tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73551532342137318992024-02-22T08:11:52.462-08:00The Darrel L. Hammon BlogMusings and other such things....Darrel and Joanne Hammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05957897249232282948noreply@blogger.comBlogger365125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7355153234213731899.post-72796933074942767722023-11-30T09:52:00.000-08:002023-11-30T09:52:54.052-08:00“Shouts of Joy!”<b>Poem of the day, Thursday, November 30, 2023</b><div><b><br /></b><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5MkmutlfyH709cumNjGhiUKziK0pb5DxZ7hhN1YJ22osU-UKXNL-PAiUC5l1pUaeUCjVVOFx0Hegpplxazy0bFVbHUoEXjBt_6VlZqECKnOoWNW4EkDjYy-90Tq7HnGEAd5gOfcrjPJ3K6C1K0u_hyphenhyphenhemxa4NyziITstdi0gfk6hiypK6yEJ6oi8hyphenhyphenew/s1440/gorgeous%20flower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1052" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5MkmutlfyH709cumNjGhiUKziK0pb5DxZ7hhN1YJ22osU-UKXNL-PAiUC5l1pUaeUCjVVOFx0Hegpplxazy0bFVbHUoEXjBt_6VlZqECKnOoWNW4EkDjYy-90Tq7HnGEAd5gOfcrjPJ3K6C1K0u_hyphenhyphenhemxa4NyziITstdi0gfk6hiypK6yEJ6oi8hyphenhyphenew/w293-h400/gorgeous%20flower.jpg" width="293" /></a></div><br />This concludes November poem month! I hope you have enjoyed reading my November poems.<br /><br />“Shouts of Joy!” <br /><br />So many challenges <br />and bleakness <br />confront us each day, <br />oozing over us, <br />often filling our lives <br />with despair and sadness. <br /><br />All this can darken our lives, <br />thoughts, and our very beings— <br />if we allow it. <br /><br />Yet, there is much light <br />and joy within us <br />and around us <br />that chases away this darkness— <br /><br />The joy and love of family, <br />our abilities to see <br />good in all things, <br />the kindness we share <br />with others around us,</div><div>the many blessings </div><div>we have received,<br />the knowledge <br />of our divine destiny <br />and whose we really are <br />can carry us away <br />from the forlornness <br />of impending doom. <br /><br />Looking to the heavens <br />and aligning with Him <br />whose birth <br />we gloriously celebrate <br />in December— <br />hopefully each day— <br />propel us <br />into the light <br />and the joy of it all. <br /><br />Each day we can sing <br />the joyous songs <br />and memories of our lives, <br />thinking of the positive and eternal. <br /><br />Let our shouts of joy <br />be loud and clamorous! <br /><br />Let our exclamations <br />of joy be filled <br />with what we can become! <br /><br />Let our joy be felt and heard <br />against the din of despair, <br />and we shall have <br />everlasting joy!</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFM1_n4kR5zvwhHL1lAVHYB40xAD5inE-5um8xUedz0gRc063-WohwE36YHu9A7f9L8hiKL6UZ-BNCUH9nev3g2_SClqiBvIHVNGF_Sl9f4uXQa33ngoQxaHQJ_EsSrzYXT7-v9KQUWshYS8i-fy1DWD2hK7FSsBCmm-WYlYt9wVTDUMuqh0I4u2E99k8/s4032/Clematis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFM1_n4kR5zvwhHL1lAVHYB40xAD5inE-5um8xUedz0gRc063-WohwE36YHu9A7f9L8hiKL6UZ-BNCUH9nev3g2_SClqiBvIHVNGF_Sl9f4uXQa33ngoQxaHQJ_EsSrzYXT7-v9KQUWshYS8i-fy1DWD2hK7FSsBCmm-WYlYt9wVTDUMuqh0I4u2E99k8/w300-h400/Clematis.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div><br /><br /></div></div>Darrel and Joanne Hammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05957897249232282948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7355153234213731899.post-28749241246966735982023-11-29T14:46:00.000-08:002023-11-29T14:46:59.858-08:00“On the Banks of Spring Creek”<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Poem of the Day, Wednesday, November 29, 2023</b></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ0P7HyMOiNld7_r67qLlzsgSC8NPtW5PLGVKOeQ1VpSxwXl2N473APeKvk0M75-LG8zGINK5yfXmJQfx_OzOJh2FI8g9_-vmUgpEotZfETd4PV5YM5RrpW6iDt4xqx7au7gwBYm0EuaoPL_kn9SX2VTYu4S8EO_1H50YSkfZ0lqz8ksYAi29LU_pxYOc/s4032/Hobble%20Creek11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ0P7HyMOiNld7_r67qLlzsgSC8NPtW5PLGVKOeQ1VpSxwXl2N473APeKvk0M75-LG8zGINK5yfXmJQfx_OzOJh2FI8g9_-vmUgpEotZfETd4PV5YM5RrpW6iDt4xqx7au7gwBYm0EuaoPL_kn9SX2VTYu4S8EO_1H50YSkfZ0lqz8ksYAi29LU_pxYOc/w400-h300/Hobble%20Creek11.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></b></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">“On the Banks of Spring Creek”</div></b><br />Just before dusk, I trudge slowly <br />in late fall snow through Hunting’s </span><div><span style="font-size: medium;">patch of trees, careful where I step, <br />not wanting to flush any animals. <br />The brush is thick on both sides <br />of the meager trail, heading to Spring Creek. <br /><br />I approach the creek quietly, <br />find a secluded spot beneath <br />a large cottonwood where the snow <br />has not bothered to find shelter. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">My warm breath spews mist </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">into the air until it dissipates <br />into the cold air while I sit and wait <br />for darkness to engulf me. <br /><br />Just to my right, mallards paddle, <br />quacking while other friends flush in <br />and land gingerly on the water <br />with a mere splash and the finesse of dancers, <br />close their wings, their beaks nudging <br />their feathers in place along their sleek bodies. <br /><br />From my hiding place, I see the creek’s banks <br />covered in snow and ice with slim rays <br />of the setting sun in the west laying down <br />oranges on whites up and down the creek. <br />Above, sparrows flit here and there. <br /><br />Not far up the bank, a cock pheasant drums, <br />spooking a rabbit just in back of me. <br />I sit for a while, listening to the sounds <br />of dusk closing in on the creek <br />and the gurgle of the water as it moseys <br />between the cold snow-covered banks <br />to the meandering Snake River. <br /><br />Honking just above me, Canadian geese fly <br />rather low searching for a safe place <br />to land for the night, away from watchful eyes <br />and a wheat field with extraneous kernels <br />of grain lying just below the surface <br />of the snow ready to be scooped up for dinner. <br /><br />I peek out for a moment, <br />see a muskrat gliding through <br />black water near the far bank, a speck <br />of sunset guiding her way downstream. <br /><br />As the sun sets, the noises become <br />more distinct and musical, serenading <br />the night to come, opening the curtain <br />of night as they renew their compositions <br />of melodic harmonies with others <br />throughout the serenity of darkness <br />until the sun arrives again tomorrow. <br /><br />When it is dark, I rise from my spot <br />under the tree, stare across the way <br />and turn back into the bushes and trees. <br /><br />Only then do I shine my flashlight <br />along the trail out of sight <br />and sound of the ongoing choir <br />on the banks of Spring Creek.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Z7SRhNexrt7yV9b0CspWIb_Fp6WACqYNvWoPnyInNrrbn6ixudXOyC5sEW3XIM7Cp5q3DDX0bEdVmVEPwH9VA8CP-kAUGo1LuUGrGMcadvUGqL-gfDX-A7ZBuqt-HqhAJKEZ-HYaPaGx_hcKyYILuJEP8iqjZMpRvcJU_kzYwJItlDtb64VMV-LrWHc/s800/PICT1417.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="800" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Z7SRhNexrt7yV9b0CspWIb_Fp6WACqYNvWoPnyInNrrbn6ixudXOyC5sEW3XIM7Cp5q3DDX0bEdVmVEPwH9VA8CP-kAUGo1LuUGrGMcadvUGqL-gfDX-A7ZBuqt-HqhAJKEZ-HYaPaGx_hcKyYILuJEP8iqjZMpRvcJU_kzYwJItlDtb64VMV-LrWHc/w400-h225/PICT1417.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><br /></div></div></div>Darrel and Joanne Hammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05957897249232282948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7355153234213731899.post-68811957378409546392023-11-28T11:23:00.000-08:002023-11-28T11:23:23.543-08:00"An Awakening While Moving Sprinkler Pipe"<span style="font-size: medium;">Poem of the Day, Tuesday, November 28, 2023</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi37JJWZ1S73rrkCaNmVxYdaNKF8xMwNY1N7ihwYyJDiR7g-Lt3L_VH3j0mN_Y5Pu1Be20VJlWiZXKl9HsIMMx9G2m39mBcG3JlBGsa-OsNeopZ-7GLbVX-HSNYR20FwUCfBHv2CiIcprz0nyogo0ul_GCTGfHciKaP3OMo9nDYvfCQMX8JtrLLU7N8EwM/s3888/Sunset%20east%20of%20Cheyenne.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2592" data-original-width="3888" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi37JJWZ1S73rrkCaNmVxYdaNKF8xMwNY1N7ihwYyJDiR7g-Lt3L_VH3j0mN_Y5Pu1Be20VJlWiZXKl9HsIMMx9G2m39mBcG3JlBGsa-OsNeopZ-7GLbVX-HSNYR20FwUCfBHv2CiIcprz0nyogo0ul_GCTGfHciKaP3OMo9nDYvfCQMX8JtrLLU7N8EwM/w400-h266/Sunset%20east%20of%20Cheyenne.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;">"An Awakening While Moving Sprinkler Pipe"<br /><br />I remember the day well, <br />moving sprinkler pipe in potatoes, <br />standing there on that rocky knoll, <br />looking over the pond filled <br />with muddy runoff water, <br /><br />croaking frogs and swimming pollywogs, <br />my muddy chaps strapped on <br />to my legs, mud on my face <br />and arms, a pipe at my feet, <br />and me swatting dancing flies, <br /><br />thinking ever so out loud <br />that this was definitely not a life <br />that I ever wanted to live.