amazing Grace”
and people will think it is because you are moved by the song.

It’s OK to let a tear slip out when the flag passes by or when the Diva sings “Un bel di” – They just think it’s natural. (If maybe a little too tender.)

Let them flow while driving home in the dark,
wishing for the comfort you can’t have.

But don’t let anyone know they are really falling for something lost.
Put on a façade for the world for you are a MAN!

You are not supposed to have feelings –
You are supposed to “buck it up” and “deal with it.”

You aren’t supposed to care,
At least not so anyone will know.

But then, I do… care that is -Perhaps too much
I just must learn to hide it.

So at night when I can’t sleep and my pillow is more than a little damp
I lie awake yearning for your (lost?) friendship

Grateful that I have love in my soul
For it is important to love.

So I will love you and send you my caring
And my love even if it is never returned

Be Loved 

I have decided to share some of my poetry on Wednesdays.  I hope you will enjoy them.

This is a poem which has been shared about 1500 times on my poetry blog. There are many comments on it.

A Call for Love

Awful Religious Stereotypes? Shattered -

Toad Tuesday

These two young women were raised to see each as "the other." But in this powerful performance, they confront and untangle the stereotypes that have worked so hard to keep them apart. Makes me wonder how different the world might be if we all spent a little more time focusing on our similarities

 Megan Kelley

I found this on Upworthy. "This wow-so-effing-amazing video was recorded at the Brave New Voices 2013 Quarter Finals in Washington, D.C. The performers are Amina Iro and Hannah Halpern. See more on YouTube, or check out the organization on Facebook."

Toad Twittering.

My grandfather and his brother-in-law had were friends and both were veterinarians.  My sister found these two poems which they wrote.  One to my Grandfather C. G. Cole and the other from Jean R Underwood.  I am not sure when they poems were written but it would have in the 1930's or about.

Enjoy!

THE T.B. INSPECTOR

A T.B. Inspector in the course of a day,

Has much to put up with in earning his pay:

He goes through the mud no matter now deep,

An appointment he made and feels he must keep.

He stops at John Jones’ about ten miles out,

And whether John’s home he’s always in doubt,

If he finds him at all John will start in and say:

Doc, I don’t believe I’ll test today;

I’ve got so much that I must do,

I haven’t got time to monkey with you,

Besides Bill Taylor said last night,

That the graft in this testin ‘is surely a fright;

He said these gol dern vets don’t know,

A reactin cow from a buffalo.

They’re in with the packers to get our cows,

And he says, by gosh, that he allows,

They won’t test his’n without some fun,

‘Cause he’ll chase’ em away if it takes a gun.

So the vet he spends an hour or so,

Convincin’ Jones that Bill don’t know.

If he finally decides that he’ll let him test,

He helps drive ‘em in and the vet does the rest,

Injects ‘em tags ’em, puts down the amount,

So they’ll know what to pay if any’s thrown out.

Jones thinks they’re worth a hundred and ‘leven,

While the vet thinks they’re high at seventy-seven.

The cows they step on the vet’s poor toes,

And how many kicks he gets no one knows,

And then he goes on to Farmer Brown,

And maybe here he gets knocked down.

So it goes on the whole day through,

‘Till he gets home at night all black and blue.

But it might be true that the time will come yet,

When things get better for this poor vet.

                                    -Dr. C. G. Cole, Story County

STATE SERUM and SUPPLY Co.

INCORPORATED

18TH AND Maury Streets

DES MOINES, IOWA

Phones, Day, Maple 2978, Night, Walnut 7657

J.R. Underwood:D.V.M.

Professor Cole, who in is lecture is full of theories and conjectures.

Convinces us that it’s no trick to cure poor piggy when he’s sick.

“Why if his breath is coming fast, as if each one would be the last.

Give him some good strong stimulant and rub his snout with the liniment”.

Or if on Dobbins neck should grow a good old fashioned this olow.

Don’t think that death is growing near; just pour some urine in his ear.

“There’s quality to that, there’s class. It’s better yet to add some glass”.

At diagnosis he is there, can track each symptom to its lair.

Combine them all, make a disease, he does it gracefully with ease.

Just like that, he can guard the City meat supply; can operate on Fido’s eye

Can treat the chicken when they’re sick, he understands the fever stick.

