“Doing the best you can”

Sunday, November 16, 2025--Poetry Day 16

By Sundance Ski Resort, Utah

“Doing the best you can”

Doing the best we can is just that—
trying each day to do your best,
whatever that might be
for you and you alone.

There should be no comparison
to others, only to yourself.

We can only try and do,
and keep trying and doing,
until we feel comfortable
in our own skin
in elevating our doing
to a higher level, and then
that’s our next best standard.

Our best today can continue
to be another best tomorrow,
more elevated, more consistent,
less daunting, less disappointing.

Doing your best today
and every single day only propels you
forward, ever forward, and onward.

That’s all that is expected.

Tomorrow the expectation
may change because your best
just got better, and you climbed higher.

Just think of what tomorrow
and the next day
and even the next will bring.

In the end, we won’t recognize
ourselves of yesterday
because we have become
a new being, a changed being,
one that exudes who
we really can and ought to be.

The Idaho Falls Idaho Temple,
a place where you can become more!

“Bed Snakes”

Saturday, November 15, 2025--Poetry Day 15

Purple Foxglove along the Oregon Coast

“Bed snakes”

Trying to get up
this morning was weird.
Really.
Couldn’t understand
why the lethargy,
why the paralysis
wouldn’t let me rise up
and climbed out of bed.
I decided it was bed snakes,
attached to my left wrist
and then my right,
then headed south
to each foot.
My eyes could not open,
would not open,
refused to open.
Some sticky goo held them fast.
I fought for a while,
used up all my strength,
then succumbed to it all,
and lay quite for time.
I don’t know how long.
Soon, the sun’s rays peeked
through the opening
in the curtain.
I sensed something changing.
Immediately, I was free.
free at last,
my eyes opening
with deliberation and poetry.
My arms and legs and I
swung my feet over
the side of my bed,
hope rising
with each movement.
Soon I was standing,
happy to be alive
and awake,
feeling safe
that the bed snakes
had slithered back
to their hiding places
beneath my bed
where they waited

surreptitiously  
for another morning
to strike again.

“The Natural Way”

Friday, November 14, 2025--Poetry Day 14

Storm hovering over the valley

“The Natural Way”

A terrible storm is coming—
or so people say.

With the chaos plunging
our world into despair,

contention rampaging
the streets and the hearts

of so many while others
are looking out

only for themselves,
hurtful tirades becoming

rancid reminders
of decaying morals.

What will happen to us all?
Some will seek refuge

from their storms of life
in so many different places,

some public, some private,
always seeking a place

where they feel safe
and loved and comfortable

and where they feel
like they belong.

It’s only the natural thing to do.

Storm clouds at sunrise, Bear Lake, Utah

“My Therapy"

Thursday, November 13, 2025--Poetry Day 13

Credit to my sister Delaina Scholes, a master gardener

“My Therapy"

Digging in the dirt is therapeutic.
Tonight I had a good session
with my therapists: dirt and petunias.
They sat in a carton of 12, poised,
ready to listen, go on a journey with me.

Hands full of dirt. Credit to my sister Delaina Scholes

I used mulch and manure from real cows,
combined with the local dirt to make
a healthy start to any plant, particularly
petunias, pink, dark purple, and periwinkle.

I dug a hole, mixed the manure and mulch
with the dirt, snipped off the bottoms
where the roots were bound,
and then carefully placed them
in their new homes, and smushed dirt
tightly around them like soft blankets.

They aligned beautifully between
the daisies and white snow in the summertime.
Together, once they mature and bloom
will create a colorful cadre to beckon bees,
butterflies, and those dainty lady bugs!

I am thinking about all this as I dig
in the dirt mixing the ingredients
while planting each of the petunias,
thinking about how it relaxes me,
helps me rise out of any doldrums,
and this has been happening for years.

Digging in the dirt. Credit to my sister Delaina Scholes

After finishing tamping around my petunias
tight and snug, I quenched their thirst
with water, until their roots sigh with relief
in unison with my own sighing.

Therapy comes in many ways,
but mine comes from the ground,
dirt oozing between my fingers
while budding petunias beg me
to plant them deep so they will grow
into the beauty they were meant to become.

Credit to my sister Delaina Scholes, a master gardener

Credit to my sister Delaina Scholes, a master gardener

“Seven Haiku”

Wednesday, November 11, 2025--Poetry Day 11

“Seven Haiku”

Plum blossoms open
Thinking it’s time to arrive
Burst into full bloom.