<br />I wanted to live a better life, <br />less dirty and not in the sun <br /><br />and mud. Maybe college <br />was a better choice, <br />a choice I could make <br />when others around me <br />in other field, from other places <br /><br />could not make at this time <br />or any time, based on where <br />they came from, the papers <br />they did not have, like I did <br />somewhere in my house<br /> <br />in mother’s drawer, safe <br />until I needed them for something. <br />I decided right there <br />on the knoll, mud splattered<br />everywhere, bugs buzzing <br /><br />around my head thinking <br />we were friends when <br />we were definitely not, <br />in the heat of the day <br />that I was going to do <br /><br />something different <br />with my life, and no one <br />was going to tell me <br />differently. I finished <br />my quarter-mile line, <br /><br />refreshed, resolute, <br />as I watched the pipe movers <br />in the next field <br />doing what they had to do <br />to survive.</span></div></div>Darrel and Joanne Hammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05957897249232282948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7355153234213731899.post-17413542724955481482023-11-27T08:58:00.000-08:002023-11-27T08:58:32.307-08:00"The First Time Crying”<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Poem of the Day, Monday, November 27, 2023</b></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFP_z2L_bwFqTTruWPmW5y9tnPS_Lh9j_RMLzNsB7csEGOEsMHy665EC06a8GGZoCP3h-w2huDd6DU98u7dkgwsHap8gw7ldfW4fB_rDsDe9kdIpjcUBy5de2pzxeOm959tRQYyhVo8RRCYaO_l7TpX73iRIfX0NsVP_pkxOg-82ek-8e44gtq43VY3yA/s4032/IMG_3659.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFP_z2L_bwFqTTruWPmW5y9tnPS_Lh9j_RMLzNsB7csEGOEsMHy665EC06a8GGZoCP3h-w2huDd6DU98u7dkgwsHap8gw7ldfW4fB_rDsDe9kdIpjcUBy5de2pzxeOm959tRQYyhVo8RRCYaO_l7TpX73iRIfX0NsVP_pkxOg-82ek-8e44gtq43VY3yA/w300-h400/IMG_3659.JPG" width="300" /></a></div></b><br />"The First Time Crying” <br /><br />The first time I remember really crying <br />was when Mrs. Jeppson started reading <br />Where the Red Fern Grows <br />when I was in 4th grade. <br /><br />I sat in the first seat in the third row <br />of desks against the north window <br />of the old rock school in Menan. <br />I remember taking the book home <br /><br />and reading it out by the barn <br />as I sat on the haystack <br />out of sight of everyone. <br />That’s when I cried so hard <br /><br />for the first time when I read <br />about the sad demise <br />of Old Dan after a fight <br />with a cougar in the woods <br /><br />and later the sad ending <br />of Little Ann on top of Old Dan’s grave. <br />It was tragic then <br />and is just as tragic now <br /><br />when I think of that book <br />and my tears falling <br />on bales of hay that we fed <br />the horses and cows. <br /><br />When my brothers asked why <br />my eyes were so red, I just told them <br />that hay dust got into my eyes <br />as I did my chores, knowing it was <br /><br />really the catastrophic deaths <br />of Old Dan and Little Ann swimming <br />in my heart and eyes and lingering <br />longer than they should have.</span></div>Darrel and Joanne Hammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05957897249232282948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7355153234213731899.post-63739448002710724702023-11-26T10:33:00.000-08:002023-11-26T10:33:22.845-08:00“Sunday Ponderings”<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Poem of the Day, Sunday, November 26, 2023</b></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgReeM3LmNb7C5vOhXuXAz8X4t5f_S5XHeCtdSJb4uS5bW6eoqPLKdCelZ7cqzh1u4w40HdNp_wSG24BU4so5Q4OSTvHUTkPci_QrWcuwb9OccXZlATEKBpVvXFM8jPvNariEnd_7HMZ6ihxIV2Zvk3YWZrZT1z08wTmIoWILBtGJouqET82DBZAszKngw/s4032/Walden's%20Pond.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgReeM3LmNb7C5vOhXuXAz8X4t5f_S5XHeCtdSJb4uS5bW6eoqPLKdCelZ7cqzh1u4w40HdNp_wSG24BU4so5Q4OSTvHUTkPci_QrWcuwb9OccXZlATEKBpVvXFM8jPvNariEnd_7HMZ6ihxIV2Zvk3YWZrZT1z08wTmIoWILBtGJouqET82DBZAszKngw/w300-h400/Walden's%20Pond.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /></b>“Sunday Ponderings” <br /><br />My mind often ponders <br />on Sunday between the prelude <br />and the Sacrament <br /><br />about the meanderings <br />of my mind during the week. <br />Did I maneuver off the beaten path <br /><br />too much or did I spend <br />enough time in the scriptures, <br />mediating and praying along the way? <br /><br />Sometimes the shivers of past sins <br />clamor for attention before <br />I can yield them to Him <br /><br />before the Sacrament <br />comes to me. I think <br />about all these things <br /><br />more intensely, more profoundly, <br />praying and hoping <br />I know the true meaning <br /><br />of the Sacrament, Christ’s Atonement <br />and sacrifice for me <br />and everyone else on the planet. <br /><br />The moment I touch the bread <br />or water to my lips, <br />I sense a relief that I am enough, <br /><br />that I can move on once again <br />for the week, knowing <br />I will continue to plow forward, <br /><br />more diligently, knowing <br />that I must do more to earn <br />the grace that He proffered me, <br /><br />knowing that it is I <br />who must align with Him <br />because He is already there, <br /><br />ready for me to come unto Him, </span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">arms always outreach </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">for an eternal embrace with me.</span></div></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh-c8Jm2G7y_yvekqCrkUB0uUPQWqUBeUIiqke0Ilg9QfrQMCludMYeuM0R_cDxO2jWI-_Piw4a2Qzo-MPlh0x75afuPFS7VKUNvh3UiNZl3b4yXr9ZzYhHM7gCFN2QeelXUKtjyl1yH_YvQ2CbNqg_OWy2longb1RWfaTRHmh87CL8THnw1tAHyQTolI/s1440/Little%20roses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh-c8Jm2G7y_yvekqCrkUB0uUPQWqUBeUIiqke0Ilg9QfrQMCludMYeuM0R_cDxO2jWI-_Piw4a2Qzo-MPlh0x75afuPFS7VKUNvh3UiNZl3b4yXr9ZzYhHM7gCFN2QeelXUKtjyl1yH_YvQ2CbNqg_OWy2longb1RWfaTRHmh87CL8THnw1tAHyQTolI/w400-h400/Little%20roses.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>Darrel and Joanne Hammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05957897249232282948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7355153234213731899.post-7328178327209280222023-11-25T10:08:00.000-08:002023-11-25T10:20:28.484-08:00“Driving North on I-15”<b>Poem of the Day, Saturday, November 25, 2023</b><div><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVcbvfOrSDBL3NVMatNfLR7sx-eAubGEffrv9N4hIAvL7qdIWQmSHUsNXfbF1gVQZLQaeXlWz59IeGXKF-ZSK9cSrF8OSQrQjWCU4RDeRNkXdxcXy8kqFDYTRAPVhC-oOS4cKBAU0kl8QVul4Zc_v0kk0ljyx1Xezqxjs2lez04KjJ2vi5fQoOaa8iqL0/s4032/IMG_E1399.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVcbvfOrSDBL3NVMatNfLR7sx-eAubGEffrv9N4hIAvL7qdIWQmSHUsNXfbF1gVQZLQaeXlWz59IeGXKF-ZSK9cSrF8OSQrQjWCU4RDeRNkXdxcXy8kqFDYTRAPVhC-oOS4cKBAU0kl8QVul4Zc_v0kk0ljyx1Xezqxjs2lez04KjJ2vi5fQoOaa8iqL0/w400-h300/IMG_E1399.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /></b>“Driving North on I-15” <br /><br />Can driving north <br />on I-15 past Idaho Falls <br />and Roberts, <br />the metropolis of Hamer, <br />and then Dubois, <br />the Sheep Experiment Station, <br />and Spencer, Idaho, <br />home to the famous opals, <br />ever get boring <br />with fence lines, <br />Larsen’s thousands of acres <br />of spuds and grain, <br />vast open land deposits, <br />mountain ridges, <br />and a few outcroppings <br />of buildings, <br />along the way? <br />Fields full of angus <br />and a few Herefords mixed <br />with a few deer add <br />some diversity <br />in the immensity <br />of space <br />almost too big <br />to comprehend. <br /><br />In the winters, <br />Monida Pass <br />is treacherous <br />yet stunning, especially <br />when the sun is out, <br />the wind blowing boatloads <br />of snow across the road, <br />climbing high on both sides <br />of the road <br />where the snow fences <br />meet it, try to sway it <br />to stop before entering <br />the highway on either side. <br />The enormity of it all <br />keeps your eyes wide <br />open, hands clutched <br />on the steering wheel, <br />hoping never to miss <br />something that might <br />swish you off the road <br />and into the barrow pit <br />where you may stay <br />until spring <br />or until a trucker comes <br />upon you in the darkness <br />as he slows down <br />to put his truck <br />into a lower gear <br />to climb higher. <br /><br />The key is to stay put <br />on the road you can see <br />and travel on, slowly, <br />methodically, ever attentive, <br />perhaps listening <br />to Fleetwood Mac, <br />Chicago, or maybe <br />some Three Dog Night <br />and miles to go <br />before you sleep.<br /><br /></div>Darrel and Joanne Hammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05957897249232282948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7355153234213731899.post-15004537005905695582023-11-24T11:24:00.000-08:002023-11-24T11:24:44.128-08:00“The Frolicking of Waves and Wind”<b>Poem of the Day, Friday, November 24, 2023</b><div><b><br /></b><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrYKIH3AyD-xXG-AeyJU3Rf2O60ciauMFrsMiZ3F_6VbFkMDdxvQS8ElBnZ55teXkuh4DJNhE8NFCgXO4_RVBAKnEE11UlzVXJtgJfsmWy50K9XyvVRGDOLHeSCXgfp1H-E-QRy5ZYXPHUjfIW1nHnTsrXK_O3jA9zZlsZTbYFUNptEWB2-L81D_RQwoc/s3888/Looking%20toward%20Playa%20Rincon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2592" data-original-width="3888" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrYKIH3AyD-xXG-AeyJU3Rf2O60ciauMFrsMiZ3F_6VbFkMDdxvQS8ElBnZ55teXkuh4DJNhE8NFCgXO4_RVBAKnEE11UlzVXJtgJfsmWy50K9XyvVRGDOLHeSCXgfp1H-E-QRy5ZYXPHUjfIW1nHnTsrXK_O3jA9zZlsZTbYFUNptEWB2-L81D_RQwoc/w400-h266/Looking%20toward%20Playa%20Rincon.