PASSAGE OF TIME

When a man is retired he has a bit more time to ponder upon the brevityof life and its meaning. Here is a little poem I wrote for a family friend whose mother died of cancer. Whether one believes in God or not, here is a legacy which should bring a measure of comfort to all who are bereaved.

PASSAGE OF TIME

When we are young, we feel so strong
And think that life can never end.
But as we walk and sing along
We find that much of life is spent.

Like leaves, dropped from the ancient trees,
We leave the dross of life behind,
And place our hopes in scattered seeds,
That root in earth to replace their kind.

The ancient trees will gradually die,
To slowly fall, to sink in earth.
The seeds grow up to reach the sky
To celebrate their new found birth.

Loved ones too, eventually die
As fate decides, we all must do.
Their children bless them with the tie,
That keeps their memory fresh and true.

VP Dec. 17. 2006

SPRING IS HERE

It has been a long, hard winter and spring has come none too soon. It never fails to amaze me how even a hint of spring can change the mood in people. Here is a lighthearted observation I hope you will enjoy.

WHEN SPRING IS HERE

When spring is here and grass is green
Bursting buds on trees are seen.
While songbirds sing and build their nest
Bees awake from winter’s rest.

With sunny days and balmy breeze
Hearts unfreeze and show more ease.
Folk readily smile, twitter to no end.
Prove to all, they can be content.

When billowy clouds waft their way
Children on their street will play.
Gaily laughter is overheard
So our hearts are strangely stirred.

When spring is here young men parade
While ogling girls behind dark shade.
Young women do understand that game
And dress to set desire aflame.

The spring time earth brings gardening craze
When families sow and plant for days.
With hope in heart they expect array
Of pretty flowers to display.

Springtime balm lure grannies out.
They soak up warmth . They trudge about.
They smile to all, with toothless grin
To strange alike and visiting kin.

Budding blooms on window sills
Revive lost hopes for chronic ills.
Cheery mood and a thankful heart
Help ease pain and depression part.

Spring has sprung. Nature sings its song,
Turning a page to forget all wrong.
Young and old make a joyous throng,
Where all feel good and get along.

VP -April 17, 2008 All rights reserved

TALE OF THE JILTED LOVER

The Tale of the Jilted Lover is a ballad about an event that took place in the early 1900s in the rural area of Holland, near the Belgium border. There is a Flemish rendition of this ballad that my mother used to sing to me when I was a child. Some of the details I can’t recall, but the circumstances, the motive and the subsequent calamitous conclusion are all true.

TALE OF THE JILTED LOVER

Big Josh was a bear of a man
Who earned his hire from farmer Stan.
He rose early with the morning dawn
And toiled till the day was far gone.

Josh idolized his sweetheart Suzanne.
He’d marry her. That was his plan.
She was so pretty and well endowed
That men would ogle, then were cowed.

One day, farmer Stan held a feast.
Even invited some who were least.
He said:”Josh come and bring a friend
To this very happy event.”

And Josh did come and brought Suzanne.
All took note, especially Dan.
Dan was the farmer’s only son.
His turn would come the farm to run.

Soon Josh wished he had not attended.
He even felt quite offended.
Dan had asked Suzanne for a dance
And ignored Josh, without a glance.

Their dance turned into two and more.
They drew closer as the evening wore.
Josh was about to burst his spleen,
But did not dare to make a scene.

Suzanne laid her head on Dan’s shoulder
He smooched a kiss and grew bolder.
Josh rushed into the dark of night.
“How did I get into such plight?”

“If I go back and make a scene
I’ll lose my job, and that right clean.
At first chance I’ll talk to Suzanne
And sort out this mess, if I can.”

Josh rose early with the morning dawn
And toiled till the day was far gone.
He heard from Suzanne no more.
Till a letter was brought to his door.

With quivering lips he read the script.
It was Suzanne’s. His stomach flipped.
What news was she to bring him now?
Was it good or bad? He wiped his brow.

