Only in the Night

She is the keeper of my dream,

The one, the only one

Whose sandaled feet along the drift

The tides of time outrun.

Her scarves flow back upon the wind,

Her hands reach out for me,

In her clutch the precious thing

She rescued from the sea.

Sometimes I hear a haunting voice

Arising in the mist.

Or is it but the murmuring

Of echoes that persist?

Whither does she go and why

In far precarious flight?

The gods can only answer that

And only in the night.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Cactus Glory

Where one malingering star looked on

I watched the kindling of a dawn

On hills so far they seemed to be

An outpost of infinity.

I gazed across the wastes of sand

To wonder why so vast a land

Would be despoiled of any trace

Of grass or tree or garden place.

But when the morning high

I thought I saw the reason why

In blossoms so divinely fair

They flashed like jewels on the air.

Was I a witness on this day

To Nature's quite fantactic way

Of staking off a lavish claim . . .

A desert in a flower's name?

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Alarm Clock

I am tired and weary this morning;

I am weary and tired today.

I would like to go on with my slumber,

I would like to keep pounding the hay.

You say that my plaint is redundant?

I'm repeating myself, you aver?

It's this doggone alarm clock that's done it,

This dread tautological brr. . .

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Boy Meets Girl

Stand here for a little time

And talk to me.

I am lonely tonight,

Lonely as a girl can be.

I have on a pretty gown,

Don't you think?

Do you like ruffles on a dress?

Do you like pink?

Please do not leave me now!

I would ask you in,

But modeling in a window

Dooms a mannequin.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Fly Away Robin!

A scornful robin in a tree

Looks down at me.

What does it think?

Am I a wingless bobolink,

Banned from the sky,

No path to the sun

Where clouds roll by?

No song of hope

At the flash of dawn?

No shield from hate

Where wars go on?

Fly away, robin, fly . . . fly!

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Slain Hollyhock

In torn and tattered autumn frock,

There lingered one lone hollyhock,

Three wilted blooms on riven stalk.

About the yard it seemed to stare

While all the other flowres fair,

Looked scornfully from everywhere.

These other flowers bright and gay

Were in their festive fall array,

Dressed for the party, so to say.

I listened as there came to me,

Soft as the drone of honey bee,

A murmur of conspiracy.

A hateful wind had heard the call

And came across the garden wall

To plot the stately flower's fall.

Next morning when I made the round,

A waste of beauty there I found;

Slain hollyhock upon the ground.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

The Sidewalk Scene

All the world's joys

All the world's woes

Are in transit today

Where the foot traffic goes.

Stand for a moment,

Behold the parade

In shuttling passage;

See every facade

Of mortal anxiety

Mirrored in mass.

Hear the shuffle and stride

As they zigzag and pass.

This sidewalk humanity

Makes you aware

They have one thing in common:

They're going somewhere!

But the riddle remains

To encumber your mind:

Where are they going

And what will they find

At the end of the errance,

The end of the street?

Ah, the secret is theirs,

In whatever retreat,

When they take off their shoes

To relax their poor feet.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Serenity

I know the solace of

The elemental earth,

The soft caress of soil

On hands that reached

For stars and knew rebuff.

Tonight I stand here

By this lovely tree;

My head is bowed

In thankfulness

My garden is enough.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

O Status Quo!

We attend the philharmonic,

Intent on the maestro's beat;

We sit unmoved, platonic,

We belong to the elite.

We dwell in blithe suburbia

Where symbols point to status.

We go in debt for any fad

That keeps the neighbors looking at us.

We are wild about this culture thing.

We buy a book a week;

We bandy titles with the best

Of the literary clique.

But we've had enough of status,

We plan to let it go.

We are heading back to the contryside

And peaceful status quo.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Sly Formula

When you expound a dogma,

Be subtle, man; don't shout.

The noisy note of certitude

Can only leave a doubt.

And watch the quaver in your voice;

It gives you dead away.

The manner of assertion

Can refute the thing you say.

Nor is there much conviction

In the agonized grimace--

Be ye devious and tranquil

And keep a poker face.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Sometime Saint

He is brave when no danger impends;

He is kind when his wishes prevail;

He is pleased with his circle of friends

When they avidly follow his tale.