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></b>“The Frolicking of Waves and Wind” <br /><br />We lose ourselves early mornings, <br />sauntering along the beach, <br />just as the sun rises in the east, <br />a glowing ball of orange sliding <br />ever so gracefully, up and over <br />the lip of the world, until full arrival, <br />breathing a shimmering line <br />to the beach and beyond. <br />We stooped to pick up <br />a few pieces of sea glass, <br />eyes wandering, searching <br />up and down the beach, <br /> into the water, crawling ever <br /> so gracefully up the beach, <br /> infiltrating the sand as it moves <br /> forward, filling holes, depositing <br /> a few things along the way, <br /> and then suddenly receding, <br /> somehow reaching its limit of life <br /> beyond the sea, ending its stoic dance <br />early, dragging with it rocks, old shells, <br />pieces of seaweed, and what it can <br />before it retreats to the sea. <br />Sometimes, we stop and stare <br />at this ritual of sea water, <br /> reaching its limits up on the beach, <br /> seeping into every crevice it can <br /> and then back out again. <br />It’s both mesmerizing <br />and charming, and suddenly, <br />we are standing still, watching, <br />our eyes focused on both <br />the water and the rising sun, <br />and the moon somewhere hidden, <br />now a familiar inflection, <br />yet still a bit foreign <br />mixed with the playful motions <br />of wind frolicking in the waves <br />as they serenade us so early <br />in the morning on the beach <br />in a rhythmic cadence <br />that entrances us, thinking <br />they know the wooings of the mind.<br /><br /></div>Darrel and Joanne Hammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05957897249232282948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7355153234213731899.post-35450210348153358652023-11-23T12:37:00.000-08:002023-11-23T12:37:49.338-08:00“Grateful Every Day”Poem of the Day, Thursday, November 23, 2023<div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE4aTO5kK4ku4V1IQaw4VSdJGrepxqrJnBR-byM2eKnNGnKmbGg8XRW-t-ZX0Iy60AuzClKRsK7NwrINwF1Jb1E17058EoiSfVk4_8dYo-hWQc_IhftJNig4B698-4zeMXt4vhpTIiqNK9CvZkQw2GuUhB2F1FpHHFk37IjVzNcMSL878wYFq5pU0-RXI/s5327/Hammon%20Family%20Photos%202023-056.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3403" data-original-width="5327" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE4aTO5kK4ku4V1IQaw4VSdJGrepxqrJnBR-byM2eKnNGnKmbGg8XRW-t-ZX0Iy60AuzClKRsK7NwrINwF1Jb1E17058EoiSfVk4_8dYo-hWQc_IhftJNig4B698-4zeMXt4vhpTIiqNK9CvZkQw2GuUhB2F1FpHHFk37IjVzNcMSL878wYFq5pU0-RXI/w400-h255/Hammon%20Family%20Photos%202023-056.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />“Grateful Every Day” <br /><br />I am thankful and grateful <br />for many things, not just today <br />but every day, especially <br />today for Thanksgiving. <br /><br />For some reason, we express gratitude <br />the most during the month of November, <br />when gratitude should be a daily thing. <br /><br />For me, I am grateful for: <br />Jesus Christ, my Savior and Redeemer. <br />My wonderful wife who loves me <br />everything single day. <br />My two daughters, both miracles, <br />who have become incredible women. <br />For my grandchildren— <br />all four, all talented, all amazing! <br />My two sons-in-law <br />who are good fathers and husbands. <br />My brothers and sisters. <br /><br />My ability to read and write. <br />The many things we have been able to do <br />in this life, from Idaho to Montana <br />to Wyoming to the Dominican Republic, <br />the isles of the Caribbean <br />to southern California to Utah. <br /><br />The many friends and friendships <br />throughout the world <br />who have enhanced our lives. <br />A nice home and delightful neighbors. <br /><br />Being free in the promised land. <br />The blessing as a child of God, <br />a child of the covenant, <br />and a disciple of Jesus Christ. <br /><br />Being grateful is a choice I wish <br />to make every day, every day, every day. <br />For that—and so many other things— <br />I am grateful to all those <br />who have made my life <br />happy and joyful and gratifying <br />and wonderfully blessed! <br /><br /></div>Darrel and Joanne Hammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05957897249232282948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7355153234213731899.post-64505763946789099762023-11-22T13:23:00.000-08:002023-11-22T13:23:22.561-08:00“Cold Weather Coming”<b>Poem of the Day, Wednesday, November 22, 2023</b><div><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirCXM-6cmRYchL0RlPbtRAxK6wY00LKmJUw2dhamkcINIe9QfQ7ZihgjV-bdmkOFKKZdf4Ldhx4PshqKYpf46vPfq8cQOaFqi9S493pByL2K3v3-ONBhXF8XDHWwSj6shk_4YvYZJF_SWdKaaCM0MBQijFsEUgZMfRO3RjA0RDaDTC9K7d0fF7fgi3RPs/s1795/Snow-covered%20trees.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1795" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirCXM-6cmRYchL0RlPbtRAxK6wY00LKmJUw2dhamkcINIe9QfQ7ZihgjV-bdmkOFKKZdf4Ldhx4PshqKYpf46vPfq8cQOaFqi9S493pByL2K3v3-ONBhXF8XDHWwSj6shk_4YvYZJF_SWdKaaCM0MBQijFsEUgZMfRO3RjA0RDaDTC9K7d0fF7fgi3RPs/w321-h400/Snow-covered%20trees.jpg" width="321" /></a></div><br /></b>“Cold Weather Coming”<br /><br />Cold weather is coming. <br />I shiver at the mere thought. <br />I remember growing up <br />in eastern Idaho, a few miles <br />from the windy Snake River. <br />Winter there is like none other. <br />As kids, we didn’t know the difference. <br />We knew it was cold <br />because mom warned us <br />to bundle up in our snowmobile suits, <br />beanies, yellow fuzzy gloves, <br />snow pacs, and maybe a scarf. <br />Often, we had to shovel <br />our way to the barn <br />through tall snow drifts, <br />and a biting wind, <br />the wind chill hovering at -30. <br />We milked the cow, chipped ice <br />so we could water the animals. <br />We let them drink, chipped more, <br />and let them drink again. <br />After chores, we readied for school. <br />Seldom, if ever did a snow day come. <br />We just bundled up and waited <br />for the bus to turn the corner, <br />and we raced outside, just in time. <br />Our yellow Blue Bird buses <br />were tough, snow tires and all. <br />We just plowed through, unloaded <br />in front of the school, and raced <br />for the warm classroom. <br />Cold days were just a way of life for us. <br />We complained, but we still played <br />outside, made snow forts, <br />had snowball fights <br />when the weather allowed <br />for decent snowballs, <br />went sledding and tubing, <br />being pulled behind <br />the old white station <br />with a long nylon rope, <br />and we shoveled a lot of snow. <br />Now, that I think back, I realize <br />the fun we had, not realizing <br />how dangerously cold <br />it really was for us to be out. <br />We were kids. Who cared? <br />Now adults, we see it differently. <br />Maybe we shouldn’t. <br />Instead, when it snows, <br />we should be the first ones <br />to tromp outside, flop down <br />into the deepest snow, <br />and make the first snowman, <br />dismissing the cold <br />like we do a spam telephone call.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP2s9Vj_Lo0WqeJf2-XP-_F0o-NWznjOUYqfQbtY-59GymxY7fjKOKVl6ILC9V-4IYurGRbo8YFA2fLPgajRAxTlhZXTuBj8ZMj9RhdyXzqXPkse8YSRoBhnq3vJbKqI8-MSi_9qdVXXUEI5fUTsemnc66AXCPTYnq2QidXbejoBATmxkT6Bx0Z-JFYP0/s4032/Snow%20angel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP2s9Vj_Lo0WqeJf2-XP-_F0o-NWznjOUYqfQbtY-59GymxY7fjKOKVl6ILC9V-4IYurGRbo8YFA2fLPgajRAxTlhZXTuBj8ZMj9RhdyXzqXPkse8YSRoBhnq3vJbKqI8-MSi_9qdVXXUEI5fUTsemnc66AXCPTYnq2QidXbejoBATmxkT6Bx0Z-JFYP0/w300-h400/Snow%20angel.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Darrel and Joanne Hammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05957897249232282948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7355153234213731899.post-47186402671086034312023-11-21T10:00:00.000-08:002023-11-21T10:00:16.195-08:00“A Feeling of Belonging”<b>Poem of the Day, Tuesday, November 21, 2023</b><div><b><br /></b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_1kbg6237jgG9nGkNdGrV0Esuvz6NvCbl2xPGqqhvQnD7P9AvEYtdmefr8lzJUkHUHt4VnDtqQ5rubJ9h7zvu2Z05x5XK53sU-AWh8h7zrEmW8bMpNp6yKxLq9j0rshQIXjxQs3QwXMHklmrspBQZw2SbkDWd2LEW1iygs6XfSisqVVmDP-J_BLJPjMo/s3888/Sunset%20on%20the%20MIssissippi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2592" data-original-width="3888" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_1kbg6237jgG9nGkNdGrV0Esuvz6NvCbl2xPGqqhvQnD7P9AvEYtdmefr8lzJUkHUHt4VnDtqQ5rubJ9h7zvu2Z05x5XK53sU-AWh8h7zrEmW8bMpNp6yKxLq9j0rshQIXjxQs3QwXMHklmrspBQZw2SbkDWd2LEW1iygs6XfSisqVVmDP-J_BLJPjMo/w400-h266/Sunset%20on%20the%20MIssissippi.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br />“A Feeling of Belonging”<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div>For some of us, it seems, <br />we don’t belong anywhere. <br /><br />The world is changing <br />around us so quickly <br />and drastically <br />that sometimes we cringe. <br /><br />People have grasped <br />the chains of prosperity, <br />many at any cost, <br />losing their grip <br />on reality <br />of what should be. <br /><br />Some redefine happiness <br />and joy to be more <br />superfluous, banal, <br />and outright contradictory, <br />and begin to be caught up <br />in themselves <br />and no one else. <br /><br />At home when they stand <br />in front of their mirrors, <br />they know not who they are <br />and sense a declining connection <br />to everything around them, <br />including a sense of belonging, <br />putting them into a spiral spin. <br /><br />Surely, there is some way <br />to climb out of this abyss <br />of loneliness, self-pity, <br />and disengagement. <br /><br />The only way I have discovered <br />is to make a personal choice <br />to begin to see things differently, <br />think of others, love God, <br />follow His will, and hear, <br />heed, and hearken <br />to prophetic voices, <br />true, constant, personal. <br /><br />Once we begin to choose <br />a different path, <br />pivoting just so a degree or two, <br />clawing our way out <div>with all our might,<div>the light will return, <br />spreading an innate understanding <br />and recognition of who <br />we really are, <br />from whence we came, <br />and where we are divinely <br />destined to go, <br />our true nature returning <br />to us and in us, <br />and we will begin <br />the climb again, <br />upward and ever onward <br />to where we really belong.