“Una de las Creaciones”

Poema del Día, Jueves, 30 de Noviembre 2024

*Para mis amigos y conocidos que hablan Español!

Along the Oregon Coast

“Una de las Creaciones”

Las montañas, los ríos, los lagos,
los desiertos, las playas, los árboles,
los arroyitos— todas las creaciones
son de Nuestro Padre Celestial
para que podamos disfrutar
de ellas y sentir felicidad.

Pero las amistades— estas son
para nuestras vidas; para encontrarlas,
desarrollarlas, y mantenerlas vivas.

El Padre nos ama, y de vez en cuando pone
en nuestros caminos, en nuestros senderos,
y en nuestras vidas personas significativas—

Sus hijos e hijas elegidos, a quienes
podemos tener como amigos.

Amigos especiales los cuales nos animan,
nos motivan, nos hacen mejor, y nos ayudan
a disfrutar de las creaciones del Señor.

Amigos con quienes sentarnos
en la playa y compartir las puestas del sol,
las olas que vienen, los pajaritos que vuelan
y los sueños que quedan.

Lo mejor es compartir estas creaciones
con ellos, con esos amigos especiales.
Porque cuando compartimos,
pensamos en otras personas
y no sólo en nosotros mismos.

Así nos extendemos y nos conectamos
con las creaciones del Padre
para ser instrumentos en Sus manos.

Y cuando servimos como Sus instrumentos,
podemos cantar vigorosamente:

¨Grande Eres Tú, Grande Eres Tú¨
y saber, quizás, por primera vez…
que somos una de las creaciones
más importante de Él.

Y, en ese instante, darnos cuenta
de que podemos hacer todo con Su guía
porque Él nos ha creado
para este propósito, para este día.

"The Cove"

Poem of the Day, Friday, November 29, 2024

Capitol Reef view

"The Cove"

Single trees, mostly ancient and craggy,
line the narrow path to the cove,
like sentinels of the past, nodding
as we pass, watching us as we enter
their sacred place of orange rocks

that arch high into sheer cliffs,
and then wrap around a dead end.
It’s quiet here, except for the breeze,
caressing each side of the cove,
blowing ever so slightly, so delicately.

Just above me, a canopy of soft murmurings
echo, dancing and hanging there,
perhaps trying to tell me something.
For a moment, I sit on an outcropping,
listening to the colors and rock formations.

One solid layer of burnt orange, black
and splotched and pocked, runs perfectly
for 20 feet or so until it disappears,
into the red sands of time and beyond,
just like the dwellers who once roamed here.

Perhaps, they sat where I now sit, saw
the same yucca, cloistered at the base
of the orange streak, mixing green sharp leaves
with colored rocks, half buried in the red sands
blown in and scattered over centuries,

or even mere days or weeks before.
The winds tense, rain clouds gather in 

the west, threaten ouster from this safe haven

as I part my chapped lips, silently eavesdropping
to the whispering songs of the ancient ones.

“A Grateful Ode and Joyous Thank You to Thanksgiving”

Poem of the Day, Thursday, November 28, 2024

Our beautiful family

“A Grateful Ode and Joyous Thank You to Thanksgiving”

When all is said and done,
my thanks do not extend far enough—
too many blessings to count,
and when I do try counting them
and say thank you in so many ways,
I can never get to the end
of blessings before another one
sprouts before my eyes.

No matter where I travel
or what I see or even experience,
blessings emerge from every view,
every situation, every opportunity
even from every pore of my being.

Most are not large or extraordinary
like Moses’ parting of the Red Sea,
or the Brother of Jared’s seeing God’s finger
touching the stones or even the magnificence
and the wondrous nature of the Creation!

I just believe and stand in awe of it all.

My blessings flow in smaller doses
that draw my attention and focus,
give me pause each day
as I contemplate their significance.

Take for instance, that dance in Rexburg
when I met Joanne, now my eternal companion.
That blessing of being with her
keeps joyously happening—
every day, every day, every single day
for which I am so grateful.

How about two miracle babies,
our sweet Anna Rose and Hailey?
We prayed for years for them
to join our family, waited patiently
and then they came in miraculous ways
and have blessed our lives ever since.