He is cheerful when all things go well;

He is poised when his ocean is calm;

When he's flush--one never can tell--

He may give some poor beggar an alm.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II) 

Time's Avalanche

Where trees stood tall and

green enfolded earth

I sought the pleasant haven

of my birth.

But drought and time left

only wreckage there.

Gray memories were all I

found of worth.

The book was closed upon

a dwindling past;

The end was here.  The things

I knew would last

Had tottered in the avalanche of years.

The world and all that's

in it move too fast!

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Togetherness

HIS:

Tidied towels

Hanging there,

Fresh and sweet

With tender care.

HERS:

Rumpled linen

In a heap,

Enough to make

A laundress weep.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Fiscal Note

Cry it out from the

Clock's high steeple:

Time is a hoard

Of foolish people.

Fly with the prodigal;

Hark the sound

Where they toss the

Tick-tock coin around!

Just so much time

Is a miser's plot;

What you buy with time

Is all you've got.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II) 

Esthetic Clutter

Kitchen middens, memorabilia, artifacts--

Room to keep the house from bulging

Is the only thing it lacks;

Manikins from Mexico;

An old Confucious made of mud;

A hand grenade from World War II

That we hope remains a dud;

Photographs of movie stars,

Enough to make a constellation;

Pennants strewn across a map

That represents our far-flung nation;

Metal horses, plastic dogs, and

wooden cats;

Cannon, pistols, sawed-off shotguns,

Ammunition, holsters, gats;

Vases, lighters, ash trays, coasters;

Bric-a-brac from old Japan;

Ersatz relics of the sun gods,

Dating from when time began.

Tread lightly when you come

to see us;

Don't brush or break this

precious stuff.

And don't come bearing gifts,

Good neighbor--we've enough!

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

The Brave

When the brave weep

No tears will stain

The book of memory's

Page of pain.

When the brave weep

The heart strings taut

Are muted sorrow

Men know not.

When the brave weep

They walk alone

In a world with

Burdens of its own.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Tumult and Calm

The water lifts

From the ocean spring

And the floods are caught

On the wind's wild wing,

Careening inland

As they go

To pack the mountains

Deep with snow;

To fill the valleys,

Far and vast,

With beauty never meant

To last;

To bring a bounty

To my door,

but only through

One summer more.

For the sun smiles down

And the water's free

To wander back

To the mother sea.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

The Mountain

When you marvel at the mountain,

Pen no rhapsodic lines

Descriptive of its battlements,

Its shadowed peaks and pines.

The mountain that has stood there

Through a million years of stress

Shrugs off the pallid phrases,

The futile wordiness.

Make obeisance in awed silence,

There is nought to speak about--

God said all there is to say

The day He carved it out.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Kathy and Kevin*

Twinkle, twinkle, little twins;

When you waken day begins.

Sister throws a shoe at brother

And they pummel one another,

Brawling in their slack pajamas

Clumsily as baby Ilamas.

But impish faces grow serene

As mamma looms upon the scene.

Each now must view through soapy tears

The other washed behind the ears.

Then comes the token of a truce--

They're swapping straws and

orange juice.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II) 

*Great grand-children of the author

Humming Bird

Little helicopter thing,

Swift in motion, blithe of wing,

You spear a blossom for a snack,

Then dart away and hurry back.

How very little the fabled one

Who must always eat--and run.

Come every summer, friend of mine;

Meet me at the trumpet vine.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Dream Quest

You need not go in quest of dreams,

For dreams will come to you:

A tenderness you thought had died,

A love long vanished from your side,

A faith that once you knew.

Tiptoe they move across the vale

To seek you in the night.

You walk again where once you strode

Through all the flaming episode

Of time in flight.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Touch and Go

The touch of her hand

Set the wheel of romance

Spinning, spinning around

In a song and a dance

That led to their troth

And a walk down the aisle

To a house full of cares

And of kids--after while.

Though her galvanic touch

Put their world in a buzz,

They will never forget

All the laughter there was.

Now the reach of her hand

Is the fleeting cares

Of a leaf falling down. . .

A nostalgic "ah yes!"