He’s getting by, he knows the game, he knows what makes the horses lame.

He don’t need any boosts or pull, for when it doubt he throws the bull.

It’s also great to hear him rant about that College serum plant.

Not if this “expert” only knew half of the damage that they do.

He’d put for sale sign on the door and stop making serum evermore.

It seems as though they really can’t make serum in that plant.

I don’t understand there’s something wrong,

                 the virus is weak and the serum  ain’t  strong.

It’s been that way for a year or two and its raising Hell now I tell you.

They ought to “can” this Doctor Cole and put a real Vet in control.

One that is able wise and good, I’d recommend Doc Underwood.

The moral of this little poem

I hope you will all take home.

If you should own a healthy pig

Keep it away from red-haired “Dig”.

Written by Dr. Jean R. Underwood D.V.M. about his brother-in-law Dr. Clarence Gordon Cole “Dig.

A Poem for Dr. Ur-Spo who has ANOTHER cold

Sneezles

BY A. A. MILNE

     Christopher Robin

     Had wheezles

     And sneezles,

     They bundled him

     Into

     His bed.

     They gave him what goes

     With a cold in the nose,

     And some more for a cold

     In the head.

     They wondered

     If wheezles

     Could turn

     Into measles,

     If sneezles

     Would turn

     Into mumps;

     They examined his chest

     For a rash,

     and the rest

     Of his body for swellings and lumps.

     They sent for some doctors

     In sneezles

     And wheezles

     To tell them what ought

     To be done.

     All sorts of conditions

     Of famous physicians

     Came hurrying round

     At a run.

     They all made a note

     Of the state of his throat,

     They asked if he suffered from thirst;

     They asked if the sneezles

     Came after the wheezles,

     Or if the first sneezle

     Came first.

     They said, “If you teazle

     A sneezle

     Or wheezle,

     A measle

     May easily grow.

     But humour or pleazle

     The wheezle

     Or sneezle,

     The measle

     Will certainly go.”

     They expounded the reazles

     For sneezles

     And wheezles,

     The manner of measles

     When new.

     They said, “If he freezles

     In draughts and in breezles,

     Then PHTHEEZLES

     May even ensue.”

Christopher Robin

Got up in the morning,

The sneezles had vanished away.

And the look in his eye

Seemed to say to the sky,

“Now, how to amuse them today?”

Get Well Soon - (and if you read the poem aloud it will help the healing...)

His Day is Done’: Dr. Maya Angelou writes moving poem in honor of Nelson Mandela

The Power of the Spoken Word

I cannot add anything to what this young man said except that it made me cry.

Inaugural Poem by Richard Blanco

My favorite moment from the Inauguration One Today 

One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores,
peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces
of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth
across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies.
One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story
told by our silent gestures moving behind windows.
 
My face, your face, millions of faces in morning’s mirrors,
each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day:
pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights,
fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows
begging our praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper—
bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us,
on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives—
to teach geometry, or ring-up groceries as my mother did
for twenty years, so I could write this poem.
 
All of us as vital as the one light we move through,
the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day:
equations to solve, history to question, or atoms imagined,
the “I have a dream” we keep dreaming,
or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won’t explain
the empty desks of twenty children marked absent
today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light
breathing color into stained glass windows,
life into the faces of bronze statues, warmth
onto the steps of our museums and park benches 
as mothers watch children slide into the day.
 
One ground. Our ground, rooting us to every stalk
of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat
and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills
in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm, hands
digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands
as worn as my father’s cutting sugarcane
so my brother and I could have books and shoes.
 
The dust of farms and deserts, cities and plains
mingled by one wind—our breath. Breathe. Hear it
through the day’s gorgeous din of honking cabs,
buses launching down avenues, the symphony
of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways,
the unexpected song bird on your clothes line.
 
Hear: squeaky playground swings, trains whistling,
or whispers across café tables, Hear: the doors we open
for each other all day, saying: hello, shalom,
buon giorno, howdy, namaste, or buenos días
in the language my mother taught me—in every language
spoken into one wind carrying our lives
without prejudice, as these words break from my lips.
 