</div></div></div></div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZa2PRyF9EwCDNbFiT1nhTVWz7renzOq4NsOq_vA4SGVo3FjiGP6AIZ7bkl_59h5XG_v8Xf11i7jSBQ1x3nRvIKptfIYXZD8hj1wkPZXnKEbtMAapskmQ1wlWbTEjiAhG8Q5VYiQQXaJV2vWnHA7GSFJw0itLKepMWlZ6-b2BtbB2f8Aq99vYrsT4uhOs/s3888/Dead%20on%20Salto%20de%20Laja.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2096" data-original-width="3888" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZa2PRyF9EwCDNbFiT1nhTVWz7renzOq4NsOq_vA4SGVo3FjiGP6AIZ7bkl_59h5XG_v8Xf11i7jSBQ1x3nRvIKptfIYXZD8hj1wkPZXnKEbtMAapskmQ1wlWbTEjiAhG8Q5VYiQQXaJV2vWnHA7GSFJw0itLKepMWlZ6-b2BtbB2f8Aq99vYrsT4uhOs/w400-h216/Dead%20on%20Salto%20de%20Laja.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Darrel and Joanne Hammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05957897249232282948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7355153234213731899.post-82041635286548330902023-11-20T13:23:00.000-08:002023-11-20T13:23:16.516-08:00“We Live in Momentous Times”<b>Poem of the Day, Monday, November 20, 2023</b><div><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJLTf55bT8IfMHSmV51Hg5Am2M0E2enoj0nkaAoVL0zydAsybyBwTtbzgb38aSJXM3EbxrlKrQr7O6YlmYdGo_N6S9WusNs91V_27Fd41gsdGvoz8WIpZlldrVSGMrJu2anWqCSmt2LhtSp8yFeVCgg2QqPqd-OEpNAK0zSJxNd0x3POzlAFwaGCm7utk/s3500/Payson%20Utah%20Temple%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2710" data-original-width="3500" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJLTf55bT8IfMHSmV51Hg5Am2M0E2enoj0nkaAoVL0zydAsybyBwTtbzgb38aSJXM3EbxrlKrQr7O6YlmYdGo_N6S9WusNs91V_27Fd41gsdGvoz8WIpZlldrVSGMrJu2anWqCSmt2LhtSp8yFeVCgg2QqPqd-OEpNAK0zSJxNd0x3POzlAFwaGCm7utk/w400-h310/Payson%20Utah%20Temple%202.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b><br />“We Live in Momentous Times” <br /><br />We Live in Momentous Times. <br />Just look out the window, <br />check out the changing <br />of the weather, the rains, <br />the snows above 6,000 ft, <br />and clouds loaded <br />with snow, thick and white. <br />You cannot help but feel something <br />is a brewing just across the mountains, <br />even just across the street. <br />But think of what is happening <br />all around us and in our lives— <br />temples scattered across the globe, <br />more missionaries and senior missionaries <br />than we have ever seen before; <br />a dozen or so of new missions; <br />prophets and seers traveling the globe, <br />teaching about belonging, <br />the gospel of Jesus Christ <br />and bringing people unto Christ <br />with an emphasis on temples and covenants; <br />messages to the youth, young single adults, <br />and the rest of us, plowing through life, <br />no matter the challenges or barriers; <br />prophetic invitations to do better, <br />think Celestial, eradicate contention, <br />seek peace, focus on education <br />of all throughout the world; <br />emphasis on personal revelation <br />and listening to and heeding <br />prophetic counsel, the purposeful <br />message of loving thy neighbor <br />in such tumultuous times; <br />the rapidity of change <br />in everything around us, <br />and so many, many more. <br />Surely, there has never been <br />a better time to live upon the earth. <br />Yes, we live in momentous times, <br />saved especially for us in these latter days.<br /><br /></div>Darrel and Joanne Hammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05957897249232282948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7355153234213731899.post-3927653948498539412023-11-19T21:26:00.000-08:002023-11-19T21:26:32.886-08:00"The strength to plow forward"<span style="font-size: medium;"><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>Poem of the Day, Sunday, November 19, 2023</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNa4TUOEO9QpBFpipqPP8yGDCk5A2MtU1Ht6FDSRqkLdIhTm1hY9ECxOCwqwwFLl5l0M4DjbuVIzWLPMQLbfAyztvgrhNo1d50MGZ5IB2oWbu1TjIes4fvgp1DftWVd7kinQM8azPHlMfi5BDMJlpj5y_y9Li1lxW2OPzsWxu6haPso9SeuuZCA3dC86c/s4032/IMG_3298.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNa4TUOEO9QpBFpipqPP8yGDCk5A2MtU1Ht6FDSRqkLdIhTm1hY9ECxOCwqwwFLl5l0M4DjbuVIzWLPMQLbfAyztvgrhNo1d50MGZ5IB2oWbu1TjIes4fvgp1DftWVd7kinQM8azPHlMfi5BDMJlpj5y_y9Li1lxW2OPzsWxu6haPso9SeuuZCA3dC86c/w400-h300/IMG_3298.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /></b></div></b><div>"The strength to plow forward"</div><br />Sometimes the dregs of life shroud our minds, <br />even overwhelm us without even asking <br />if we are ready for them or even want them. <br /><br />They just descend in torrents <br />like the Puerto Montt rains in the winter. <br />They are even embellished by the media <br /><br />and our so-called friends who wallow <br />in negativity every single day on their pages. <br />They paint callous pictures of darkness and doom, <br /><br />even the “woe is me” in a threatening <br />and deviant cadence that usurps my power <br />to decline or accept the inevitable. <br /><br />Yet there days when I immerse myself in mountains, <br />walking along the paths of changing colors <br />from greens to yellows to deep browns, golds, and reds. <br /><br />A slight breeze beckons me to hearken back <br />to the light that gives them life, propelling <br />life’s juices to flow readily and happily <br /><br />through their veins all the way to the roots, <br />pressing deeply beneath the ground, <br />establishing the never-ending underpinnings <br /><br />of strength, courage, and resilience, <br />creating life above and below the ground, <br />extending itself throughout the forest. <br /><br />It is at these times when those awful dregs dissipate, <br />disperse across the landscape, disappearing <br />into the deep crags of rock, out of sight, <br /><br />sound, and senses, leaving me <br />whole again, full of light and hope, <br />gifting me a new direction and meaning. <br /><br />It is at these times when I feel the Son <br />more powerfully upon me, in me, giving me <br />the strength to plow forward and beyond.</span>Darrel and Joanne Hammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05957897249232282948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7355153234213731899.post-48839172315961095582023-11-18T11:39:00.000-08:002023-11-18T11:40:50.407-08:00“Beauty comes in pieces and parts”<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Poem of the Day, Saturday, November 18, 2023</b></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcP3ox_PgO8fXlhciCfJ0PCn0sPcA79Or17ou9UK_B7zsWArV9ScenMidfxmro41BvcTZ3TpG7MIgaJdzYCzgEDS97XAETZz9SQkEj9F3Zr5cQhzDdXmKx6bKBTyVS9P9KXICFnDcm5FRE9gF_SUpVt4JDD1C_uYBwAasYvBSzMuC0my7JMs7_PZYVF3U/s4032/IMG_3240.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcP3ox_PgO8fXlhciCfJ0PCn0sPcA79Or17ou9UK_B7zsWArV9ScenMidfxmro41BvcTZ3TpG7MIgaJdzYCzgEDS97XAETZz9SQkEj9F3Zr5cQhzDdXmKx6bKBTyVS9P9KXICFnDcm5FRE9gF_SUpVt4JDD1C_uYBwAasYvBSzMuC0my7JMs7_PZYVF3U/w300-h400/IMG_3240.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /></b>“Beauty comes in pieces and parts” <br /><br />Beauty comes in pieces and parts, <br />and I have often wondered why. <br />Overtime, I have concluded <br />that we cannot handle all the beauty <br />at once for there is just way too much, <br />no matter where you look <br />or where you travel <br />or what you see. <br /><br />Think of the quaken aspens in the fall, <br />laden with their beautiful golden leaves, <br />gently rustling in the wind <br />as it dances between the branches. <br /><br />Think of high mountain lakes, pristine and cold, <br />fat rainbow and brook trout surfacing <br />just in time to capture the small flies <br />or mosquitos hovering just above the calmness <br />while an osprey lingers nearby, waiting for its turn. <br /><br />Think of the herd of does moseying, <br />through the meadow, <br />flicking their tails as they saunter <br />while a six-point buck stands <br />in the shade at the edge, waiting and watching. <br /><br />Think of the rows and rows of potatoes <br />ready to be harvested in the fall <br />in eastern Idaho and the section <br />of golden wheat next to it, <br />standing guard until the combines come. <br /><br />Think of my mom’s double peonies <br />sagging because of the weight <br />of their blossoms—reds, whites, pinks— <br />and the huge snowball bush in the front yard. <br /><br />Think of playas of Bayahibe and La Isla Saona <br />and snorkling just off the shore in turquoise water, <br />near the old dock and seeing types of fish <br />you have never seen before or ever will again.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7VTI0PdC_6QOLWoRUrp1rxgOtn59w6YCuTILH9AsJk-azy02TdPefZpyDHQFJwxUpq0MndRixeBE_W2ApnRqLPtvyhyphenhyphenh6LOBlWaHczJimS87vVFEC4FY_9r9XZDvpKk9jNXboq8XDXMepjoXCQJuysBMiTnhVde7goUUkgFItZgJO7Arm8hTFqwS192U/s4008/Old%20dock%20on%20Saona%20Island%20with%20border.