Sunsets bring beauty
Calmness, peace, serenity
Poised for all to enjoy.

Streams gurgle downstream
Sharing a stillness for all.
We stop to enjoy.

Winds blow across me,
Shifting my senses southward
Toward tenderness.

Quaken aspen leaves
Sing and dance melodically
Soothing saddened hearts.

Full moon lights the way
Spreading rays of vibrancy
Across fields of wheat.

Soothing winds caress
Abundant craggy landscapes
Whispering essence.

“Tinkering”

Tuesday, November 11, 2025--Poetry Day 11

“Tinkering”

Tinkering is what we do
in our lives to fix the things
that seem to be broken.

Often, though, we tinker
with things that really
don’t need tinkering.

Other times, we fail
to tinker with things
that should be fixed,
thinking that we won’t
be able to fix it,
somehow knowing
that if we do tinker
with whatever,
we might change
something for the worst.

Why not for the better?

It’s a concept worth
tinkering about.

Tinkering with bad habits
and creating new ways
is a good thing, right?

What about tinkering
with friendship to develop
a more committed friendship?

Still, tinkering
with our terrifying
and often loathsome situations
to elevate ourselves
to become something better
or create an environment
of comfortability is probably
a good thing to do. True?

Tinkering helps us
use our minds, our hands,
our figuring-out-things skills.

So, I say, tinker away
to create a better you,
and along the way
you become a better tinkerer!

“An epiphany moving sprinkler pipe: a peek into my future”

Monday, November 10, 2025--Poetry Day 10

Credit to Dennis D. Hammon Photography

“An epiphany moving sprinkler pipe: a peek into my future”

I thought at a younger age,
say 4th grade, I could be
the president of the United States.

 
I didn’t really know
how to be one,
just thought I could
if I read the brown covered biographies
of all the presidents, did what they did.

 
I liked them all—
Washington, Adams, Jefferson,
Jackson, and especially Lincoln.

 
It didn’t take long to discover
I decided I didn’t have
the right pedigree
or money or even a degree
at one of the Ivy Leagues.

 
I didn’t even get elected
president of any club
although I tried.

 
I was just a regular Joe
at rural schools,
and the dream slithered
into a field of famous potatoes.

 
One day moving sprinkler pipe
in wet potato lines,
something within me changed,
propelled me to think
about the future, my future.

 
I stood on a rocky ridge
overlooking a pond
full of frogs and polly wogs,
my chaps and face caked
with mud and surrounded
by acres and acres of russets.

 
At that very moment,
I decided I best become
a college student someday,
make something of myself,
maybe do something grand.

 
It was the mud, the pesky mosquitoes,
dirty hands, the heat,
the disheveled hair under a ball cap,
and a 33-foot, 4” sprinkler pipe
at my feet that convinced me
there was something better that,
perhaps, I could do something
beyond my ruralness, something
beyond that hill full of rocks
and weeds and pond full of frogs
and that long sprinkler pipe
full of silt and water.

Credit to Dennis D. Hammon Photography

“Tsunami of Aging”

Sunday, November 9, 2025, Poetry Day 9

A walk along Hobble Creek

“Tsunami of Aging”

After 50, definitely after 60,
they come in torrents,
a flourishing of aches
and pains, and some memory loss—
okay, lots of memory loss
after 60 or so, maybe sooner,
and maybe some before.
Who remembers
that stuff anyway?
Even the stairs at the gym
are hard to climb.
You are out of breath before
you even start the exercising.
One lap seems way more
than a mile,
and a mile seems like,
well, perhaps we stop
before that to lift weights,
not many, mind you.
They seem so heavy
now that I think about it.
Water never tasted so good
after each lap, each lift,
each rest period,
all within ten minutes
of each other,
and then a giant “whew!”
Truly an accomplishment
until you start downstairs
and the locker, more water,
and then out the door,
into the brisk, yet sunny morning,
then into the car, slinking
down into those cushioned
hot seats, and another deep sigh
with the heat on high
and me recovering
from this tsunami of aging.

Biking on the Provo River Trail

“Morning Walk”

Saturday, November 8, 2025--Poetry Day 8

Along the Provo River

“Morning Walk”

This morning, we walked
along the Provo River Trail,
first time since last fall.
It seemed the same, except
for the green foliage and mounds
of cottonwood fluff
along the trail like snow.