And all those brothers and sisters,
one now hanging out in Heaven, waiting
for us to come to throw snowballs;
build snow forts; reminisce about camping,
fishing, eating candy corns, watching
Bonanza, working in the garden
and growing up in Menan, population 596?

What about the great jobs,
in different places, different colleges,

mixed with teaching and helping others
and being a part of so many
wonderful communities?

Or our Church missions to the Caribbean
and Riverside, California, and the blessings
of being with 500+ of the greatest young men
and women on the planet earth?

Who can forget about the incredible
and marvelous blessings of grandchildren,
four of them—smart and intelligent,
beautiful and handsome, great thinkers
and students, just like their parents?

And the many travels to the Caribbean Islands,
China, Korea, Viet Nam, Rusia, Chile, Mexico,
Canada, Hawaii, so many states, and more—
witnessing God’s majesty and creations
everywhere we go. We are humbled
and eternally thankful for our lives,
for what we have seen, experienced,
and felt along the way?

We are thankful for all these memories
and so many more that lie on the surface
and deep within our hearts and those
yet to come into our lives.

Instead of one day of Thanksgiving
each year, we give grateful, heartfelt thanks
for each day we live and breathe and grow
and become better than we could
ever have been without of these
marvelous experiences seeping
and flowing into our lives—
for that is why we are here.

“My Hand to Yours”

Poem of the Day, Wednesday, November 27, 2024

“My Hand to Yours”

What if you could take a few hours in a day,
visit places you have never been,
see things you have never seen,
and do what Christ would do?

What if you could talk to the homeless,
hand them a meal or two, help them
feel loved during Thanksgiving, hand them
a hot meal, pumpkin pie, a roll, an apple
or an orange, a bottled water—a simple meal.

What if you could receive dozens
of “thanks yous,” “God bless yous,”
delightful smiles, many head nods,
and a few fist bumps?

What if you could hand out scarfs, coats,
warm socks, gloves, pants, and winter hats
to warm their souls, both body and spirit?

What if you could see their smiles,
hear their heartfelt thanks, understand
their kind voices, and see their willingness
to take food to those who have no legs
or who lie sick and afflicted
in makeshift beds or under tarps?

What if you could watch them mill about
like family, eating lunch together, talking
about the present, perhaps wanting to think
about the past but hurting too much right now?

What if you could just spend a few hours
sharing peace and comfort to those
most in need, alleviating hopelessness
and instilling a bit of hopefulness
for just a few moments, maybe longer.

What if you could walk away, uplifted
and comforted, a feeling of peace,
a renewed sense of purpose,
and understanding flowing
through your heart and soul,
feeling blessed for what you have,
wanting to do more for others?

What if you could hear the sacred
and soothing words, “Inasmuch
as ye have done it unto to the least
of these…ye have done it unto me”?

What if….?

My hand to yours!

See https://myhandtoyours.org/

“Hands”

Poem of the Day, Tuesday, November 26, 2024

My oldest granddaughter's hands when she was a baby

“Hands”*

Hands are different for each person.
Think of the calloused and withered
on old farmers who bear the brunt
of cold winters and early mornings,
fixing fence, pulling calves and lambs,

soothing the tears and scraped knees
and shins, and caressing their dear wives’
faces during graduations and funerals.
A baby’s hands are prim and petite,
freshly from God who pressed them

to His lips before He reluctantly
yet joyously let go before they forgot…..
Mothers caress these tiny hands, imagine
what they will do as their babies grow up.
Will they be smudged in ink as writers

or soot-covered hands of coal miners?
Or broken and stiff hands of athletes?
Or missing a finger because of a woodsman’s saw?
Or the firm hands of a hard worker?
Or the applauding hands of a teacher or mentor?

Or the warm hands of a missionary or confidant?
Hands can turn out so differently,
depending on our life’s choices.
Yet little hands are wrinkled in cute ways
and grow taut and strong and viable

as they age and begin playing
with little trucks or baby dolls,
or digging sand at the beach
or throwing clods at cows
and dogs that saunter by.

Perhaps, they will even pick up
pebbles strewn along the path of life,
roll them over and over, analyzing
them until they toss them
into the water or back

where they came from or keep them
hidden in their pockets for safekeeping,
knowing they are their special find.
In time, we will hold the gnarled,
ancient hands of our spouses, mothers,

fathers, and grandparents, maybe even
children now lying quietly in the winter of life.
We take them into ours, caress them
like they once belonged to a baby,
wondering about all the work they have done.