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2508" data-original-width="4008" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7VTI0PdC_6QOLWoRUrp1rxgOtn59w6YCuTILH9AsJk-azy02TdPefZpyDHQFJwxUpq0MndRixeBE_W2ApnRqLPtvyhyphenhyphenh6LOBlWaHczJimS87vVFEC4FY_9r9XZDvpKk9jNXboq8XDXMepjoXCQJuysBMiTnhVde7goUUkgFItZgJO7Arm8hTFqwS192U/w400-h250/Old%20dock%20on%20Saona%20Island%20with%20border.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Think of our children and grandchildren <br />as they grow and develop, <br />become conversationists and successful. <br /><br />It is no wonder God does not let us see it all at once. <br />The greatness and the extravaganza of splendor <br />would overcome and overpower us. <br /><br />But each piece and part that we see <br />and experience encircles us <br />for those precious moments we are there, <br />and then we tuck them away in our brains, <br />our phones, our Facebook and Instagram pages, <br />and let our fingers stroll through the beauty <br />one picture at a time, kindling memories <br />that will seldom fade because new beauty <br />all around us never ceases to be, <br />always magnificent, never-ending, and eternal.<br /></span><br /></div>Darrel and Joanne Hammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05957897249232282948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7355153234213731899.post-86932383635341092112023-11-17T14:58:00.000-08:002023-11-17T14:58:35.643-08:00 “The day after rain”<b>Poem of the Day, Friday, November 17, 2023</b><div><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7UTagu99JPAr3mbWJ11zLd3N95EbD8pHl-4XXAWuzKU4npm07F_6MwnmArg0T2wHKN9nLdEo6VYHSQPDpXl797-lrpijiwQtKYURmxuQ-QRJTUEBIrnTFsfFzO5OF3MID3HspkSd13Z-3F__1tmUDrNegI4dYE5Hg_7TtHXuI4t2akJ9NrLC5fh6xqwU/s4032/Tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7UTagu99JPAr3mbWJ11zLd3N95EbD8pHl-4XXAWuzKU4npm07F_6MwnmArg0T2wHKN9nLdEo6VYHSQPDpXl797-lrpijiwQtKYURmxuQ-QRJTUEBIrnTFsfFzO5OF3MID3HspkSd13Z-3F__1tmUDrNegI4dYE5Hg_7TtHXuI4t2akJ9NrLC5fh6xqwU/w300-h400/Tree.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /></b>“The day after rain” <br /><br />The day after fall rains comes <br />expectantly, the Sun now free <br />from gray clouds crowding out light, <br />hanging over the mountains <br />like curtains, while thick clouds hover <br />over the valleys, shrouding them from view. <br /><br />The night before, we sheltered <br />in our homes, heard the pounding <br />of rain drops overhead, watched <br />the golden leaves being stripped <br />from the trees, the last semblance of fall, <br />and then slept soundly, snuggled under blankets <br />and a heavy fall quilt. <br /><br />In the morning, the sun bursts <br />over the east mountains, unencumbered <br />by suffocating dark clouds and mist. <br /><br />We saunter out, basking <br />in the brightness and warmth, <br />inhaling the fresh air <br />that the rains cleansed <br />throughout the night. <br /><br />Some trees still have their golden leaves <br />although many of them now lie scattered <br />upon the ground until they dry, <br />and the wind picks them up <br />and hustles them away. <br /><br />It’s refreshing the day after rain, <br />one that soothes us, causes us <br />to breathe deeply, <br />clarity of thought overwhelming us. <br /><br />Yet, we pray that more rain will come <br />in snow form, more deliberately, <br />strategically, causing our rivers <br />and reservoirs to fill, <br />ultimately quenching <br />our parched lands and lives, <br />creating within us a sense <br />of newness and purity.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjosm-47078WaXN-A58XuQeVJVGl8nyqVAoBf7OYFcxJxtDIIZJkkn8wqYvAknVdSXoMJkRXnJiw9nwL1lpaLdQ3REujj1ma6N-A1a6QCaEu-rgH66Pt68hR3Mv1qGdPMVSfezyntWEzgZwFOCTkjkkdF6YSw5UXUzJO8K9h2QMmiz6qEX_ab7IV1MnAKo/s3480/More%20trees.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3480" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjosm-47078WaXN-A58XuQeVJVGl8nyqVAoBf7OYFcxJxtDIIZJkkn8wqYvAknVdSXoMJkRXnJiw9nwL1lpaLdQ3REujj1ma6N-A1a6QCaEu-rgH66Pt68hR3Mv1qGdPMVSfezyntWEzgZwFOCTkjkkdF6YSw5UXUzJO8K9h2QMmiz6qEX_ab7IV1MnAKo/w348-h400/More%20trees.jpg" width="348" /></a></div><br /> <br /><br /></div>Darrel and Joanne Hammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05957897249232282948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7355153234213731899.post-40111949690669303802023-11-16T12:15:00.000-08:002023-11-16T12:15:17.830-08:00"Memories"<b>Poem of the Day, Thursday, November 16, 2023</b><div><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2y2MeptqTHIZ_f41DfYxE9qNc5N4tkYLKIsz8AEaWVybXowjxZ9-eMR4SiV9zSZAfFd1-x50T7sR_zJEeq912tj7kKg36HWDusZvH0Eq1vT_q37vFqlfR1nRYPobg1Y9VbUWVzz1pEzm2fhN_3h6RzMgLGoQ3SVD9Vsc4JD2hUY47l3AOLSosVsp_M58/s3888/184.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2592" data-original-width="3888" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2y2MeptqTHIZ_f41DfYxE9qNc5N4tkYLKIsz8AEaWVybXowjxZ9-eMR4SiV9zSZAfFd1-x50T7sR_zJEeq912tj7kKg36HWDusZvH0Eq1vT_q37vFqlfR1nRYPobg1Y9VbUWVzz1pEzm2fhN_3h6RzMgLGoQ3SVD9Vsc4JD2hUY47l3AOLSosVsp_M58/w400-h266/184.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /></b>"Memories"<br /><br />On cold evenings, cool air seeps <br />through the front door <br />painted bright red. <br />Even old blankets beneath the doors <br />only stop it for a moment. <br /><br />Inside though, the fire roars <br />in the fireplace with its great mantle, <br />buoying up all the trimmings of family— <br />photos of children, grandchildren, fishing trips, <br />the Tetons, special rocks, and graduations. <br /><br />We sit there, quietly, just the two of us now, <br />melancholy seeping through our veins, <br />remembering the good times, <br />while we sip hot chocolate <br />with extra scoops of Marshmallows. <br /><br />We look fondly at each other, <br />devotion infused in each other’s hearts, <br />seeing and feeling the endearing past <br />and the immense love in the moment. <br /><br />These are our times now, together <br />before the fire, mesmerized <br />by the flames and popping of wood, <br />and smoke rising lazily, hesitantly, <br />knowing that it will dissipate <br />into the cold air and disappear forever. <br /><br />Our memories do not disappear. <br />They settle on the surface and descend <br />deep within our hearts and minds, <br />conjuring up another time, <br />another place, always lingering, <br />never leaving us, even for a moment.</div>Darrel and Joanne Hammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05957897249232282948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7355153234213731899.post-29916629736024100582023-11-15T13:21:00.000-08:002023-11-15T13:31:08.274-08:00“Juliet’s Eternal Question”<b>Poem of the Day, Wednesday, November 15, 2023</b><div><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjse5JePRltqomXxMzFB1_46HN9tHqgpHoyfjXiEgPwNUai1Wt_JHEn6tXHRskbyTHcs2noRBp5B2Tqb3z447AJOEQzpIg6kRczD4S4BOofruVkWPfBaE8irQzSUc3x8krWoBaSYi0D38NsPoBLiOTBCHtkHl0YlYu2ObmZJnXEpVYXsHDMBG7bR-JthB8/s4032/IMG_9914.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjse5JePRltqomXxMzFB1_46HN9tHqgpHoyfjXiEgPwNUai1Wt_JHEn6tXHRskbyTHcs2noRBp5B2Tqb3z447AJOEQzpIg6kRczD4S4BOofruVkWPfBaE8irQzSUc3x8krWoBaSYi0D38NsPoBLiOTBCHtkHl0YlYu2ObmZJnXEpVYXsHDMBG7bR-JthB8/w400-h300/IMG_9914.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /></b>“Juliet’s Eternal Question” <br /><br />Romeo’s Juliet asked an important question <br />on that famous balcony and one <br />that we must ask ourselves: <br />“What’s in a name?” <br /><br />When people think about us, <br />our name, our persona, our doings, <br />what images conjure up in their minds? <br />Kindness or cruelty, <br />compassion or meanness? <br />What about loving or cold-hearted? <br />A sense of goodness and trust? <br />Or maybe they draw a blank, <br />remembering a wisp of something <br />or someone passing by? <br /><br />It’s more than just a name— <br /><br />It’s how we live, act, speak, <br />how we conduct ourselves in private <br />and in “the public haunt of men….” <br />It’s how we treat others, <br />how we lift them up, <br />help them become better. <br /><br />It’s more than just a name— <br /><br />It's our smile and manners. <br />It’s elevating others above our own needs. <br />It’s our persona, outward and inward, <br />striving to be the same each day. <br /><br />It’s more than just a name— <br /><br />When we climb out of ourselves <br />to be kind, gracious, and trustworthy, <br />we rise to be someone different, <br />someone noble and worthy <br />of whose we are and destined to become.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsMXoQ14x46HBbt-H-GV2HBGQh3a7ZjiQb6zaTwQVN8Xn8-8GpvA6TCoxped3a9VrGlvdGF0f5ZYSxaGl_upOyLP3b7G91l-pqOUXGBIk0Po4_OdCWH7iPer7o8onK2seaA_7o_7QYC1i-S1nH4AKMSfg3ZkRCxIam6l3O2BTRJcb4I_rz310shmPUN9w/s4032/IF%20Temple%20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsMXoQ14x46HBbt-H-GV2HBGQh3a7ZjiQb6zaTwQVN8Xn8-8GpvA6TCoxped3a9VrGlvdGF0f5ZYSxaGl_upOyLP3b7G91l-pqOUXGBIk0Po4_OdCWH7iPer7o8onK2seaA_7o_7QYC1i-S1nH4AKMSfg3ZkRCxIam6l3O2BTRJcb4I_rz310shmPUN9w/w400-h300/IF%20Temple%20.