The water gurgled its way downstream,
smooth as silk in some areas,
and cascading in others where
rocks and down limbs impeded
its flow downstream.
A few fishermen
in their chest-high waders
standing in the current
and some on the banks
just downstream, flicking fish lines
into the swift water that flowed
through deep holes.

I stood on the bank above them,
watched them, scanned the water,
seeing scads of moss swishing
on bottom of the river,
but then I recognized the shapes
of fish, probably spawning suckers,
facing upstream, back tails and fins
moving just so to maintain their spot
in the river. Greenhead mallards
suddenly appeared between me
and the trees, parting ways
around them, around me, swooshing
upstream, quacking all the way.

 
The freshness of it all, early spring,
the greenness, the fishermen,
the mallards, and a river bottom full
of suckers waiting for breakfast
spilled over us, refreshed us
with the trappings of spring
and the renewal of life itself.

Along the Provo River

“Who said life was fair?”

Friday, November 7, 2025--Poetry Day 7

La Isla Saona, Dominican Republic

“Who said life was fair?"

Who said life was fair? All of us
are umpires and referees simultaneously,
sometimes stationed at awkward angles,
not really seeing the play but calling it anyway,

usually ugly, egregiously incorrect,
and often just plain wrong. Life was never meant
to be fair, not with all of ins and outs,
corners and curves, hills and valleys,

abysses and cavernous gorges.
Our only hope, if there is one, is knowing
that we can overcome all things
with persistence and pure work,

struggling, striving, and a bit of thrashing
about along the path of life. Yes, there are bogs
along the way, traps that shut and open at random,
and surprises at every corner along valley floors

thrusting peaks, and dusty trails that turn into trials
when we are not looking and even when
we are expecting them. But we must plow on,
ever onward, up and down the mountainous terrain

and through the valleys of challenges
through the ruinous rivers, swirling
between giant boulders and the ever-twisting logs
and debris of life. The good news is

there are some calm waters ahead, filled
with Caribbean blue and tropical suns
with low-hanging mangos and other delicious fruit.
There will be a final day when we finally row to shore,

touch the white sands, kneel and thank all those
who helped us along the way,
and then enter into an eternal rest away
from the cacophony of life’s ebbs and flows.

Jackson Hole, Wyoming

“My Humpy Dumpty lives on, perhaps”

Thursday, November 6, 2025--Poetry Day 6

“My Humpy Dumpty lives on, perhaps”

The yelling
and whisperings
must stop,
must diminish,
must go away,
(I actually want them to flee away and never return!)

even for a minute
or two, maybe
for longer,
yes, even longer,
please much longer,
until the noises,
the voices,
the internal chaos
dissipates or crawls back
into hiding, hopefully
never to return
or even surface
to haunt me,
haunt us,
as we trundle
through life
and its many caverns,
abysses, and flat plains
that seem to stretch
on way beyond
what I am accustomed to
or even want
in my life
or the lives I lead
within my head,
home, and heart—
I only ask,
yes, even plead,
that you stop now
before I explode
into so many pieces
no one will
ever be able
to put me
back
together again.

“Trimming Trees”

Wednesday, November 5, 2025, Poetry Day 5

Amy trimming tree branches

“Trimming Trees”

Trimming trees takes a Saturday
or two, maybe three
in mid-February, when snow
still falls, and frost clamors
for space on the dead grass

and fallen leaves that fell
late in November and early December.
Trimming trees should come early,
way before spring erupts,
when the limbs needing

trimmed contain as little sap
as possible, and the leaves
mostly decaying and scattered
around the trees, their limbs
bare and vulnerable.

Each snip cuts a branch,
each pull of the saw digs
deep into the tree’s flesh,
causing some pain, I suspect.
But it has to be done

to create more air flow
in the center and rid the tree
of extraneous branches and limbs
that only encumber the tree,
allowing it to grow and renew

similar to our own personal trimming
of the challenges from our lives
that seem to impede
our personal growth, knowing,
expecting growth and new development

 
will come into our lives
with each snip, causing some pain,
perhaps even great pain,
but we tell ourselves
it is worth it. It is worth it.