Once strong and stout and calloused,
now shrunken, weak, and weathered.
I take their hand, touch it to my face,
knowing the powerful influence they have been
in my life as I used to place mine in theirs,

 
as we walked along the paths of life,

knowing I was safe and protected
as long as I held that hand,
the one now I do not want to let go
but hope that mine will be the same

in time when my children take mine

in theirs, remember the times
when mine clasped theirs
and kept them secure and shielded
and steady, so they would not fall.

*Inspired by Riley and Hope Abraham

“Snowballs at Noon”

Poem of the Day, Monday, November 25, 2024

“Snowballs at Noon"

Doing chores in the winter
sometimes causes even the hardiest
to contemplate Arizona, la playa,
or any point south and 70+ degrees.

Each morning, we bundle up tight:
snowmobile suits, one piece head gear,
yellow fuzzy gloves, and green packs,
and trudge to the barn where
the frayed corn stalks sag
against the pole fence.

Black baling twine bind them, sloppily
together like the neck of a burlap bag
full of six-week-old pigs.

With a long steel crow bar, I chip ice
from the watering trough
on cold mornings, pour cupfuls
of water into the ragged hole
and let the newly bred sows slurp
and slurp until they are full.

Old Tip, our collie, shoves his nose
between the slats, sniffs,
checking for who knows what.

He barks, and the oldest sow grunts,
knowing full well Tip’s temerity.

Beyond the sow’s pen in the open pasture,
now white from the night’s storm,
my old bay, silently munches breakfast.

For a moment, she hesitates, listens,
a clump of first crop baled hay dangles
from her lips like a spider
on a loose thread.

Her ears twitch as she stomps
and nervously looks around,
knowing something is about to happen
that might put her into a tizzy!

I turn just in time to catch
my brother’s snowball, loosely
packed, thrown from about twenty feet
away, right in my face, smothering
my black plastic framed glasses.

Then all becomes a whitish blur
like a snowstorm at midday.

 

“My official conversation with God”

Poem of the Day, Sunday, November 24, 2024

Sunset at the west end of Center Street, Orem, Utah

“My official conversation with God”

I had my official conversation with God today,
He and me together, I kneeling by my bed,
head bowed, eyes closed,

and a heart full of love and trepidation,
and He somewhere listening in.
I needed to talk, needed to express

my thanks for all that He had done for me,
needed to pour out everything
bothering me for the past decades.

I had heard that all one had to do
is kneel, be humble, talk straight, and listen.
I figured I could do that.

For a brief moment, I just knelt there,
wondering how to begin.
Not knowing really how, I just began.

I thanked Him for my family,
the blessings of health,
asked Him for a better understanding

of who He was and whose I am.
I gave Him a mindful of concerns and questions.
Then, I stayed still, listening

with both my head and heart.
The answer was not a shout out.
It was a feeling, a seeping, an infusion,

of an overpowerful sense of love
and connectedness I thought
I had never felt before.

Yet, deep down, I had felt that before,
never understood its origin,
but today I did—

clearly, concisely, distinctly!
I knew I would be back again
in more official conversations with God!

"Nothing is sacred at our house"

Poem of the Day, Saturday, November 23, 2024

"Nothing is sacred at our house"

My mother hides chocolate chip cookies
in the freezer, her hidden cache
for snowy weekends
and long trips to the city.

She thinks no one knows
they are there ostensibly hidden
where no one can find them.
She even locks the freezer

and hides the long, thin key.

Little does she know
that we know
the key’s secret hiding place
beneath the charcoal lighter fluid
lying in open sight inside the porch,
next to the freezer, just to the left.

Our small hands borrow cookies,
some frozen from last week’s batch
and some still warm
from this morning baking,
now carefully stashed in plastic bags
and Tupperware containers.

The cookies disappear
much like the potato chips,
thin slices of cake,
and marshmallows did last month.

Sometimes she asks us why
we do not eat much
breakfast or lunch or dinner.

We look at each other,
knowing our frozen chocolate chip cookies
thaw beneath our beds
and patiently wait for us.