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

The Ugly Toy

From dark and deep oblivion

When man had had his day,

Old Mother Earth gazed distantly

And seemed to say:

"Ah yes, those little creatures

Who used their meager wits

To build a very ugly toy

That blew them all to bits!"

She cracked the whip of destiny

Along the cosmic road

That's strewn with trial-and-error

And saddening episode.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Riven Tree

Why, riven tree

On the silent hill,

Do you doff your robe

When the winds grow chill

Or bare your breast

To the sting of sleet

As you brace yourself

On clinging feet?

Is your moment come

When the sun again

Will bid the exit

Of the storm

And you put your

Lovely raiment on

To hold a starling

In your arm?

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II) 

Poverty Flat

As the morning broke I held my hat

In stunned amaze on Poverty Flat.

The mountain there, in granite might,

Was edging through the stubborn night

And shafts of sunlight vaulting high

Were golden trumpets in the sky.

Where the canyon flung its gates apart

I could hear the rush and pulsing heart

Of the restless river coming down

To kiss the valley and bless the town.

On burnished wings the gulls came on

To fly their ritual of the dawn,

Soaring in rhythmic do-si-do,

With the barbaric autumn there below.

Mood music spiraled from a lark

Perched on a bush in a yawning park

Of sage and yucca and tangled wood--

The props of beauty where I stood.

When I walked away I wondered that

They ever had called this Poverty Flat.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Three Pages

Yesterday is a finished page

You cannot turn to dot an i

Or add a yearning postscript

However long you cry.

Tomorrow is a gilded page

You are eager to begin,

Tracing the alluring lines,

Blocking colors in.

Between the two is stark today.

It bids you never borrow

From your futile yesterday

Or flattering tomorrow.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Game for One

She lures you with a look,

Then stabs you with contempt:

Gawk some other way, please,

You predatory gent.

Swift you hold in leash

Your avid, fulsome eyes:

You will just ignore the lady

And let her agonize.

This game of thrust and parry

Leaves a little scar,

That you bear, not the woman--

You know how women are!

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Vision

More wondrous than a winter scene

Are mortal seeing eyes

That weave the tapestries of light

To make the scene materialize.

The endless snowy wilderness

Of buried bush and burdened tree

Would be a formless void of night

Had you not eyes to see.

Gay blossoms in the springtime,

The frutage in the fall,

You would grope for in a limbo

Where they grow beside the wall.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

The Pawn

Away, away, O fallen leaf,

Plaything of the wind.

Fate will bind you in a sheath

With a million of your kind.

You will scud across the plain,

Fleck of autumn gold;

You will feel the breath of rain,

The sting of bitter cold.

Night will come and you will cry

For a verdant youth.

Ruthless time will pass you by

In a mood of truth.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Drum Beat

I waken at the break of dawn

To look askance at day and yawn

As imps arise with taunting mien

To wave the tatters of my dream.

The opulence that night bestowed

Has vanished down the grubby road

That I must travel in a jeep,

A toiler's rendezvous to keep.

I snap my boots and contemplate

The penalty of coming late

And gulp some coffee from a cup

Too black and cold to pick me up.

The day is thundering with noise;

Gone the dream, the pantom joys.

Enchantment flees but never comes

To the morning beat of drums.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Forever Spring

Tall in petaled loveliness,

Limned against the glass,

Her garish red geranium

Nods coyly as you pass.

Bemused at how you're bundled

To fend against the storm

Beckons you invitingly

To come in where it's warm.

The hands that made this blossoming

Enshrine one little spot

Where springtime is forever

In a flower pot.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Ah, Yesterday!

Exquisite is budding youth,

Vibrant is the day,

Romantic is the starry night,

The whole year round is May.

A song bird riffling through a tree,

A flower's bright allure,

Are then the sweet epitome

Of love that shall endure.

Of love that shall endure, alas,

In memory of pain

That comes when murmurous summer

Is drenched in autumn rain.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Rapport

The old wolf's howl

On the high plateau

Is an errie sound

In the shack below.

On a wind-torn night,

In huddled thrall,

We hark to the Atavistic call.

And we sit and ponder,

Silent though:

What does the mournful

Creature know?