One sky: since the Appalachians and Sierras claimed
their majesty, and the Mississippi and Colorado worked
their way to the sea. Thank the work of our hands:
weaving steel into bridges, finishing one more report
for the boss on time, stitching another wound 
or uniform, the first brush stroke on a portrait,
or the last floor on the Freedom Tower
jutting into a sky that yields to our resilience.
 
One sky, toward which we sometimes lift our eyes
tired from work: some days guessing at the weather
of our lives, some days giving thanks for a love
that loves you back, sometimes praising a mother
who knew how to give, or forgiving a father
who couldn’t give what you wanted.
 
We head home: through the gloss of rain or weight
of snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always—home,
always under one sky, our sky. And always one moon
like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop
and every window, of one country—all of us—
facing the stars
hope—a new constellation
waiting for us to map it,
waiting for us to name it—together


Today was America's day with everyone included and no person left behind. From the struggles of young immigrants wanting an education, to women desiring equal pay for equal work, to the poor desiring income to feed the children and to those who simply aspire to be a new greatness...this was their day too.

David Mixner

Ithaca

Dr. Ur-Spo shared this poem on Facebook.  I had not heard it before and I am in awe - Do enjoy the beauty of the poem.

Because I like it.

From 3Quarks Daily

Thursday Poem
by Jim Culleny
Becoming Human

Once a man came to me and spoke for hours about
“His great visions of God” he felt he was having.

He asked me for confirmation, saying,
“Are these wondrous dreams true?”

I replied, “How many goats do you have?”

He looked surprised and said,
“I am speaking of sublime visions
And you ask
About goats!”

And I spoke again saying,
“Yes, brother – how many do you have?”

“Well, Hafiz, I have sixty-two.”

“And how many wives?”
Again he looked surprised, then said,
“Four.”

“How many rose bushes in your garden,
How many children,
Are your parents still alive,
Do you feed the birds in winter?”

And to all he answered.

Then I said,
“You asked me if I thought your visions were true,
I would say that they were if they make you become
More human,

More kind to every creature and plant
That you know."


by Hafiz
from The Gift -Versions of Hafiz
by Daniel Ladinsky

A new Book

Shel Silverstein's Poems Live On In 'Every Thing'

Click on the above title to be taken to the NPR post about a new book of 

Shel Silverstein poems.  I am so very pleased.  Now an entire new generation will discover this wonderful man's poetry.  One is reproduced below.

Seems like he could write the essence of living in his poetry.  I can't wait to get the book.

Remembering

I wrote this poem about a month after the attack.


Thank You, Mr. Bin Laden

(Written after attending the Philadelphia Orchestra performance at C.Y. Stephens Oct. 4, 2001)

The orchestra came and got ready to play
The first violinist bowed his note.
Out came the conductor ready to lead,
The music started and the audience stood up.
We had come to hear romantic music to lift our spirits
Instead our national anthem started the program
Not a dry eye in the house - some sang along others were choked up.

Thank you, Mr. Bin Laden, for giving us back our patriotism.

We watched as our national tragedy turned into a national desire
A desire first for revenge and then for healing.
We became aware of the plight of a people
Living a world away. We saw how their government treats its own.
We became aware of the women of Afghanistan and the miserable life which is theirs.
We watched as you hid in your hole behind the skirts of the innocent.
We saw your people flee from their homes and we sent aid to help them

Thank you, Mr. Bin Laden, for turning our eyes onto you and yours.

We watched horrified on Sept. 11 when the planes took out the towers.
We saw, instantly, on our modern miracle of television as people died.
We listened to the mayor as he urged us to calm in his dignified manner.
We cried and mourned for those who became heroes as they sacrificed themselves to save others.

Thank you, Mr. Bin Laden, for showing us the heroism of our own.

We were a nation divided. Divided by party and politics.
A nation with each going their own way.
Complacent and probably unworthy of our heritage.
You brought us together with your cowardly acts.

Thank you, Mr. Bin Laden for unifying us once again.

I wrote this right after 9/11.  I did not keep a copy of it but it has been living on the Des Moines Register Web Site since then.  I discovered it while "googling" myself  and have reclaimed it.  It is so sad that Mr. Bush squandered the unity we had at that time and divided us and wasted our resources with his "oil" war.