“The Collection”

Poem of the Day, Friday, November 22, 2024

“The Collection”

Some people collect old china,
petite and pretty and polite;
or plates from every state in the country,
round ones, flat ones, bronze ones,
beveled-edged ones usually discovered
in scattered fleas markets,
just off I-10 in Quartzsite, Arizona;
or political pins from ‘60, ’64, and ’76,
Kennedy, Johnson, and Ford.
I, on the other hand, collect rocks,
smooth ones, flat ones, odd-shaped ones,
from railroad lines in Utah, high mountains
in Idaho, the plains of Montana,
or the high prairies in Wyoming—
some stuck out like farmers
in the New York City subway;
others lay half hidden in sand and weeds.
The three-date rock appeared after Church,
scavenged clandestinely from a river bed,
high in the Beartooths, by Boy Scouts
in search of dates with my daughter.
Another came from a rodeo coach,
a completely round one, rounded by years
of water splashing in and around it,
like a princess on a platter. One came
from my Dad’s place after he died,
a round black volcanic one with a bowl
in the middle where, he said,
Native Americans ground corn for supper.
Now, whether any of it was true seemed
superfluous to me until I held the rock 

in my hands, lovingly caressed it 

like a mother and her newborn babe.

The story was too good to let truth surface.
I used to keep them all out front 

where I could see them.

Often I shuffled from rock to rock, 

remembering how they came to be, 

wincing at the invariable words:
“We’re not taking those on our next move.”
I already knew the poundage and hidden spaces
between the brown sofa and bed stands
where rocks can hide their true identities
and stories yet to be told.

“The Gift of Gardens”

Poem of the Day, Thursday, November 21, 2024

Garden by Delaina Hammon Scholes

“The Gift of Gardens”

Gardens are those places between heaven
and earth where things grow and things die,
where weeds can take over if the gardener isn’t diligent.
Our father taught us that gardens are places where

young boys and girls learn to work by hoeing, watering,
weeding, and dropping packaged seeds into perfect furrows,
some deeper than others, depending on the size of the seed.
We all wondered why Dad dropped moth balls

in rows of peas. He said, “Keeps the worms out.”
We clandestinely eyed each other when Dad wasn’t looking,
wondering whether moth balls mingled with pea seed
really killed worms. But in the end, we never saw worms

crawl out of peas shells. Dad’s gardens always had cucumbers,
various kinds, spreading their vines out of their rows
and across the garden and encroaching other rows,
even climbed the corn stalks. We built tomato cages

out of 2” x 2” scraps boards and placed the baby tomatoes in dirt
up to their eyeballs and watched them rule the garden, pushing
limbs and fruit between the gaping holes of the cages,
understanding tomatoes have minds of their own.

We planted rows of corn in two-week intervals for a staggered harvest.
Then, we waited for things to sprout so we could watch water
trickle down each row, licking up dry dirt, pushing sticks
and such to the end. Often, though, we made pea boats

helped them along, too, digging a tiny furrow, watching
the water lap with laughter as it hustled down the row.
Gardens are also places where raspberries thrive in the sun,
beckon the pickers in the early a.m. to strap on

gallon cans to belts, gingerly grasp each berry, place them
like tiny babies among their sisters, while forever thinking
of fresh raspberry jam on Mom’s homemade rolls.
Yes, gardens are where we all learned to work,

early mornings in the shadows of the barn and later
beneath the heavy Idaho sun. Even today, I still can hear
Dad’s voice, his whistle, and sometimes his yodel as we stand
straight up, leather-gloved hands on hoes or shovel handles, looking

admiringly at the garden and the carrots still trying to grow.
In the end, gardens are those places where God decides
what lives and dies, what is eaten, what is frozen,
and what seeps back into the ground and waits for another year.

“Winter Campouts”

Poem of the Day, Wednesday, November 20, 2024

“Winter Campouts”

Boy Scouts love winter camping,
enduring freezing cold weather,
tromping through lots of snows,
and playing steal the flag for hours.

One winter campout,
typical of eastern Idaho winter days—
freezing cold, a touch of wind, and deep snow—
stands out as an event to remember.

We followed along the Snake River
to the Deer Parks and set up camp.
Standing around did not become us
because of the briskness of almost evening,
so we kept moving, playing games,
yelling and screaming through the woods,
returning often to the roaring fire
to warm up and eat tin foil dinners,
the meal de jour of camping.