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /><br /></div>Darrel and Joanne Hammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05957897249232282948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7355153234213731899.post-1575074791685026972023-11-14T09:48:00.000-08:002023-11-14T09:48:58.032-08:00“Leaning In”<b>Poem of the Day, Tuesday, November 14, 2023</b><div><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvdKAR94_r2DqfbxKWIl-8ccxty725MyiQYtmq6UXwUKQ03E_0ze8pfLrTafSZWtYbdY6A_qSyZwq-A33iw-3WYyWOBdHamdu4Zzqw5OxsfAmIoEyvtfgz6EL2CPldpwpopxWVr0Yim4Vl1_RRcfX5FJ0QXDVvv8YndVmpBNhAK9bLuUeLxLIpWwPFKdI/s4032/yellow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvdKAR94_r2DqfbxKWIl-8ccxty725MyiQYtmq6UXwUKQ03E_0ze8pfLrTafSZWtYbdY6A_qSyZwq-A33iw-3WYyWOBdHamdu4Zzqw5OxsfAmIoEyvtfgz6EL2CPldpwpopxWVr0Yim4Vl1_RRcfX5FJ0QXDVvv8YndVmpBNhAK9bLuUeLxLIpWwPFKdI/w300-h400/yellow.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /></b>“Leaning In” <br /><br />Life’s winds will always blow, <br />some short and gentle, <br />others gale-force and vicious! <br /><br />Yet, we must not take a break <br />during those tumultuous times. <br /><br />Rather, it is about leaning into the wind, <br />head bowed, looking up periodically <br />forging ahead, not letting it <br />blow us off course or deter us. <br /><br />Leaning into the wind fortifies us <br />to continue forward until the wind dies down, <br />perhaps dissipates for a moment of reprieve. <br /><br />At that moment, we can look at our steps, <br />realizing we have continued on our path— <br />a bit frayed, clothes tattered, hair askew, <br />feelings on the edge, but we are moving <br />forward, ever forward, still trundling on. <br /><br />Instead of being harried, disheartened, <br />we now feel refreshed, energized, <br />and renewed because we have leaned in, <br />steadied ourselves to carry on <br />into the sunshine of life, stronger, <br />poised, ready to take on another gale, <br />which will come in time.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqsGqLNXgi1w5_oNY2JD64wVdKcfSd8s-SSCvq3tlfIrYTSJkN0V80FQzrAjio5LICMbNoKyIFX2WFBoC3CNSa2QLlZLe5wT98J8sMT6xLGNlNlVds2o8kUEUQIstknBjXPozd7HZDYwI2ES5iqsKZ1OewJjNr__J4Nst2zbnApJHmjiYUIFrqBWCJgCQ/s4032/daisies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqsGqLNXgi1w5_oNY2JD64wVdKcfSd8s-SSCvq3tlfIrYTSJkN0V80FQzrAjio5LICMbNoKyIFX2WFBoC3CNSa2QLlZLe5wT98J8sMT6xLGNlNlVds2o8kUEUQIstknBjXPozd7HZDYwI2ES5iqsKZ1OewJjNr__J4Nst2zbnApJHmjiYUIFrqBWCJgCQ/w300-h400/daisies.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Darrel and Joanne Hammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05957897249232282948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7355153234213731899.post-79649639099917036312023-11-13T13:12:00.000-08:002023-11-13T13:20:10.065-08:00“The Birthing of Poems”<b>Poem of the Day, Monday, November 13, 2023</b><div><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9kfJRpR87MZRuoQXzNRaXbwV3BF2AXOi2To4RFQwLY3h9iMV3QXGF-j3eWCZSNcEit4bg_gUydQC2mVoEoB6OtqIZMMcsjE0JSmm1WPYB1CUUFgh5u78Q2NHczw9L4GOXJuFzcocYacsNt1k-z3G4QHrTpyyVml9im4eXttykQa5dJqYLrxbsbr3gOAY/s4032/Along%20the%20river.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9kfJRpR87MZRuoQXzNRaXbwV3BF2AXOi2To4RFQwLY3h9iMV3QXGF-j3eWCZSNcEit4bg_gUydQC2mVoEoB6OtqIZMMcsjE0JSmm1WPYB1CUUFgh5u78Q2NHczw9L4GOXJuFzcocYacsNt1k-z3G4QHrTpyyVml9im4eXttykQa5dJqYLrxbsbr3gOAY/s320/Along%20the%20river.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">“The Birthing of Poems”</div></b><br />Poems come to me<br />in different ways<br />and in different places.<br />Often, they just come<br />as I type on the keyboard,<br />flowing like creeks<br />and sometimes rivers<br />onto the page.<br /><br />Most, however, flop out like fish do<br />when fish hatchery trucks pull up<br />to some distant creek bank and dump<br />their fish into the water.<br /><br />The flopping makes lots of noise <br />and chaos for a few minutes <br />until the truck finishes<br />dumping its load,<div> <br />and then there is silence, <br />while the fish scatter, <br />swimming in some direction, <br />up or down the stream <br />or laying low for the moment. <br /><br />For them, it doesn’t matter. <br />They are free now <br />to go where they wish. <br />So, too, are words <br />that flop out of my mind <br /><br />onto the page, swimming <br />chaotically around, <br />trying to find a free place to rest <br />for just a moment until they find <br /><br />their direction, their spot <br />of connection to their new life. <br />Once they find the way, they swim <br />exuberantly as if they had never been <br /><br />cooped up before <br />in schools in a pond. <br />And there, suddenly, <br />onto the page emerges<br />a semblance of a poem, <br />mostly neat and pretty, <br /><br />a few of the words <br />shuffling to their preferred spots, <br />finally squeezing in tight spaces, <br />truly parallel parking at its best. <br /><br />Then, they bask in the glory <br />of their new environment, <br />knowing full well they are safe <br />and sound and looking delicious.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5gLc34A35oaT-eNBFGYdydln1kSTqyJyq3LevU0ncpRr29FZekUaaXnSAGWgdEMGLtL4EDJ-mHSZT-8Jsn_ME0ghhb-zke6uvww63WsEOztLELHvmKZwu16hgIGtHCGYRoy64FFb7F1tF-SLcLI8s-m3iIploBqWOmoJuTxHcwqcj-uyw6vpVq73ixY/s4032/the%20trail.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5gLc34A35oaT-eNBFGYdydln1kSTqyJyq3LevU0ncpRr29FZekUaaXnSAGWgdEMGLtL4EDJ-mHSZT-8Jsn_ME0ghhb-zke6uvww63WsEOztLELHvmKZwu16hgIGtHCGYRoy64FFb7F1tF-SLcLI8s-m3iIploBqWOmoJuTxHcwqcj-uyw6vpVq73ixY/w300-h400/the%20trail.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div><br /><br /></div></div>Darrel and Joanne Hammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05957897249232282948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7355153234213731899.post-65763155319545526482023-11-12T08:50:00.000-08:002023-11-12T08:50:23.833-08:00Seven Haiku for You<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Poem of the Day, Sunday, November 12, 2023</b><br /><br />"Seven Haiku for You"</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1JX_unNrobBgaq3hwPwInkAb8s9tr2YAOonWTshAp2eDvbrJaADdULDXkcGFVBKtPo0dEMXmIeFcTiyXvoxIu0kq2HnC_CzNTzXuNoNjQtkHa2PbMeTdUIuSvaRiVH6gSQT5ikeipUPtXa4xydYLU2qIU1gn8eDnCkcFEe3GGssx0BoDp7ljZJridPeI/s4032/The%20Buffalo%20Riiver.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1JX_unNrobBgaq3hwPwInkAb8s9tr2YAOonWTshAp2eDvbrJaADdULDXkcGFVBKtPo0dEMXmIeFcTiyXvoxIu0kq2HnC_CzNTzXuNoNjQtkHa2PbMeTdUIuSvaRiVH6gSQT5ikeipUPtXa4xydYLU2qIU1gn8eDnCkcFEe3GGssx0BoDp7ljZJridPeI/w300-h400/The%20Buffalo%20Riiver.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br />Water flows calmly<br />through cottonwoods and sunshine<br />whispers life to all.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcpxyYNVDMqiSjiafj7c3jPEKV7I9VbUEE8zsb6oe8FuT7-6VPowgF4wfIb2Nq84-NiVstuFp874GpbEvXADkR4ocJSP-x-dVGnlczeU-w31E6fQ9eTH_fVnD2Y5S5Wi4uuUaseHrtnUc8jazBT6ttBCLcWNIl5_RjggobN6izzlii-si-MzKihCi89rY/s4032/IMG_3119.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcpxyYNVDMqiSjiafj7c3jPEKV7I9VbUEE8zsb6oe8FuT7-6VPowgF4wfIb2Nq84-NiVstuFp874GpbEvXADkR4ocJSP-x-dVGnlczeU-w31E6fQ9eTH_fVnD2Y5S5Wi4uuUaseHrtnUc8jazBT6ttBCLcWNIl5_RjggobN6izzlii-si-MzKihCi89rY/w300-h400/IMG_3119.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br />Leaves rustle and fall<br />slowly down, down, on the ground<br />giving life to earth</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">.</span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5peQ_UTt28czRo9I-9neoITpaVfA8bsJifmSI25jFPHromE8iRIWeHjt2pq-eR7uD_iaWAGKpVTZp5Wf_AK4udrAq_mKc1o1U7k02yj67Y1aefEHIRILbFfBWloHr7rwzFla_YICDHbiH0ChBnJVW2JF_BKPve55pNDFgFqTTXOYEHVqpvSvOYPQeJF0/s4030/IMG_E1400.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2420" data-original-width="4030" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5peQ_UTt28czRo9I-9neoITpaVfA8bsJifmSI25jFPHromE8iRIWeHjt2pq-eR7uD_iaWAGKpVTZp5Wf_AK4udrAq_mKc1o1U7k02yj67Y1aefEHIRILbFfBWloHr7rwzFla_YICDHbiH0ChBnJVW2JF_BKPve55pNDFgFqTTXOYEHVqpvSvOYPQeJF0/w400-h240/IMG_E1400.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">My breath coalesces <br />perforates clouds in the sky <br />returns with water.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYpU8TcyTKXEiEI9Cuh4IVU1XKP2YEFDoYiGqoaG3nyUlvP4Bmq4uebeAcwytZpW89-1hyphenhypheniK6f5dAnOfAvy6RgmPIuDkihuLg7ApVmWeufN4oBJUEMmdchq0R8d8y-Jy1jAT1KBDKtpB5guLdedvbsUzWC9ljYLITJBbl5wYYqSJMOHeh3jW4unXWQTpo/s4032/IMG_E1111.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYpU8TcyTKXEiEI9Cuh4IVU1XKP2YEFDoYiGqoaG3nyUlvP4Bmq4uebeAcwytZpW89-1hyphenhypheniK6f5dAnOfAvy6RgmPIuDkihuLg7ApVmWeufN4oBJUEMmdchq0R8d8y-Jy1jAT1KBDKtpB5guLdedvbsUzWC9ljYLITJBbl5wYYqSJMOHeh3jW4unXWQTpo/w400-h300/IMG_E1111.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">Praying mantis clings <br />to hidden stems beneath leaves <br />perfect camouflage.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIwEFVe4STzvZcQq6dqotnwFr4e5Mq3d0_TP2LLJMqTbOFOfLnDw2gCAfibP6tcIj-aspPA5l17c6yAZ6RealcC8yIpBbyJrgrnSZp2-uxFj5QrhVQdGzxTkxvgqGvoc55sRn1YTZUvPjtEYsct70TmPH_L4HXmISD4ZBWVu7J3I6Om48BU2RetmV672E/s4032/Sunset%20south%20Provo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIwEFVe4STzvZcQq6dqotnwFr4e5Mq3d0_TP2LLJMqTbOFOfLnDw2gCAfibP6tcIj-aspPA5l17c6yAZ6RealcC8yIpBbyJrgrnSZp2-uxFj5QrhVQdGzxTkxvgqGvoc55sRn1YTZUvPjtEYsct70TmPH_L4HXmISD4ZBWVu7J3I6Om48BU2RetmV672E/w400-h300/Sunset%20south%20Provo.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>Pinks, oranges, and reds</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">create sunsets for all to see <br />for brief moments of time.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitD0nI3t0LuO3MBgQFwTbzPBMpQRI73JOyWEn2-pNdAMfulr1oHHsUJVehm6H4rXoQzM56BvR-bIpzxpYspRq0v-uYqSXe8ewPweuCxXccbx95BO-D0ykS65g6ETN_uChvMx3UrJ5JoU4RKQRTWHy0hpgBcGR7TaI5TjzoKmFrLEmpA6cdVurqCQ2CVgU/s4032/IMG_3636.