Does he sit dreaming

Same as we

Of a far and dim antiquity?

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Procession

He walked behind the village belle;

She gave him scarce a look,

But doggedly he followed her

Through every turn she took.

Their pathways parted all too soon;

The lovelorn little boy

Must turn in at the grammar school--

She went to junior high.

But time that topples things about

Will see her luster dim;

The teenage crown of destiny

Will pass from her to him.

Teenage is the vibrant age,

The golden link between

The promise on the title page

And the long unfolding scene.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Enigma

Strut, Frankenstein!

Batter in the school

And knock down the steeple;

You are doing the 

Sovereign will of the people.

The people, the gentle people,

Who weep for their children

And shudder in the land

As they reach for

God's redeeming hand.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Abyss

Kneel in your sanctuary, men,

and pray;

For one of you has sinned

and so must pay.

The guilt, the shame, the

anguish all are his,

Although you helped to dredge

the dark abyss.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II) 

Only Love

Youth climbs up the rainbow

With confident stride;

Age descends with precarious

Wounded pride.

Faith abides in the heart

Through the blossoming years;

Bleak decline is a part

Of the harvest of tears.

Hope follows the path

Of the billowing sail

Till it's drenched by the tide

And torn by the gale.

Only love can endure

From the shimmering dawn

To the dim sunset light

Where the journey leads on.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Rude Query

The curious have poked about

In every sediment and chink,

Intent upon discoverying

The ancient missing link.

They've come upon Neanderthal

And sifted Piltdown lore,

But all their theroies fossilize

Like all that went before.

Now could it be the things we do,

Like making war to stay alive,

Will mark us as a species that

Could not, alas, survive?

Then mayhap we must point our quest

To something later than we think.

Ah, homo sapiens, could it be

We'll be the missing link!

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Homeward

Homeward go the gulls,

sailing high

as stars will be

when the hush of night

is on the sea.

Homeward go the gulls,

unerring, through

a trackless sky

to heavens where

the fledglings cry.

homeward go the gulls,

bright symbol of

a timeless plan

that mocks the

tarnished work of man.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Behold Us Now!

Behold us now, Omar, across the waste

Of your decline.  No more the savory taste

Of crusted bread, no more the purling grape

That bade you mock the vanities of haste.

The hourglass you turned to savor time

Or mark the flow of sands in measured rhyme

Is pushed aside by the impertinence

And urgency of clocks that clang and chime.

Your golden dream is mouldering in the past,

The world is moving furiously and fast.

Time only now for one long sighing breath

Before we plunge into the awesome vast.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Filtered Feeling

Erudition in the line

Keeps the tought obscure.

To see the truth a phrase outshine

Some poets do abhor.

Likewise, when feeling's filter out,

The tone is kept austere.

Compassion is a thing to flout;

There's weakness in a tear.

Lord, give us back a simple speech

With heart-bound wording in it;

A meaning that's within the reach,

A glow that lasts a minute.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Compassion

Compassion stays the heavy hand

And guides the tender touch;

Restrains the austere judge in time

From judging overmuch;

Reminds the wrought-up preacher

In his looking glass reherarsal

That he's a member of the race

And sin is universal;

Bids father put the hickory down

And see in recollection

How his own youthful escapades

Match Junior's odd collection.

Compassion spares the whipping boy,

Withholds the bitter cup,

Lets loose the little doves of peace

And locks the tiger up.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Farm Boy

He stood at the edge

Of a gold dawn

As the valley awoke

And the wind came on

To bend the corn

Along the road

And ruffle the rooster

Where he strode.

Then sudden commotion

Of squealing hogs,

Of bawling calves

And barking dogs

And a meadowlark

That hits high C

In coloratura melody.

Oh, what a morning,

Oh, what a day--

If only a boy

Had time to play!

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Love's Cycle

A day of scarred togetherness,

A night of long apart,

Lights a little candle

In the lonely heart.

The candle glow allures her;

Helpless as a moth,

She flutters back into his arms

To make another troth.

Love's cycle, never-ending,

The sighing and the song,

Can make the day evocative,

The night so very long.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Tree's Lament

Once I was proud to be a tree

In a distant mountain neighborhood

Where all my stately brothers stood

To strum the wind in harmony.