We tried to time them perfectly,
watching carefully, until somehow
they burned anyway.
We still ate the half-cooked carrots
and potatoes and crispy meat.

We didn’t die, mostly
because of the licorice
stuffed in our sleeping bags.

Around 11:00 p.m. or so,
we gathered around the fire,
performed the Scout ritual
of staring into the fire,
absently stirring it with a stick
until sparks flew up into the brisk night,
disappearing somewhere out there.

The cracking and popping of the fire
were interrupted by shooting guns
somewhere in the distance.

We grabbed our flashlights
and headed to where we thought
the poachers were—a herd of Scouts,
bundled up in coats, running pell mell
across an open field, our flash lights
bouncing on the snow, looking
like a bunch of oversized fire flies
heading for the flame and possible death.

Luckily for us, we didn’t find anything
except for intestines, still steaming,
and fresh tracks hightailing it out of there.

Disappointed and relieved simultaneously,
we trudged back to camp, sipped hot chocolate,
stirred the fire a bit more,
climbed into our thick sleeping bags,
stuffed with blankets, and prayed
for morning to come quickly
and a hot fire to warm us.

“The Ebbing of Time”

Poem of the Day, Tuesday, November 19, 2024

Flowers along the Oregon coast

“The Ebbing of Time”

Just had a birthday this month,
not a big one, but a year older
and wiser (I tell myself).

I looked into the mirror
that day, wondered
what had happened to the time
when I had more hair,
auburn and cowlicks
both front and back,
and a younger face.

I had seen this face, shaved it,
washed it often, even admired it,
every day for decades,
but that day I was taken
aback, a bit startled actually
at what the ebbing of time
had done to me, almost
without my consent.

Now, as I return from the gym,
I no longer feel as healthy
or as strong as I used to be.
Exercise has turned surreptitiously
into pure maintenance.

Yet, as I watch others come
and go to the gym, watch them
struggle up the stairs
with their canes, hanging 

tightly to the handrail,

or exit the elevator
with walkers, others just slow
and easy, shuffling as they go,
I realize I still walk fairly fast
and upright, most days,
run some when I really want to see
my younger self come alive
(and pay the prices later),
row lots of meters and minutes,
and then climb back downstairs
and out the door, feeling pretty good
about the morning workout.

Even when I look in the mirror
on those gym days, I try to still see
some youthfulness through my trifocals,
sometimes without glasses
just to see if there is a difference
and marvel at the ebb and flow of time,
now mostly downhill to awareness
looming large in the distance.

“The Redwoods”

Poem of the Day, Monday, November 18, 2024

Joanne staring up!

“The Redwoods”

The Redwood titans stretch
almost to heaven,
stoic yet worshipful.

We stand there look up in awe,
wonder what has happened
over the last 2,000 years,
hoping they will distill
upon us their stories—
their birthing, the bonding,
the fires, the scarring,
the subtle whisperings
among the trees
from the Tolowa,
their roots interlaced
in a spiritual connection.

Lucious ferns and other flora
and fauna flourish
among the redwoods,
providing splendorous canopy
for both the still standing trees
and the dead ones,
now lying in rows
where they fell
with a thunderous thud
or stuck in crooks of trees,
their decaying matter seeping
into the lives of so many,
slowly, protectively, reverently.

For us, to stand beneath
these bemouths gentle giants,
these ancient of days,
even for a moment, breathing in
their auras of light and life,
is a sacred experience.

Their sacredness hangs in the air
like rays of sunshine
and permeates our very beings,
and we reach out and touch them,
gently, reverently, knowing
one simple touch
makes us kin to them.

The sun shining through the redwoods!

“Sunday Ponderings”

Poem of the Day, Sunday, November 17, 2024

Sunrise, Idaho Falls Temple and the Snake River

“Sunday Ponderings”

My mind often ponders
on Sunday between the prelude
and the Sacrament

about the meanderings
of my mind during the week.
Did I maneuver off the beaten path

too much or did I spend
enough time in the scriptures,
mediating and praying along the way?

Sometimes the shivers of past sins
clamor for attention before
I can yield them to Him

before the Sacrament
comes to me. I think
about all these things

more intensely, more profoundly,
praying and hoping
I know the true meaning

of the Sacrament, Christ’s Atonement
and sacrifice for me
and everyone else on the planet.