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitD0nI3t0LuO3MBgQFwTbzPBMpQRI73JOyWEn2-pNdAMfulr1oHHsUJVehm6H4rXoQzM56BvR-bIpzxpYspRq0v-uYqSXe8ewPweuCxXccbx95BO-D0ykS65g6ETN_uChvMx3UrJ5JoU4RKQRTWHy0hpgBcGR7TaI5TjzoKmFrLEmpA6cdVurqCQ2CVgU/w300-h400/IMG_3636.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br />Silence in the woods <br />interrupted by the chirping <br />of living forest.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZxWnLw7JGcFxwb4-wHtxOHrEPMMCgMRAdQMMEnfRvrLE6pVlsXRpKykDGj9CrYtipO0n2Ahn71JhmDaeQaBq1B_8z9illf5ygEi22H06Z-H2rWqa9DWK2LtxVKGQ36c8gSSzEMEktcwNw1HGz8ViaNqOoCUzWvgSrsAxZnsD98Hz-CqGM6SEjOWOHz5E/s4032/Calla%20Lily.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZxWnLw7JGcFxwb4-wHtxOHrEPMMCgMRAdQMMEnfRvrLE6pVlsXRpKykDGj9CrYtipO0n2Ahn71JhmDaeQaBq1B_8z9illf5ygEi22H06Z-H2rWqa9DWK2LtxVKGQ36c8gSSzEMEktcwNw1HGz8ViaNqOoCUzWvgSrsAxZnsD98Hz-CqGM6SEjOWOHz5E/w300-h400/Calla%20Lily.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Calla lilies bloom <br />their majesty overwhelms <br />our lives forever. <br /><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div></div>Darrel and Joanne Hammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05957897249232282948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7355153234213731899.post-88470514224827648142023-11-11T10:21:00.000-08:002023-11-11T10:21:28.477-08:00“The Right of Passage of Growing Older”<span style="font-size: medium;">Poem of the Day, November 11, 2023</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGtc2754TpjK-fJHN55Ix8SdNsm3ueXkXPLLD0blLQAT75Q3R3xdv5i_8d0z5TNsxRLmYBk52fjLB82sc5RhKzlz9S3Zdzei8fCUKG-fCdBMjm2xvAoJtAsUAezulih2aLLLNGYvmzpERyIyRokTrpC2yn4uzHYyxP8n72IG0juYC_7rbTOAdPoRHpd5c/s4032/calla%20lily.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGtc2754TpjK-fJHN55Ix8SdNsm3ueXkXPLLD0blLQAT75Q3R3xdv5i_8d0z5TNsxRLmYBk52fjLB82sc5RhKzlz9S3Zdzei8fCUKG-fCdBMjm2xvAoJtAsUAezulih2aLLLNGYvmzpERyIyRokTrpC2yn4uzHYyxP8n72IG0juYC_7rbTOAdPoRHpd5c/w300-h400/calla%20lily.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">“The Right of Passage of Growing Older”</div><br />Is there some right of passage <br />when one gets older? <br />How many 20% coupons <br />can you really use? <br />Or the fact that no one <br />cards you anymore. <br />They assumed by the way you look <br />that you must be a senior citizen, <br />and give you the discount <br />without even asking you. <br />Of course, I don’t mind <br />the discounts and people willing <br />to hold open the door, <br />smiles behind your back <br />or even the kind looks <br />when they pass by like <br />they might feel sorry for you <br />since you look like their grandparents. <br /><br /></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;">My looks may be congruent <br />with how they see me, <br />passing by hurriedly, <br />eyes mostly glued <br />to the phone in their hand, <br />but my mind seems to be <br />still pretty sharp. <br />I keep up on things <br />so, I can have a decent conversation <br />I still drive with astuteness, <br />within the posted speed limit <br />and, yes, with a wee bit of caution, <br />especially at night. <br /><br /></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I do grouse and groan <br />just a tich when I see <br />these young people <br />with phones in their hands, <br />hand on the steering wheel <br />with a drink in it <br />or their heads staring down <br />at stop signs and signal lights, <br />reading what I suspect <br />are text messages <br />and then texting <br />someone back <br />about “cool emoji” <br />or some nonsensical thing <br />or whatever, <br />probably not even <br />grammatically correct <br />or with the proper punctuation <br />or using appropriate <br />upper and lower case. <br /><br />I am definitely not ready <br />to sit in the recliner, <br />flip through channels, <br />play on my phone. <br />But if there is right of passage <br />that allows a nap <br />during the middle of the day, <br />I suspect I am willing to succumb <br />to that even if I will still call it <br />my “power nap.”</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBNeXuodgisqmY9Y5yXPuqpXO5HYUW4d2690e7SIQNX-iS3vhvN_5162QINpQhMQX-Uu4GRA8WzfVbwBeyipWeW-5fyoWC9q1zF_RPLotpp-qt6lpDxmQXAtYJju0zAElKhxdhOD1R_RK9CgjBynbW1BD1ms16qbOvbh9-w60mibrM7PunLgMq2yQvldQ/s3088/Summer%202023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBNeXuodgisqmY9Y5yXPuqpXO5HYUW4d2690e7SIQNX-iS3vhvN_5162QINpQhMQX-Uu4GRA8WzfVbwBeyipWeW-5fyoWC9q1zF_RPLotpp-qt6lpDxmQXAtYJju0zAElKhxdhOD1R_RK9CgjBynbW1BD1ms16qbOvbh9-w60mibrM7PunLgMq2yQvldQ/w300-h400/Summer%202023.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><br /></div></div></div></div>Darrel and Joanne Hammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05957897249232282948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7355153234213731899.post-33172371596567319292023-11-10T15:55:00.003-08:002023-11-10T15:55:23.503-08:00“Time is a sacred thing"<b>Poem of the Day, Friday, November 10, 2023</b><div><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3RpBjJ3E5Ft4PT8mQa86QJXcqzhqcmSI7KYqphTvtUTVbdyMCSePUxcGloFFJblPiuvckZ2Jy2z0YL0eV85oKiKChvmM9DLqMmhCESuPgKIwrbfHHb_IiJ_EpsF8V6YC6tdjPCPOvzBSh-_9gWrL-vJFCsuFYqzcxT8d8acIdPYMlymY5o0vh8fvM9vo/s4032/Sunset%20along%20Washington%20Street.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3RpBjJ3E5Ft4PT8mQa86QJXcqzhqcmSI7KYqphTvtUTVbdyMCSePUxcGloFFJblPiuvckZ2Jy2z0YL0eV85oKiKChvmM9DLqMmhCESuPgKIwrbfHHb_IiJ_EpsF8V6YC6tdjPCPOvzBSh-_9gWrL-vJFCsuFYqzcxT8d8acIdPYMlymY5o0vh8fvM9vo/w400-h300/Sunset%20along%20Washington%20Street.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /></b>“Time is a sacred thing"<br /><br />Time is a sacred thing. <br />What we do with it can cause <br />us insufferable pain and much grief, <br />or great joy and never-ending happiness. <br /><br />As puppeteers of our lives, <br />we can choose our futures <br />depending on what we do <br />with our time in the present. <br /><br />Time offers us opportunities <br />to squander, embellish, <br />or to enhance our lives. <br /><br />We can be habitually late <br />or blissfully on time. <br /><br />We can fritter away our time <br />or be wise with every ticking second. <br /><br />Time can be our eternal friend <br />or our crippling foe. <br /><br />It’s up to us how we spend our time <br />like Gandalf said to Frodo: <br />“All we have to decide is what to do <br />with the time that is given us.” <br /><br />Our clock is ours and ours alone <br />to progress or retrogress!</div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6FEPyCgGMfQowTCzdcAQMYg5btwbUbwsp2vSXMsvmrXWnC2GuSZd_SLs9SbaAoNJqY_bLfosFfyU4r1I5wApv7PB-cHVwHoUkjzjnSZQ7dRdRH67I4PlQGQ2R8y6Kh_yiE6VMUrhb0rjuB1wYJ1l6C96-M81qsy-bzacb_k4DEeg_Ak_a3VNu_ir0iD8/s4032/IMG-2077.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6FEPyCgGMfQowTCzdcAQMYg5btwbUbwsp2vSXMsvmrXWnC2GuSZd_SLs9SbaAoNJqY_bLfosFfyU4r1I5wApv7PB-cHVwHoUkjzjnSZQ7dRdRH67I4PlQGQ2R8y6Kh_yiE6VMUrhb0rjuB1wYJ1l6C96-M81qsy-bzacb_k4DEeg_Ak_a3VNu_ir0iD8/w400-h300/IMG-2077.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <br /><br /> <br /><br /></div>Darrel and Joanne Hammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05957897249232282948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7355153234213731899.post-28855141573221858082023-11-09T11:51:00.000-08:002023-11-09T11:51:21.689-08:00“The Art of Life”<span style="font-size: medium;">Poem of the Day, Thursday, November 9, 2023</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpIyC53qhAC92varEQp8RLkqpuo9zuoenhhybrpud4Ps9bMlp_4S-NxDtxZ0lTyt6vAhfEPhgt2KL9FNbORW4mj0ffEesj_wQAFGv5xq9KDcmm0jac3vImahduZaw3M6XPqYfC5ZgPJ1xBwQIRMff4I432mvo4uRQVtwBGMt3iJPi_E8SO1gy6vxaDgMQ/s3888/Volcan%20Osorno%20long%20version1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1312" data-original-width="3888" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpIyC53qhAC92varEQp8RLkqpuo9zuoenhhybrpud4Ps9bMlp_4S-NxDtxZ0lTyt6vAhfEPhgt2KL9FNbORW4mj0ffEesj_wQAFGv5xq9KDcmm0jac3vImahduZaw3M6XPqYfC5ZgPJ1xBwQIRMff4I432mvo4uRQVtwBGMt3iJPi_E8SO1gy6vxaDgMQ/w400-h135/Volcan%20Osorno%20long%20version1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />“The Art of Life” <br /><br />Growing old tends to make one reflect <br />on the past, the present, <br />the upcoming future. <br />It is no wonder that people panic, <br />feel they have wasted their lives. <br /><br />When you really analyze it, <br />put pen to paper <br />or fingers to keyboard <br />and write the things, <br />even the simple ones, <br />that you are proud of, <br />see as your accomplishments, <br />or those that make you happy, <br />it will truly amaze you, <br />maybe even surprise you. <br /><br />You can assess your choices, <br />good and bad, <br />review the twists and turns <br />of your life, knowing full well <br />that many were good, <br />propelling you to do the things <br />you were supposed to, needed to. <br /><br />Granted, there are things <br />that frost us, cause some pain <br />and, perhaps, a bit of shame, <br />but those are in the past, <br />not worth dredging up <br />or opening wounds again, <br />especially if you have worked </span><div><span style="font-size: medium;">through them and have healed. <br /><br />Yet, when we think <br />of the positive things, <br />we smile, tears fall unabashedly, <br />feelings of happiness wash over us. <br /><br />At that moment, we understand <br />that our past created us, <br />allowed us to become <br />artists in the art of life, <br />creating, composing, learning, <br />absorbing, changing, and becoming <br />better, kinder, and more self-aware <br />each day, knowing <br />that our choices made us <br />who and whose we are. <br /><br />Yes, we have done well. <br />Still, there is more to come. <br />Our past will propel us <br />to the future so we can live <br />each day more selflessly. <br /></span><br /></div></div>Darrel and Joanne Hammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05957897249232282948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7355153234213731899.post-37107666501479279662023-11-08T14:32:00.002-08:002023-11-09T09:37:39.842-08:00"Chasing Sunsets"Poem of the Day, Wednesday, November 8, 2023<div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVh869gagtoXnMbpzwyegmA815OBSVpA9llqTHFpOc01hj3cuPisoky8twrFRe0RDrqrmiQOni0HneiDbd-3GU523u9LmQqY1NOppVmIqhNAZmbAFB3KWGD4zXhty5yCApRBiC1z7tWIRSFj-baoOwOSezRMgbdzPsA38WJI1LCM23mccXmdQQy8_E9xk/s4032/Sunset%204%20Wow.