There every night was holy night,

There stars looked down with tender face

In testament of heaven's grace

On a hidden realm where all is bright.

But if Yuletide joy on a bough must dangle

With tinseled blobs and powder frost

And jingle-bells, not all is lost.

I will bend my pride and wear a bangle.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II) 

Bid It Up!

Spend the gold coin

While there's treasure to buy,

Like a jewel of love

Or a trinket of joy.

Drive no hard bargain;

Bid up the price

For a gem on the block

You will never see twice.

It's your prodigal day!

A tomorrow will dawn

When you'll go to the auction

Just to look on.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Disillusion

I saw a little girl bend low

To touch in wonderment

some shining pebbles on the walk

As home from school she went.

She clutched one in her tiny hand,

A rare and precious gem.

No one had ever told her of

The worthlessness of them.

She will go this way at last,

Old and bent and grey,

With only heaven in her eyes,

The earth so far away.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II) 

Paling Stars

Memory is a firmament

Where paling stars digress

To light the olden pathways

Of pain and happiness.

One star is a destiny

I dreamed would be,

Not reckoning the tumult

Of my charted sea.

Another is an echo of

An old and droning hymn

That once had seemed a choir

Of majestic seraphim.

The light of one falls tremulous

Upon a storied place,

A fair and distant rendezvous

Time never can efface.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Flicker

The flame of hope is burning low,

The faggot store is running out.

What I shall use I do not know

To turn the chill of doubt.

Perhaps a word that you could say

Would keep the dwindling pile--

Used prodigally, one hoarded day,

With care, a longer while.

I knew a time when everywhere

Good tinder was at hand;

If sunless skies succeeded fair,

Light still was in the land.

But now the drearest flickering

Where buried embers sleep

Makes sport of your eternal spring.

The flame is gone; I can but weep.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II) 

Mass Madness

No man would drop a deadly bomb

Upon a neighbor's place--

Regardless of the other's creed

Or politics or race.

Yet nations goaded by greed

Will push their boarders where

Another nation dwells in peace,

And rain death from the air.

No man would strike another down

For some imagined wrong

And celebrate his victory with

The hollowness of song.

But nations on a thin pretext

Will devastate a land

Then bring back honored armies

To the blaring of a band.

No man would wreck another's

Sacred treasure of the heart

That a life's been spent in building

From a dim and distant start.
 

Yet a nation will despoil the things,

With hard and cruel face,

That have come down through the centuries

As the legacy of race.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Good Luck

Here's good luck excited angler,

May your quest be not in vain;

Though you follow leads elusive--

Hook and line or sagging seine--

Though you stumble over boulders

In your eager, mad pursuit

And the river spills its water

Down the funnel of your boot;

Though you never get a nibble

And you're weary, worn, and wet

And you swear your trip's a fizzle

And a failure on a bet. . .

This for you, frustrated angler,

Is the only thing I wish;

That you learn there's more to fishing

Than a creel packed full of fish.

You'll forget the bumps and bruises,

Empty hooks and broken lines,

When you've caught a glimpse of heaven

Through a sun-rift in the pines.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

To a Meadowlark

Not Shelley's lark, but a joyous score

Of other larks that drift and sour

Are yonder in a swaying tree,

Erupting in sweet melody.

Their song is for the ear of man

Who tills the earth and wears its tan,

Whose day is bounded by a field

Where sights and sounds are half the yield.

Shelley's lark was a skylark, true,

That past the far empyrean flew.

But a voice as captivating--hark!--

Is the minor poet's meadowlark.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

November

November is a rebel sprite

With never rhyme or reason;

She wears the mask of any month

Or toys with any season.

She tosses winter at you

In a flurry and a huff;

But the sun comes out of hiding

To spoil her daring bluff.

Or feigning sweet nostalgia,

She flaunts a day of summer,

When the north wind tears hear trappings off,

Disclosing she's a mummer.

Then penitent, when trees are stripped

And leaves are blown away,

She bows to weather's destiny--

She's autumn for a day!

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Bedding Down

Comes twilight on the prairie,

The saddles sit the rail,

The lowing herd is bedding down,

Dust settles on the trail.