“Dear Josh. You are such a good man.
You’d do for me the best you can.
Alas, your future looks not bright.
Your daily struggles give me fright.
Another suitor has come my way
With promise clipped to his bouquet.
I’ll be mistress of an estate.
Such destiny needs no debate.
I’ll remember you, always,
With fondness, as we part our ways.
Sorry. You deserve a better fate.
Suzanna, your long time school mate.”

“Is that what’s come down to? School mate?
We’d talked about our wedding date.
Suzanne…True love can not be bought!”
He sank down. He was that distraught.

The days went by. Despair took hold.
Then unrequited love grew cold.,
Flared again to hate, vengeance hot.
He’d kill both lovers on the spot.

He took a rusty ax from the shed.
Hid it stealthily under his bed.
At eve he honed the sharpest edge.
“I’ll do them in. That is my pledge.”

“That cheating wench deserves to die.
So does that woman-thieving guy.
My life is ruined beyond repair.
My anguish I can no longer bear.”

The time of the dreadful deed drew near.
The sky was black. Thunder struck fear.
A carriage groaned under heavy strain.
As strong winds swooped the driving rain.

The carriage traversed a country lane.
Suzanne peered through its window pane.
“Dan, this weather is getting worse.”
He slapped the reins, muttered a curse.

In the bush, drenched from head to foot
Crouched big Josh, like a spring-bent root.
The obedient steed plodded on
Until the carriage to the bush was drawn.

Swiftly Josh jumped up, took firm hold
Of the horse, swerved, the carriage rolled.
Deftly he cut the creature loose
Who ran for home without excuse.

Shrieks were heard. He uttered no word.
In he leaped, with vision blurred.
With his ax he slashed and hacked.
All grew silent. His nerves had cracked.

Word did spread. A rumpled man had fled
The scene, where much blood had been shed.
The man incoherent and deranged
Was placed in a padded cell, so arranged.

The local bard wrote a plaintive song
How a good man can still do wrong.
There is no stronger emotion
Then love lost, after so much devotion.

VP -Aug.26, 2007 All rights reserved

THE BALD MAN AND THE FLY

Sometimes it takes a half a life time to discover that most of our tiffs and fights are not worth the trouble. Most of these don’t accomplish anything. Both combatants think they are right and few are inclined to give ground. In the long run our misery far outweighs the importance of most issues. The ancients already understood this quite well. Aesop wrote his story of the Bald Man and the Fly to illustrate that point. Here is my own version which I have set to rhyme.

THE BALD MAN AND THE FLY

Morus was an ill tempered guy.
Who learned a lesson from a fly.
Though impossible that might seem
It was not inspired by a dream.

Always upset by the slightest thing
He’d even spasm when his wife did sing.
True. She couldn’t carry a tune.
Still no reason for conjugal ruin.

He would rant and rave to no end.
His wife in turn would take her stand.
He’d huff and puff like big bad wolf
As if that, would anything solve.

One day Morus again did puff.
Then stormed out of the house in a huff.
On the step he sat, all alone.
Pitied himself, fumed and groaned.

‘What’s that, buzzing around my head?
Scat, or I’ll smack. And you’ll be splat.
Nervy thing. Now you want to sting?
Smack! Ouch! That made my ears ring.

He had smacked himself on the head..
He was bald without a speck of fat.
It stung both hand and bald head.
The fly still buzzed and was not dead.

The fly enjoyed the sweaty dome
Where nothing stopped to freely roam.
Again, again, he landed there
To sting the dome that was so bare.

Furiously Morus smacked some more
Until both hand and head were sore.
He suddenly became a wiser man.
“I’m worse off than I first began.”

“ You only hurt yourself, that’s clear
When much inclined to interfere.
Dislikes are better to ignore
Then wage great battle with constant war.”