The moment I touch the bread
or water to my lips,
I sense a relief that I am enough,

that I can move on once again
for the week, knowing
I will continue to plow forward,

more diligently, knowing
that I must do more to earn
the grace that He proffers me,

knowing that it is I
who must align with Him
because He is already there,

ready for me to come unto Him,
arms always outstretched
for an eternal embrace with me.

“A Host of Haiku”

Poem of the Day, Saturday, November 16, 2024

Sunrise on the Snake River, Idaho Falls, Idaho

“A Host of Haiku”

Orange and red sunrises.
We stare at their majesty
Knowing we are blessed.

White calla lilies
Float against the back wall
Graceful, elegant.

Wisteria hangs
Sways in early morning winds
Like lace and honey.

The swaying of grain.
Their golden sheeves announce fall
Engulf us in love.

A cock pheasant crows—
Its call carries a message
upon the night wind.

Shoveling deep snow
In the frigid morning light
Initiates wonder.

Morning light creates
The ripeness of raspberries
Makes my mouth water.

The condensation
Of bubbling mountain waters
Quenches thirst in all.

Smiling sunflowers
Bequeath goodness to beauty
In early morning

Bleeding hearts leave eyes
gaping and longing for more
in my own garden.

Bleeding Hearts

"The Lariat: A Tribute"

Poem of the Day, Friday, November 15, 2024

A Dennis Hammon Photo: "Menan Buttes"

"The Lariat: A Tribute"

We knew that night
after the last crack of the bat
echoed toward the Buttes
and after the 150-watt Sylvania lost
its shimmer we would trudge over
to the Lariat for a chunk of apple pie

made fresh that day
and an Orange Crush over ice.
We knew the pinball machine
would chatter and ding
and then whimper for more dimes;
that the table hockey puck

would sizzle and clack
as it banged against the sides
and then the pleasing clanging
into the hole for a point;
that the ancient juke box
would struggle through

“Wishing you were here”
or “Takin’ care of business”;
that we would finally pull up
wooden chairs, stools,
around the graffitied tables,
while sipping Orange Crush,

gobbling our pie a la mode,
reminiscing, talking all at once
about the awesome play
at second base, the homerun
in the fifth with two on,
Big Dave’s “plumbing” disaster

early one morning last winter
at the Church before BB practice,
the Saturday night dances
and all the trappings of teenagers—
all punctuated by the periodic zaps
of the formidable bug killing machine

this moment indelibly etched in our minds.

“Pigs in my Kitchen”

Poem of the Day, Thursday, November 14, 2024

Picture from YouTube

 “Pigs in my Kitchen”

When the sows farrowed
in early spring, usual thick with cold,
they usually nosed out
at least one runt from the litter.

We didn’t want them to die,
so we brought them indoors
out of the cold, placing them gently
in an old box on the floor in the kitchen.
Gunny sacks from the shed served
as their first blanket, their first home.
It was just the thing we did
to save runt piglets destined to die.

We learned early how to parent
by feeding the runts warm milk
through eye drops at first
and then nipples on pop bottles.
We didn’t think much about piglets
in our kitchen until I brought
my future wife home to visit.

She moseyed over to the box
of piglets, stood shocked, a look
of wonder at first sight of them
in our kitchen but didn’t say a word
until we were trundling down
Lewisville Highway to her home.

About, she gathered her courage,
breathed the words, quietly,
almost whispering, as she snuggled close:
“Why do you have pigs in your kitchen?”

It’s hard to explain to others
just why country folk do what they do.
Some say it’s just in the DNA.
To me, it’s life in the miniature.

Nothing more poignant than watching
runts, babies really, snuggling in,
calm-like beneath old burlap
and new straw, a lamp
from the dark basement,
leaning over the box,
warming them just so.

“Portals to Adulthood”

Poem of the Day, Wednesday, November 13, 2024

“Portals to Adulthood”

It moves me when I see
grown ups playing
in the streets and empty lots
with their children and their friends.

It shows me that they still understand
the thrill of kicking soccer balls
into the neighbors’ yards
or whacking baseballs

back to the fence line
or where the weed patch grows tall
and then running—maybe lumbering
like they are pulling

a two-bottom plow—
for all they are worth
rounding bases, mostly gunny sacks,
from barns or shingles blown off the house

or someone’s wadded up jacket.
When the games are finished
or when their wives call them
from the front porch, they trudge

toward home, T-shirts drenched
in sweat, breathing a bit ragged,
their voices carrying stories
of great slides, nifty catches with one hand.