The tired ponies crash the gate

To reach the water trough,

As eager as the cowhands are

To shake the desert off.

A banjo by the bunkhouse

Is strumming soft and low

A prelude to the chuck call

To beans and sour dough.

Coyotes on a hilltop,

In weird cacophony,

Cry out their desolation

To a ghostly yucca tree.

The town is twenty miles away,

Next payday twice as far.

But dreaming . . . silver rowels clank

Where bars and women are.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

The Galaxies

A galaxy of dancing lights

Across the valley lies,

Bright replica of silent stars

That throng the arching skies.

Beneath the lights a city dreams

Oblivious of a day

Soon dawning to the rhythm of

The stars that march away.

Man's little lights go off and on

To signal day and night;

The luminous high firmamemnt

Forever blazes bright.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Redemption

Man's strident causes make

a Babylon

That silences the haunting

voice of song

And mocks the primacy of

lullabies

Or faith that girds the road

she travels on.

When he has finished with

his rule of hate,

Will gentle woman come, pray

not too late,

To heal the wounds and write

the scroll of love

Her heart has bidden she inaugurate.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Fair Haven

It is putting on its leafage now,

The tree beside my door;

It is comig back to life again,

One blessed summer more.

The winter that assailed it

And stripped it of its dress

Could not kill the spirit

Nor its hope suppress.

When summer comes and winds blow

Like beckoning of words,

You'll find this tree the haven of

The night's wayfaring birds.

And you can seek in daytime

Its shelter from the sun,

Its arms outstretched as provident

As arms of gentle nun.

This precious tree beside my door,

In yellow robe or green,

Greets every sunrise with a smile; At eventide, serene,

It knows the solitude of stars,

The watchfulness of God,

Its branches reaching heavenward,

Its roots deep in the sod.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II) 

Blithe Bondage

Your wings are leaden, little bird,

Lone captive in a cage;

Your song is hope's clear echo heard

Ringing down an age.

You glimpse the beauty of the world

Through bars that bind and hold;

White clouds that ride the wind unfurled

Are yours but to behold.

And yet you sing your dauntless song

As if bright revelry

Had wafted you in feathered throng,

Aloft, ecstatic, free.

Your heart must know the irony

Of laughter in a room

Whose walls shut out a striving dream

That knocks like doom.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II) 

Errant Muse

I sit writing poetry

While she plays solitaire.

I do not see for dreaming

The lamplight on her hair.

My meter gets entangled;

She turns a lucky ace.

I cannot see for frowning

The smile upon her face.

My thought is slow and halting;

Her slender fingers run.

She mocks my heavy labor

With her nimble fun.

I rumple up the paper.

The Muse that never came

Is sitting at the table

To help her win a game.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Immortal Trivia

The heart awakens in a dream

To light a lamp of truth

That sheds an immortality

On all the trivialty

That went away with youth.

That day in school they laughed because

The new girl came in jeans.

An incident forgotten, yes;

But slumber stirs an old distress

That hasn't died by any means.

The boy who sadly worshipped

His pretty third-grade teacher

Has not the dimmest memory of

His truly first and vanished love--

But, oh, a dream can reach her!

However pale the picture is,

Concealed however deep--

If it has touched the heart enough,

A drama made of fairy stuff

Unfolds, closed-circuit, while you sleep.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Along the Lane

When twilight comes along the bowered lane,

I hear a distant song, its low refrain

As evanescent in the vales of time

As rays of sunlight striving through the rain.

I see a wraith of beauty moving there,

A faded flower in her streaming hair.

Then she has vanished in the tide of dreams

And gentle hands have touched my old despair.

Too soon I see the destinies append

This paradox of every journey's end;

The shadow has more sinew than the flesh,

The echoes all the sounds of earth transcend.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Remembering

O radiant flowers, you will say

what only flowers can convey

When we come this hallowed way.

Touch him with a tenderness

Of blossoms in the wind's caress

At high tide of their loveliness.

Let him hear the muted word

That he will know, that he has heard

I petaled whispering to a bird.

Though flowers fade and memories dim

To echoes of a requiem

Our hands are reaching out to him.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Baubles

I saw a child, through tear-dimmed eyes

Behold its runaway balloon

Go sailing off through cloudless skies,

Away, away, to meet the moon.