VP Feb. 15, 2008 All rights reserved
Inspired by Aesop’s Fable “The Bald Man and the Fly”

DOUBTING THOMAS

I live in the country side and, as the village peasant that I am, I am in the habit of turning my eyes to the sky to greet the early morning sun, that is, if it’s there. As others already have mentioned, these days the sky has taken on some strange hues at times. Perhaps you have noticed too. If not, make it a habit and see whether you notice someting amiss. And, of course, I’m not peddling anything (Can’t even make money here). You draw your own conclusions. I am just setting down my own observations about what I have seen, heard and read.

DOUBTING THOMAS

Thomas came for a morning chat
In the sun on the porch we sat.
We talked of old times and things new
Until our eyes to a strange sky drew.

What dudes are fouling up God’s sky?
Tracing trails as they fly up high?
Silently, stealthily, they streak
Portents of a future, growing bleak.

They’re merely contrails, my dear friend.
They’ll soon be gone. So be content.
Conspiracy of the internet
Where tall tales to you are fed.

Chem trails are tall tales you say?
Like WMDs of yesterday!!
Disproof sold as conspiracy.
A twisted lie now plain to see.

See those planes, flying overhead?
Those plumes, how they slowly spread?
Parallel streaks of eight or ten?
Then crisscrossed, like a grid, again.

That’s not your commercial overflight.
Something about that grid ain’t just right.
See how those trails together drift?
They hang together and do not lift.

The sunny sky turned to a misty haze.
The spread out trails had hid sun’s rays.
The foggy soup remained that day.
Thomas, will that sway, your preset way?

In minutes contrails vanish.
Chem trails, instead, longtime brandish.
Throughout the day they will prevail,
Causing slow death as we inhale.

In that soupy mist, some insist,
Particles exist, we can’t resist.
Aluminum, barium, bromide,
From which skin and lungs can not hide.

Are those chem trails spread, for our best?
Reductions of sunlight passed the test.
Who needs the healing sunshine’s warmth?
Not I, nor the world’s crops that mourned.

Welcome all, to our brave new world,
Where poisons float and bombs are hurled.
While fluff is shown on TV’s tube.
A deadly game is played, e’er so crude.

Where are the bright skies of my youth,
With billowy clouds? Tell the truth.
Ye are mum, ye Rulers of God’s earth!
Rule and trample, till earth yields dearth!

My friend Thomas was still confused.
He received his facts from world press news.
What he saw with his very own eyes
Was less convincing than printed lies.

VP – April 10, 2008 All right reserved

ODD FELLOW AND OLD YELLOW

Here is a little fun ditty I wrote some time ago. I laugh. You laugh. But as you will see, the odd fellow was not amused, nor was the dog.

ODD MAN AND OLD YELLOW

Once there was an odd fellow,
with a dog he called old yellow.
Old yellow could never sit still,
For the flea he just could not kill.

The flea made his home in old yellow.
It chagrined the odd old fellow.
The flea bit the poor old dog’s tail,
Giving vent to one awful dog’s wail.

The odd man was deprived of his rest,
As old yellow made search for the pest.
Old yellow gave chase to his own tail,
Running in circles to no avail.

Then the flea jumped on the dog’s head,
Driving old yellow to jump on the bed.
The odd fellow jumped on the floor,
Shouting, “I want to hear no more.”

The odd man grabbed his old slipper,
And whacked the dog on the sniffer.
Old yellow crawled under the bed.
Nothing more was heard or was said.

VP July 25, 2006 All rights reserved

CHURCHGOING HYPOCRITE

One hears it so often. The Church is full of hypocrites! That’s such a facile statement. There is nothing easier than to throw stones. Not only that. I wouldn’t want to give out a quarter for every hypocrite outside the Church. There are more than a few out there as well. I would be broke for sure.

We all can do with a little criticism. No one is perfect. But to avoid Church purely because of the hypocrites there is to misunderstand the purpose of the Church. Through the services of the Church people strive to become a better people and have a more meaningful relationship with God.