Slowly they each turn into their own
yards, sensing that youth stays
in the streets. Taking deep breathes,
they open the front door

of their mortgaged houses,
don their disguise of maturity,
and slip through their front door,
now a portal to adulthood.

“Snarled Traffic”

Poem of the Day, Tuesday, November 12, 2024

Snarled traffic in the DR

“Snarled Traffic”

Snarled traffic is like life itself,
full of dead stops and goes, quick starts,
slamming on breaks to avoid a collision,
tight cars on all sides of you,
honking, some blaring
because someone is trying
to cut in without signaling.

Perhaps, I am like that,
not looking forward or back, 

not paying attention
to whom is around me 

causing some of the blaring

and snarling of traffic.

When I let people in, I feel better,
feel as if I have done something grand.

It’s only when I am in the outside lane,
knowing the barriers are few
do I feel like I am in control.

It’s when I am stuck in traffic
when I realize it is a lot like barriers
to growth, a feeling of loneliness,
and no progression forward.

Each stop and start impedes my progress.

Sometimes, I choose to be in one lane
or the other, thinking I will get ahead;
yet, the progress is slow, arduous.
Traffic is jammed.

In essences, the snarls are impediments,
slowing me down, keeping me
in the pack, having to jostle every step,
so I cannot see ahead.

Yet, when I merge to the outside,
change my way of doing things,
becoming the puppeteer
of my own life where I dangle
my own strings, where I can see
and move forward,
knowing I can see ahead,
see a far off, and know
where I am going
and choosing to do so.

“Whispers from the Past”

Poem of the Day, Monday, November 11, 2024

Photo credit to YouTube

 “Whispers from the Past”

Deep in my memory, whispers
from the past, ooze to the surface,
some haunting, most positive,
all prodding me forward
as if my past pushes me out
of the doldrums into the present
and triggers a sense of euphoria,
and I relish the thought
of being propelled from the past
into the present and even into the future.

I see my 1st grade self borrowing
a green crayon from Jon P.
or my 4th grade self doing times tables
so fast, competing with Denece M,
the only one faster than I was
or trying to hold back the tears
in the public haunt of my peers
while Mrs. Jeppsen lovingly read
Where the Red Fern Grows
or even my 6th grade self
playing the flutophone
as if I knew how to do it
or my 10th grade self in a cast
from a freak skiing accident
at Kelly’s Canyon (something to do
with snow snakes climbing out of the snow)
then me in a social dance class
where I don’t really want to be
but my future self glad to have been there.

The whisperings draw me back
to late evenings in the summers,
outside with flashlights
with my brothers, sometimes my sisters,
snagging entangled nightcrawlers
lazily lying stretched out,
in the freshly watered pasture
next to Mrs. Butterworth’s to sell
to fishermen passing through
because I wanted to buy a motorcycle.

Or picking raspberries with my mom
in the early summer mornings,
just the two of us, delicately
scattering berries into our buckets
strapped onto our belts,
sometimes talking,
sometimes just being quiet,
contemplating the moment,
while we popped fresh berries
into our mouths, not worrying
about what the consequences
of unwashed berries, just savoring
the deliciousness of the moment.

Whisperings offer tender glimpses
from the past, allow you
to soak in the good and the gentle,
hear your mother’s voice
one more time, just one more time,
as you work down each side
of the raspberry row, picking berries
and knowing she is on the other side.

“Step by Step”

Poem of the Day, Sunday, November 10, 2024

"Step by Step”

No matter how fast you walk
or run, it has to be step by step.

You cannot skip three or four.
They come one by one.
They can be short and delicate,
long and loud, stomping or quiet—

Still one step at a time.

You can take them in hiking books,
flip flops, tennis shoe, heels,
slippers, bare feet, or water shoes—

Still one step at a time.

They may be angry or happy,
begrudging or excited,
enormous or petite,
flippant or serious—

Still one step at a time.

We can be careless and fall
or cautious and keep up right,
or stand completely silent—

Still one step at a time.

We can step on or in it,
around it or through it
or over it or just stand motionless
and do nothing—

Still one step at a time.