I knew the sorrow that had gripped

Its torn and throbbing little breast

As though its hand the bauble slipped

And floated off into the west.

And yet there was an ecstasy

To watch the pretty vagrant go,

A fleck of color, flying free

On summer winds that lift and blow.

I thought of baubles I did toss

On trailing fillets spun of gold;

Gray memories that flit across

the twilight vision of the old.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II) 

Exultancy

I have seen the big game hunter

Stalk the roaring jungle beast

In the land of tangled spaces

Where the west fades into east.

I have seen the yawning rhino

Staggered over, to the death,

Where I stood in frozen terror

And the hunter held his breath.

I have heard the "ping" of bullets

When a pilot's been at bay,

And a shot by narrow inches

Was enough to save the day.

I have lived the breathless moment

When the natives at their feasts

Have been saved by desperate shooting

From the savage king of beasts.

Then I've seen the look of triumph

Through a rift of swirling smoke,

And I've heard the high elation

When the dauntless gunner spoke.

But of all the eyes that sparkeled,

Hearts that leaped exultantly,

It was my kid in the garden

When he bottled up a bee!

The King

He's a smiling little fellow,

Puffy cheeks and hair all yellow;

Eyes that leap in lanughing joy

At the tinkle of a toy.

Chubby hands that go flit-flying

When his mammy passes by 'im,

Dimples deepening on a chin

Tucked away beneath a grin.

Little "toofies," two and two,

Look like jewels shining through;

Snap together with a click,

Heap alarming baby trick.

When his face is all awry

And little fellow's 'bout to cry,

Swift his sorrow we beguile

With the magic of a smile.

He's a cuddling little thing,

He's the monarch, he's the king;

We are subjects to his whim,

We are all in love with him.

Back to School

Our Johnny's starting into school,

To learn his A.B.C.'s;

He'll take the grades, yes, one by one,

As smartly as you please.

He'll go on through the high school, too,

And University--

He'll be a big upstanding man

And you will live to see

Him take his place among the great;

Perhaps the one they'll choose

Some day to be the president--

Just now he needs new shoes!

Our Mary's in the high school now,

A cunning little miss;

She'll head her classes all the way,

And I can tell you this:

There won't be any other girl

Win more sincere acclaim

For doing deeds commendable--

An honor to our name.

She'll move right up the social scale

And wed some man of note;

But what concerns me most today--

Is buying her a coat!

And there's our Jim, a husky lad--

He's off to college now.

When teachers call the honor roll,

He'll stand and take a bow.

I'm sure he'll win a scholarship.

He's got it in him too

To make the first-line football team

Or, possibly, the crew.

He'll wed the leading campus belle,

Some blond, brunette or Titian.

But what is puzzling me tonight

Is paying Jim's tuition.

In after years when they come home

To visit for a day,

I have a notion we'll have grown

Quite old and bent and grey.

But what a joy to listen to

Their storeis of success,

How they have climbed the rungs of fame

And wealthy grown--ah yes!

But just at present I must sit

And try to figure out

A way to get behind these kids

To bring it all about!

Luck

I hear you tramped the stream all day,

You cast in every nook and bay;

You switched to every kind of bait,

You angled early, angeled late.

You tried a sinker on your hook;

You fished the riffles and to keep

From going home sans any trout,

You bought another fellow out.

Yes, in a word, you had tough luck,

You hit the stream and there you stuck

From dawn till dusk and ne'er a strike--

You swore you never saw the like.

But did you hear the singing stream?

Between your casting did you dream

Of being foot-free in a place

Where willows bend and waters race?

And did you look up through the trees

That seemed to beckon in the breeze

To come away from toil and gloom

Up where the mountain flowers bloom?

Well, if you did you cannot say

You spent a fruitless, wasted day.

What though the fishes wouldn't bite;

Your luck was seeing heaven's light

Shine through the vista of the hills,

Where soft winds blow and water spills!

Your luck was being for a day

In woods where gnomes and naiads play,

To hear the whir of wings go by

As feathered creatures of the sky

Go swift along the deep ravine,

Then vanish where the clouds are seen

Adrift in skies of limpid blue

That canopies the world--and you!