Here is my view on it.

CHURCH-GOING HYPOCRITE

Went to church this Sunday morning
As I am accustomed to do,
Not because of ought or warning
Just so good to me might accrue.

Some say, church is for hypocrites.
It’s a statement that makes me wince.
That some are so, is quite legit.
I well know. You need not convince.

I too am one, that falls far short
Of the standards the Lord has set.
Cling to my sins, fail to abort,
The habits that are so inbred.

Do not think, I am worse than you.
We’re all cut from the same old cloth.
No one’s as good, as he thinks he is.
Evil lurked among the good we sought.

Who then is the greater hypocrite?
The one who seeks to make amends?
Or he who casts the stone and will not quit,
And uses others’s weakness as defence?

The Church is not for perfect saints.
Such entered heaven with God’s speed.
It’s there for those beset with taints.
It’s a hospice for poor souls in need.

So aware of my sinful state,
I do attend the House of God,
With hope that He will clean my slate,
Assisted by the preacher’s prod.

Will you join me then, next Sunday morn?
Let’s both seek the good that is taught.
In time a new man will be born,
Which helps us live, as we truly ought.

VP           Oct. 2, 2007   All rights reserved

THE WOLF AND THE LAMB

When I read Aesop’s Fables I see a remarkable similarity in his view of humanity and what we experience today. In his fable of The Wolf and the Lamb the victim presented evidence and logic to convince the predator of her innocence. Nothing dissuaded him. His accusations were no more than a ruse for the eventual kill. Today we see similar happenings in the political arena , be it the victimization of dissidents or innocent people, merely caught in the dragnet of the Middle East wars. Helpful evidence is disallowed, logic is twisted and nothing can counter the predetermined sentence of guilt. Stalin’s mock trials of the 1930s fit the case. So may those of the tortured victims of rendition and Guantanamo Bay. I set Aesop’s fable to rhyme. Hopefully we all see the connection and understand its import for our day.

THE WOLF AND THE LAMB

Little lambkin stood at a pool,
Unaware of a world, e’er so cruel.
She liked to look at her reflection.
Alas, she was without protection.

A wolf came for a drink of water.
From afar he already saw her.
He had eaten more than enough.
A little lamb chop he still could stuff.

The wolf transfixed, looked at that lamb.
He thought it tastier than beef or ham.
Yet, to appease a nagging guilt
The scales of justice had to be tilt.

Slowly, closer to the lamb he crept
The poor thing saw him, suddenly wept.
With fear and trembling her body shook.
He thought:” She’s so tender. I need not cook.”

“Dear lambkin. I feel quite offended.
Your innocence is so pretended.
Last year you called my father a killer
Even though he is our family’s pillar.”

“No, Mr. Wolf. How can that even be?
I am two months old. At most, just three.”
“If not you, then it was your brother.
I’m so sure it wasn’t any other.”

Mr. Wolf. My brother is deaf and dumb.
A simple tune, he can’t even hum.”
“Hmm!! Yes. Now I know what it was!
You stole and ate my meat. That’s my fuss.”

“No, no. Mr. Wolf. How can that be?
I only drink milk at my mother’s knee.
I’m just a baby. Can’t you see?
I’m two months old. At most, just three.”

“Lambkin. Enough of your excuses.
It’s your thefts and lies that accuse you.
Justice demands extreme solution.
It’s swift death by execution.”

The wolf then pounced upon the lamb.
And cruelly tore her from stern to stem.
He ate her all, except her tips
And then laid down and licked his lips.

He felt smug and more than justified.
“She wouldn’t have died, had she not lied.
Her tragic fate was much deserved.
Lambkin, too bad, I was well served.”

The moral is: Any excuse will do
For those who unworthy goals pursue.
The truth gets twisted, the tables turned.
The decent soul gets taken, if not burned.