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVh869gagtoXnMbpzwyegmA815OBSVpA9llqTHFpOc01hj3cuPisoky8twrFRe0RDrqrmiQOni0HneiDbd-3GU523u9LmQqY1NOppVmIqhNAZmbAFB3KWGD4zXhty5yCApRBiC1z7tWIRSFj-baoOwOSezRMgbdzPsA38WJI1LCM23mccXmdQQy8_E9xk/w400-h300/Sunset%204%20Wow.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />"Chasing Sunsets"<br /><br />There is a powerful extravagance in sunsets. <br />Some linger longer, spilling deep gold, <br />orange, and black rays and spreading stunningly <br />across the western highline, stretching its exquisiteness, <br />hoping, just hoping, the earth will stop <br />for a few more seconds so they can spread <br />their resplendent colors like a giant peacock <br />with a horizon for wings, waiting for an encore. <br /><br />Other sunsets are bold for a blink of an eye, <br />and you must be there to capture <br />their beauty and magnificence. <br />Often, I sit and wait for them, <br />so they do not sneak upon me <br />like my brothers used to<br />after doing late chores in the winter. <br /><br />At dusk, the sun glides gracefully across the sky, <br />disappearing surreptitiously behind globs <br />of dark gray clouds, a few wispy white ones, <br />and then dropping precipitously, lower and lower, <br />perhaps a bit reticent, unpretentious at first. <br /><br />Yet just before it slouches behind the mountain <br />and beyond the horizon, it flashes, <br />radiant deep oranges, yellows, blacks, <br />browns, and other mixtures of radiant colors, <br />cascading across the horizon, <br />embellishing everything around it <br />and casting a view of splendor <br />on another stage on the east mountains. <br /><br />For a few brief moments, we bask <div>in its glory and momentous beauty,<div>and then, it is gone, leaving a few tailings <br />of grandeur and grandness to dally just bit <br />longer to entice us to stay each evening <br />when it will return again and shower us <br />with another majestic array of magnificence!</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR4sX-Pcq1Grj3Lr8DOIaYlO-vjQtIgyQ9SYlJbn-jOssDGBz4XTv69cqeWAvWJMwYdDwF6_j0HI9UWlfMtiwjbPlB2jYUo4YiB4lx3oN7rTUkstoKo4PgV6dDQ2JgHxkLmOvYZb_JK6BnWfCYqI2ZBwJlsTtQsr6eVmlhvqaoG-VxgcUlgwSHtjHYDWg/s6043/Cheyenne,%20Wyoming,%20from%20our%20house.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2455" data-original-width="6043" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR4sX-Pcq1Grj3Lr8DOIaYlO-vjQtIgyQ9SYlJbn-jOssDGBz4XTv69cqeWAvWJMwYdDwF6_j0HI9UWlfMtiwjbPlB2jYUo4YiB4lx3oN7rTUkstoKo4PgV6dDQ2JgHxkLmOvYZb_JK6BnWfCYqI2ZBwJlsTtQsr6eVmlhvqaoG-VxgcUlgwSHtjHYDWg/w400-h163/Cheyenne,%20Wyoming,%20from%20our%20house.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /><br /></div></div></div>Darrel and Joanne Hammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05957897249232282948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7355153234213731899.post-30013096720370578762023-11-07T09:45:00.003-08:002023-11-07T09:45:53.936-08:00“Perspective” <b>Poem of the Day, Tuesday, November 7, 2023</b><div><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_9Gg5n3SXueK73Ehj_4xnDKVgze1-OhrmGI_EhGLPskyxJsocsHn9w2uUOQxrluN-F53cpRFbu54Y9RZWDTHH3SnX3el0bvnk06YyPoSk2ouNyvN-MyRmYAUG7Zn5ka8D8RjIPq17-MQFYMh4Os32OaUGddb91RIn-z21orbZNt_iY_l97gFa7I2ZquY/s4032/IMG_3659.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_9Gg5n3SXueK73Ehj_4xnDKVgze1-OhrmGI_EhGLPskyxJsocsHn9w2uUOQxrluN-F53cpRFbu54Y9RZWDTHH3SnX3el0bvnk06YyPoSk2ouNyvN-MyRmYAUG7Zn5ka8D8RjIPq17-MQFYMh4Os32OaUGddb91RIn-z21orbZNt_iY_l97gFa7I2ZquY/w300-h400/IMG_3659.JPG" width="300" /></a></div></b><br />“Perspective” <br /><br />It’s really about perspective, <br />aligning yours, mine, his, <br />hers, theirs, ours, etc. <br /><br />My perspective is different <br />and still acceptable if you look <br />at the things I have accomplished <br />along the way in my long life. <br /><br />I grew in the country, had chores, <br />early mornings, cold days, cows, <br />chickens, pigs, horses to feed, <br />lawns to mow and snow to shovel, <br />and a father who was adamant <br />about doing chores early <br />and being on time. <br /><br /><div>He had more work for us <br />when we complained. <br />His method of discipline was old-school <br />and would not be approved today. <br />Yet, it worked for us. <br /><br />I learned much about paying attention, <br />working hard, knowing I could <br />do lots of things on my own. <br />I didn’t complain much <br />because it didn’t do any good. <br />Just plowed forward, doing, <br />improving, and doing more. <br /><br />Now, when I see others not doing <br />the same things and moaning <br />about doing simple things <br />and not having this or that <br />or playing on phones and video games, <br />wasting time like time is nothing, <br /><br />I see it from my perspective: <br />Pay attention. Be anticipatory. <br />Just do what needs to be done. <br />Quit moaning! Work. Learn. <br />Move forward! Go and do— <br />All with a dose or two <br />of kindness and compassion!</div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7cBDwW4PMoxI55mA6tr-9GIG7uXZx8ab-QmzxAwtu6vJtXpYALXDtGDe_nOMpDa2la-M3riyUjlwhC4pclMHxQQZlMNbaXuVGrAZq13hWji4vNosStCHmyjZC8FMrm3NQSCc_wSZWg5tQQPe5JVXGEwWy4qGfsxfvbVvKa78g9m9-T5l_6N9_QfOhhYc/s4032/IMG_4037.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7cBDwW4PMoxI55mA6tr-9GIG7uXZx8ab-QmzxAwtu6vJtXpYALXDtGDe_nOMpDa2la-M3riyUjlwhC4pclMHxQQZlMNbaXuVGrAZq13hWji4vNosStCHmyjZC8FMrm3NQSCc_wSZWg5tQQPe5JVXGEwWy4qGfsxfvbVvKa78g9m9-T5l_6N9_QfOhhYc/w300-h400/IMG_4037.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Darrel and Joanne Hammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05957897249232282948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7355153234213731899.post-54242102423627544262023-11-06T16:44:00.000-08:002023-11-06T16:44:41.229-08:00Lifelong Learning<b>Poem of the Day, Monday, November 6, 2023</b><div><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRf6Ufj1YE9m5w21CLAGM3J1iOdeFBUhCE_0HdsqmIvcMXmh2il-XXzUfw-8zT7UkhLOaXaD52hffVT0rqKzOn1XxH5EWppf1yxfIN75W4QPSq9m8J8C2UwJB_K43I-_spaQOgQb4zrOmQo9Tccttyz_RaemHftVix-GCz9ILasFAvckAhzT1GtLdtbWA/s3292/Freedom%20Trail.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3292" data-original-width="2321" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRf6Ufj1YE9m5w21CLAGM3J1iOdeFBUhCE_0HdsqmIvcMXmh2il-XXzUfw-8zT7UkhLOaXaD52hffVT0rqKzOn1XxH5EWppf1yxfIN75W4QPSq9m8J8C2UwJB_K43I-_spaQOgQb4zrOmQo9Tccttyz_RaemHftVix-GCz9ILasFAvckAhzT1GtLdtbWA/w283-h400/Freedom%20Trail.JPG" width="283" /></a></div><br /></b><div>"Lifelong Learning"<br /><br />I have discovered along the way <br />that life is all about learning, <br />not just schoolbooks, degrees, <br />parchment, and such. <br />It’s really about learning to learn, <br /><br />learning how to change, <br />and then changing what we should have <br />learned and learn just a bit more. <br />For some, learning stops <br />at the end of college, <br /><br />those fateful days <br />in May or December <br />or whenever someone hands you <br />a diploma or certificate, <br />when you line up in caps and gowns, <br /><br />wait our turn for our three seconds <br />on podium and then off we go <br />into a world we really know little about. <br />In actuality, if you take notes, <br />it’s just the beginning <br /><br />of real learning, real practice, <br />real time, and real application. <br />Lifelong learning enhances us, provides us <br />with methods to see more clearly <br />and profoundly and a way <br /><br />to elevate our own being <br />in so many innovative situations. <br />It includes a sense of achievement <br />of knowing you really can learn more <br />than you can ever imagine. <br /><br />Life is all about learning things. <br />Knowledge oozes out of every corner <br />and crack in our lives during good <br />and challenging times. <br />Often it just seeps by us, ready for us <br /><br />to just reach out and grab some, <br />or hangs from luscious baskets <br />within our reach, <br />but often we do not take advantage <br />of the proliferation of learning new things. <br /><br />Perhaps, now is the time to begin <br />anew, sense the newness around us— <br />in the air, on the street, at our job, <br />at church, and within our families. <br />Learning is an investment, <br /><br /></div><div>yielding high benefits and interest <br />and no recession ever. <br />Invest now and often <br />and keep your bank account growing. <br />Every. Single. Day.</div></div>Darrel and Joanne Hammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05957897249232282948noreply@blogger.com0