Yes, that's the luck, good fisherman.

So take it where and when you can.

If fish won't bite, do not repine;

The whole glad world is on your line!

You still have got the biggest catch

When comrades bring their creels to match!

The Capitalist

You see that fellow sitting there--

A-thumbing through his books?

A capitalist counting up his dough,

I'd say--from how he looks!

That capitalist who sits in there,

It happens, is my boss;

He's working over-time tonight

To figure out his loss.

O yeah, I'll bet he's got more kale

Than any man in town.

Why, he could buy a kingdom

Or the jewels in a crown.

Those bills he's adding up, my boy,

He's adding to his sorrow;

For well he knows he's got to meet

The payroll on the morrow.

Say, you don't know how rich guys live;

The time they spend in play.

They paint the town red every night,

And work but half a day.

Not this rich man--I know his kind

I've seen him toil and fight

For ways and means to keep afloat--

Then worry half the night.

The way these rich men fool you chumps

Is little short of queer;

Why, you'd retire if you had

His salary for a year.

Yes, I'd retire from the grind,

Quite right--just as you say;

If I bore only half the load

He carries every day.

Ah, he's no poor philanthropist,

The way I figure things,

He makes your wages every time

The little cash bell rings.

Well, have your way--but I'm content

To work for him and see

The pleasant smile upon his face

When he does things for me.

I'm really glad I'm not the boss--

Despite the way you rave--

I sometimes think that I'm a king

And he's my toiling slave!

My Gold

My neighbors don't like my gay garden of gold;

They fume and they fret and complain

They say unkind things at my back, I am told--

But I love this fair plot, just the same.

My garden of gold is a rank growing patch

Of dandelion flowers, you see;

For a display of glory you can't find their match

So come up and enjoy them with me.

You will marvel, I'm sure, at the charm of each bloom;

At the impudent smile on its face;

How they grow in a mass till there hardly is room

For anything else on the place.

But I wouldn't uproot them to let carrots grow;

And I wouldn't make way for the lawn;

They are lovely to see and you don't need to mow

The spaces they're growing upon.

If the rain doesn't come, they don't wither and die.

They just spread out their gold all the more;

And you know by the opulent look in my eye

That there's treasure of beauty in store.

Even when they grow tall and the gold turns to grey;

They are beautiful baubles of light;

And if some errant wind comes to whisk them away

I am saddened to know of their plight.

I'm a miser, I guess, with my garden of gold.

I'm content if my wealth multiplies;

Though I know very well that the neighbors who scold

Have contempt for the blooms that I prize.

So let my gold run to the very far edge

Of the border line closing me in;

If my fair flowers come on your side of the hedge--

It's a prodigal kind of a sin!

Till the Sandman Comes

All right, then, my little fellow,

We will sit and have a talk;

You are tired now and sleepy,

What with learning how to walk

And directing all the household

With imperious command.

Snuggle down, then, little fellow,

Let me hold your chubby hand.

Till the sand man comes, no longer!

You and I will sit and chat

Of most all things but the weather,

Some of this and some of that.

I will understand the language

Of your baby lips and eyes,

Though it carries still the accent

Of some place beyond the skies.

You're amused, my little stranger,

By the funny things you see

In the sprawling world about you;

I detect the note of glee

In your rippling peal of laughter

When to bed we say you go,

With an axiom of slumber

For a babe that wants to grow.

What's that you say, you think the sand man

Was invented by the wise

To subdue the world's commotion

When a little nipper cries?

Tut, tut, tut--my dear young fellow,

That is treason to the race!

Quite in spite of your derision,

I must save the sand man's face.

Come wake up, you sleepy bantling,

Have the manners of a guest;

Prop your eyes a little wider;

Raise your head up, try your best!

Well . . . our little talk is ended

And I hold you to my heart.

So there is a sand man baby,

And our time has come to part.

Ah, pleasant sleep and happy voyage

On the bright ship of your dreams

Till you sail to some fair harbor

Where the world is all it seems,

Where big men are true and trustful

As a baby is, like you--

And I pray that God will keep you

All the long night through!