VP              March 4, 2008 -All rights reserved

Based on Aesop’s Fable “The Wolf and the Lamb”

NO MORE WARS

There is much disenchantment with the wars in the Middle East. Some of this discontent is based on miscalculated strategies, rather than with the travesty of war itself. Nonetheless, many people have become aware that the aggressions found their justification on widely publicized lies. Many more people have come to realize how horrific wars are. Both victims and perpetrators suffer, immediately and in the long term. For the conscientious person there is only one stance he should take. He must oppose wars, all wars. What war hopes to achieve can be done better through thoughtful negotiation and mutually beneficial trade and commerce. NO MORE WARS Refrain: No more wars, no more pain, no more shame. Never again will I feel the same. All around, destruction, violent change. Let good deeds, instead of evil, range. Watch those planes, high up in the sky. They swiftly to their targets fly. From thousand feet they drop their bombs Upon innocents without qualms. Screams are rent from searing pain. Search is made for the maimed and slain. Women, children ,the aged, lie there With horrific wounds and deathly stare. Soldiers break through reinforced door, Intent on settling wrathful score. Buddies, killed by a roadside bomb, Are painfully missed, but are gone. In a corner, writhing in awful pain, Lies a man in sorrow, he can’t contain. His wife and children, they are dead. Now he faces troops, with much dread. With rifle butts smashed on his head They cuss with words that can’ t be said. “Dog, who killed our men on that road? We’ll squeeze your neck, you slimy toad.” “I’m a teacher. How would I know? Let me mourn. I’ve been brought so low.” They kicked, and shot him full of lead. And felt content that he was dead. The blackened smoke trails in the sky. Symbol of death, to those drawn nigh. Burned out homes, a silent witness To dubious war’s dirty business. We’ve been baited too long by lies Camouflaged in patriot guise. Surging truth has opened our eyes. No longer will we fall for lies. Refrain No more wars. No more pain. No more shame. Never again will I feel the same. All around, destruction, violent change. Let good deeds, instead of evil, range. VP March 24, 2008 -All rights reserved

THE GREAT MEN OF EARTH

The war in the Middle East has surpassed the Second World War in time. It has become almost as devastating as well. Almost 4,000 young Americans have died. Many more have been wounded, many of these with lifelong handicaps. It has been estimated that more than a million Iraqi people also have died, among them many women and children. The cost of this war has surpassed a half a trillion dollars. The long term cost may reach 3 trillion or more. A question must be asked. In view of those tremendous losses what then is the point of waging war? It seems that profits are being made, at least by a privileged clique. For one, the military industrial complex profits. So do those who control and own the world’s natural resources. Here I have tried to put in words some of my feelings about that business of war. For some it is a business where they stand to make obscene amounts of profit.
The Great Men of Earth

O how the great men of earth,
Received their money’s worth.
Sending our sons to war,
Profiting billions more.

Our sons invading distant lands,
chasing foes across the sands.
Corpulent barons pumping oil,
Gathering all the world’s spoil,

Compliant generals plot attacks,
Raining bombs on people’s backs.
Great men rubbing hands together,
For them, there is no finer weather.

Scanning horizon far and wide,
Our sons, intent to fight with might.
Coming upon the fallen foes,
Discover innocents in death’s throes.

Sons, running, stalking through the streets,
See no more than vanished feet.
Suddenly hit by great explosion,
Leave burnt bodies, great commotion.

Sons are packed in flag-draped caskets,
Lost limbs? False ones sure to mask it.
Mother weeping: He joined in haste.
Father seething: What terrible waste.

Sons reflecting. What have we done?
What destruction! Call that fun?
What loss! What suffering! We are pained.
For all our courage, nothing gained.

Mere collateral damage done!
True democracy will be won!
Such democracy is a sham.
This fight is fought, for the earth’s great men.

Theo. J. de Koning – March 25, 2006