Anna Rose way up high

Joanne with a load of limbs

“The simplicity of washing clothes”

November 4, 2025--Poetry Day 4

“The simplicity of washing clothes”

In our house, dirty clothes
are not just tossed in together
to forage for themselves
in the plumes of soapy bubbles
and water. Rather, they are
delicately laid out in colors—

whites, darks, lights,
bedding, and towels,
and ne’er the twine shall meet.
Then, methodically, they are placed
in the washer by color,
one color at a time. Of course,

some receive a special treatment
of either hot, cold, or warm water,
reminding them of their order
of things to be washed.
They are dried in the same fashion—
orderly, by color, and different settings

on the dryer. Some are pulled out
before they are completely dry
like shirts and slacks, and hung
lovingly on hangers, some hangers being
specific for white or collared shirts.
Even t-shirts get hangers to dry on.

Pants or slacks are folded carefully
over velvet-encased hangers
until they dry naturally,
hopefully without wrinkles.
If they do, then ironing is required—
precise ironing in certain, specific ways—

another story for another time.

Which way do you face?

November 3, 2025--Poetry Day 3

Which way do you face?

Seems like an appropriate question
to ask, ponder, maybe even answer
at this point in our lives or anytime—
preferably sooner than later.

Too many people are confused
about which way they face
or should face.

Often, they spend too much time
looking back over their shoulder,
moaning about the past
and “what might have been.”

Others spend so much time scrolling
instead of exploring and seeing
the world around them or even
what should be the most important
focus in their lives.

Which way do you face is a question
of priority, of choice, of moving forward,
of not spending time in dabbling
in the ephemeral or not spending
enough time pondering and doing
the best things in life,

like family, overcoming challenging things—
often with help—being grateful for
and acknowledging all the blessings
that have come your way, and moving
ever forward toward goals and positive things
that will enhance your life and situation.

Facing forward, you can create
and develop the pathway for your future,
and every decision you make propels you
either forward or backward along that pathway.

Going backward will ultimately send you
spinning over the cliff and downward
like the boulder that Sisyphus
is eternally cursed to push up the hill
only watch it roll back down the hill
over and over again.

Only forward, yes, even scrambling
as you go, will get you where you want
and need to become, what you need to be,
what you choose to become.

Onward you must go, facing ever forward!

Idaho Falls Idaho Temple

"Into the Woods"

November 2, 2025--Poetry Day 2

"Into the Woods"

I walked into the woods
today, seeking refuge and solace,
some sense of knowing where to go from here,
after a long year of tears and darkness.

The foliage was thick and quiet
more serene than I thought it would be,
except for the jabbering of birds
and scuffling of small animals in the brush.

In a small clearing, a small creek gurgled
its way in and around small bushes.

I sat, my back against a tall cottonwood,
its branches thick and gnarled
and rose 30 feet in the air, 

surrounded by quaken aspen.

For a brief moment, I looked up,
stared at the small opening
through the thick green leaves.

Instantly, the world closed around me,
the quiet stopping my ears, squeezing me tightly.

I couldn’t move or breathe but sat suspended
in time, and it flushed through my system,
in and around me, a gentle breeze lifting
the back of my hair and rustling my clothes.

When I was released, the seconds had turned
into hours, and I felt renewed, refreshed,
reveling in the quiet peace that surrounded me
as I stood, looked around one more time.

The chirping of birds and scampering of animals
entered my sense of hearing, sounding happy and joyful.

I soon left the woods, not really remembering
why I had entered, only that I had entered
and left a new man with joy and happiness
scurrying through my veins, from head to toe.

“Who is in your corner?”

Today is the November 1, 2025, the beginning of my Poetry Month, meaning that each day I will posted a poem to read and enjoy.

November 1, 2025, Poem of the Day

“Who is in your corner?”

Boxers often win or lose
based on who is in their corners,
offering advice,
admonishing them forward,
encouraging them, pointing out
the flaws that they cannot see.

We must ask ourselves
“Who is in our corner?”

I suspect we have had
several along the way—
our elementary teachers
whom most of us remember fondly,
a few junior and high school teachers,
perhaps our church leaders
growing up, and others
within our spheres of influence.

Yet, we sometimes hesitate,
resist, even side step,
keeping someone in our corner.

Many would like to be.
Others seek to be.
More who should be.

We just need to choose wisely,
allow them to watch us up close
or a far, allow them to share
tidbits of wisdom, love,
encouragement, and sometimes
words that might anger us
or propel us forward.

What we must remember is
it is our corner,
and we can choose—
we must choose—those
who can stand as sentinels,
waiting patiently for us
to sit in their chairs,
within their influence,
listening to their whisperings
they have for us,
saved for us,
and let them sink deeply
into our hearts and minds.