It’s again all about choices
and where and how we step
or with whom we step.

So step well and firm,
forward, not backward,
and on, on to the victory—

Still one step at a time.

“Age: a figment of your imagination”

Poem of the Day, Saturday, November 9, 2024

A really gnarled tree in the Redwoods National Forest

 “Age: a figment of your imagination”

Age is a figment of your imagination
unless your body chimes in
usually at inappropriate times
as it has learned to do over time,
even with maintenance and exercise.

First it is the back that pops out
during any standing conversation,
pulling on socks, rising from a chair,
leaning down to pull weeds,
or just moving in a direction
that the body doesn’t want to go.

Then, the knees clamor for more
attention, no matter what you are doing.
Always a bit jealous and needy,
they ache for days and then stay
quiet, a bit docile for a few hours
or more, until you attempt
to climb stairs, forgetting you
have climbed stairs your entire life

without any trouble or problems.

The eyes have to join the orchestra, too,
fill with water, glaze over when you try
to read, with or without cheaters,
and cry with little or no provocation.

Somehow hearing believes you
need to listen but can’t or won’t
or pretend at mostly inopportune times
before it shuts down altogether.

Memory is the biggest disappointment of all,
forgetting a word or two here and there,
then whole phrases and events,
intruding at the most inconvenient times.
You just hope your spouse is there
so you can look at her and she responds
exactly with the right word or phrase
as if she has heard the story before,
which most likely she has dozens of times.

It’s never fair at any time, especially now!
So fickle! So uncompromising! So insensitive!

Then, as if they are a misfit orchestra
or merely a band out of tune,
their notes bang together, screech
from every fiber, from your head
to your toes, all vying for your attention
at the same time, not agreeing
on the tune or the melody.

Often, you wish each would
just take turns, maybe sit out a
song or two, maybe a few movements,
or even the entire symphony.

But our tickets are for the seats
where you hear all the noise,
feel all the creaks, groans, and moans,
and suffer the incorrigible resonances
and defeating tonalities of age.

 

“Capturing only the essence of majesty”

Poem of the Day, Friday, November 8, 2024

 “Capturing only the essence of majesty”

We stopped several times along the way
to capture the majesty of Jackson Hole,
the Tetons, Jenny’s Lake, and Yellowstone.

The essence of it was all that I was allowed
with a camera taking photos
of the reality of what was before us.
But the feelings, the welling up
of emotion, cannot be converted
to a mere photo, even with Photoshop
or even AI. It is the feeling
as you stand there, staring out
over Jenny Lake, the gallons
of pure glacial water
that seeps from the crags
and rocks above it, all spring,
into the summer until the snow melts,
if it ever does.

The huge Tetons rise up
like giant sentinels,
guarding Jackson Hole.
The stories they could tell
of trappers, rendezvouses,
elk, deer, mountain goats, and sheep,
of mountains of stone,
the quietness and bitterness
of winter engulfing them
for months on end
until the spring sun rays 

loving touch their tip tops,

and outcroppings,
the gurgling of water slooshes down,
down into the lake,
and avalanches bolt and crash
the quiet stillness—
and so much more.

Pure majesty, undefiled,
and I can only capture
the essence of majesty,
which will gently remind me
as I look at the photos and feel
it through my bones,
see it my mind’s eye
time after time, again and again.

 

“The jagged edges of life”

Poem of the Day, Thursday, November 7, 2024

 “The jagged edges of life”

Life is definitely not linear.
It curves, sways, drops off,
disappears into the underbrush,
has steep inclines up and down
mountains, and possesses jag edges,
some that cut and scrape you
until you bleed and bruise.

Sometimes, you stop and cry,
moan and even murmur
at the unfairness of it all.

Yet, we continue
our maneuvering the sways
and curves, trying to stay
far away from the jagged edges
although they jut out so often
when we aren’t looking.

Sometimes they even appear
without us knowing
there is even an edge there.

What seemed like a wide spot
in the road turned out
to be nothing but jagged edges.

We ramble along life’s path, 

learning to maneuver and weave

away from the dangerous trappings
only to find ourselves
on a foreign path,
but we can see the top
from every angle,
and we scurry
from here to there,
avoiding the jagged edges
as much as we can,
hoping, just hoping,
we can scramble to the top
and beyond
to the smoothness of the way.

“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.