“Bits of Clouds Lingering”

Poem of the Day, Wednesday, November 6, 2024

“Bits of Clouds Lingering”

The grayish elongated clouds strutted
across the western sky as if they belonged
in late March, just before April showers
climbed onto the ever-changing stage
to introduce spring to all who wished to view.

Yet, the gray clouds dallied, a bit of breeze
pushing them to move along like cattle
along a narrow trail on the plains.

Yet, they loitered even more,
bumping against each other,
clamoring for more space
but not getting more
than they deserved.

Yet, they bumbled along bowing
and curtseying like dancers on the stage,
nearing the end of their routine
and a well-deserved rest.

They knew their time drew near,
the sun cresting the edge
of the mountains before it bounced
over and then beyond while the clouds
immerse themselves into blackness,

their curtain lowering and lowering
until nothing, albeit bits of applause
coming from those lined up
and watching from the roadway,
they too lingered longer
than they needed to be.

"The Demise of Common Sense"

Poem of the Day, Tuesday, November 5, 2024

 "The Demise of Common Sense"

For some vague reasons,
common sense is no longer
common among the masses
of the population. It has fled
into unknown territory

or bamboozled into hiding
from some extraneous thoughts
that seem out to lunch,
a major crunch to all those
who believe that common sense

is core to life itself,
an elevated skill that has seen
a precipitous demise over time
with the rise and influx
of nonsensical, whimsical thought

processes that have ended up
in chaotic messes among the masses
of people whose thought mentality
has shriveled into the antithesis
to common sense, perhaps a caving in

to a massive hemorrhaging
from brain freeze coagulations
caused by absurdity, idiocy, and overthinking.
Perhaps, common sense stimulation
and training should be taught

from birth with a major emphasis
in K-12 and maybe a major or two
in undergraduate and graduate schools
with a heavy dose of holistic thinking,
common sense injections and seeing a far off!

"Whispers from the Swing"

Poem of the Day, Monday, November 4, 2024

"Whispers from the Swing"

At the end of 1600 W.,
just down from our home
stands a huge cottonwood
with a myriad of gnarled branches,
both small and large, thin and fat,
hugging a field of alfalfa,
now covered in snow.

Dangling from a broken limb
high in the tree, two ropes
with a board for a seat
at the bottom droop
apologetically in the quietness
of the fleeting morning.

As the sun rise in the east,
the lopsided board seat whispers
joyful stories of children swinging
out and over the fence, now decrepit,
and into the sun while birds chirp
even higher up in the tree, thrilled
to watch the little ones swing
their legs in and out,
pushing higher and higher,
Maple Mountain looming large
in the distance with each up swing.

Perhaps, during the early days,
summer, fall, and maybe into winter,
the swing moved east to west
with dalliances and twists
north and south amid
gleeful shouts from children
and tentative glances from parents.

Today, though, the swing hangs
unobtrusively, the aged rope fraying
in so many places.

The sun-bleached seat
hangs limply, yet snugly
by two worn knots of rope
as the sun creeps higher
and higher in the sky,
illuminating memories
of contagious happiness and joy,
now lingering in the early morning air
before the sun gently melts them away, 

and they disappear forever.

“My Divine Potential”

Poem of the Day, Sunday, November 3, 2024

The Idaho Falls Temple

“My Divine Potential”

I have heard through whispering grasses,
flaming sunsets, and cooing sunrises
that I am a guest here, a stranger really,
gazing upon beauty, struggling
through various challenges,
and preparing for eternity.

My origin simmers on the fringes
of memory, yet deep down I know
that I am much, much more
than the world tells and cajoles me
that I should be.

When I saunter along the beach
early mornings, the rays of sun sneaking
upon the horizon, beginning to spread,
overflowing into the ocean
and then to me on the beach
as the waves lap at my feet,

I know I am more than I think I am.

When I climb to Wall near the Tetons
and look out over the edge and sing
“Oh, God, How Great Thou Art,”
I know I belong in loftier and holier places.

When I read the holy writ and hear
“Thou art my son,” I sense my worth,
realizing I can be better than I have been.

At those precious moments, I recognize
I am living beneath my divine potential.

My climb through life and its many challenges
only enhances my eternal self,
despite the poundings of the world,
yet the poundings seem so distant
compared to the gentle whisperings
of my Heavenly Father whose voice
I hear and follow, knowing I am His
and His alone, here in this strange land
until I can become like He is to live
in the celestial halls of His Glory,
clothed with power and eternity.

“An Old Chair”

Poem of the Day, Saturday, November 2, 2024

“An Old Chair”

I first saw it in an ancient junior high school
ready to be demolished or sold.

It sat offhanded in the corner,
caked with dust and bits of spider goo,
with lots of scratches and misuse
probably by silly, obnoxious,
and oblivious junior high kids.

Not ashamed, I asked if I could have it,
knowing that it was going to be destroyed
with the school. Approved, I carried it
to my car, placed it carefully in the back,
and headed home with my prize.

She required some scraping and sanding,
a bit of hard labor mixed with being covered
with stain to sharpen the oak characteristics.

It became my computer desk chair
through the subsequent decades,
first with my KayPro 10 and then graduated
until I bought my HP Pavilion.

Through hundreds of essays, poems,
talks, and ultimately my dissertation,
it supported me, gave me comfort.

Even my daughters found solace
in sitting on her as they practiced
Typing Tutor and Mavis Beacon,
played Operation Neptune and other games,
and even completed their own assignments.

Retirement seemed out of the question;
yet, retirement stole upon her.

Now, it's time to find a place
of comfort, and for her be of use
to someone, perhaps one of my daughters.

If chairs could write and speak,
the stories she could tell,
stories that are hers from before
we met, and hers and mine after
that will forever be 

remembered in both our minds,
scratches and nicks and all.

"Snacking as We Drive"

November is my poetry month, and I share a written poem each day during the entire month. then, at the end of the month, I will share a few of them with everyone via a Facebook broadcast.

Here is November 1, poem of the month:

"Snacking by the Mile"

When we traveled to Birch Creek,
Rainy Creek, Kilgore,
or even out of state on occasion,
we packed an arsenal
of goodies, mostly candy and sucky things

my dad liked. He said he needed them
to stay awake during the long drives
or even short drives. I thought it odd,
but we joyfully joined in—
enjoyed the chocolate chips cookies,

the candy corns, or the round pink mints
that some of us thought were made from Pepto-Bismol,
potato chips, licorice, taffy,
and a host of other things
stuffed full of sugar. We didn’t mind.

We snacked by mile, not caring
about future dentist visits
or whether diabetes would intrude our lives.
In fact, we didn’t care, or maybe we didn’t know,
at least at that moment.

We were just kids climbing hills,
singing songs, enjoying the wind crashing
through the open windows,
our introduction to air conditioning.
We just cruised and snacked all the way

to the campsite where we disembarked,
scattered across the campground,
staking our claim down by the creek,
setting up camp, building a fire,
and preparing for the night

when we could lean back
in our sleeping bags with the 36” pieces
of thick red licorice, dangling from our lips
and dreaming of more, understanding
that snacking while driving was our destiny.