This poem may not appeal to everyone. It does tell you a little of the ups and down in my own life, the religious upbringing I had, the life I lived as a youth, living mostly on my own, the return to faith in my more mature years.  If you enjoy it I am happy,  if it does some good it will make me even happier.

I DRIFTED ON LIFE’S RESTLESS SEA

I drifted on life restless sea.
Wild storms did toss me all around.
So dark it was, I could not see.
How I wished I were homeward bound.

My wayward ship pitched stem to stern.
Swells surged and heaved it side to side.
What costly lessons one must  learn.
It seemed my past I could not hide.

Like Jonah who to Tarshish fled,
I fled the God, I knew at home.
Refused all wisdom, that was said.
Would sail my ship, just on my own.

With youthful joy, I did set sail.
Enjoyed the balmy breeze and sun.
My faith I covered with a veil.
Could only think of friends and fun.

The balmy breeze soon came to end.
So did the fun and friendships too.
Mistakes, some grave, so oft I made.
Then angst, confusion,  in me grew.

I thought of times, when still a child
I sat with awe on mother’s knee.
She sang of Jesus, meek and mild,
Of  God who loved a child like  me.

I took that song. Made it my own.
What peace and joy it brought my heart.
The good my mother had so shown
From it, I thought, I’d never part.

What folly the alluring world
Imposed upon my artless mind.
Dazzling pleasures around me swirled
And made me so naively blind.

Forgetting  the good,  I had known
I thought to sail my ship alone.
My heavenly Pilot would have shown
The treacherous shoals, to me unknown.

No longer will I sail my ship alone.
An unfailing Guide, I deeply need.
My God will bring me safely home.
Humbly, to Him my will I cede.

VP         Aug. 9, 2008

In a few more days we will celebrate Father’s Day. My heart grieves for those whose only memories of their father are bitter ones.  That is not how life was meant to be. As for me, my childhood experienced the poverty of the Great Depression, the dangers of World War Two and hard labor imposed on me in the Post War years. And yet, my memories of my father are those of a kind, self sacrificing man who did his best to protect and provide for his family. My letter to him should have been written while he was still with us. Alas, it did not happen. I am convinced that he always knew  I loved him. It would have been nice if I could have told him in words, expressed in these  lines.

LETTER TO DAD

Dad, I am still your loyal son.
Though I stand not at your grave,
My love for you is  not  undone.
It will survive this temporal wave.

Your memory is engraved on my heart.
And though your soul soared to heaven,
It’s knit to mine and will not part.

‘Twas love since I  opened my infant eyes .
It grew strong as the years passed by,
And will transcend my own demise.

Though I failed in youthful indiscretions,
My love for you ne’er diminished,
Nor did your own tender affections.

Your prayers for me found their answer.
Like the prodigal son I came to my senses,
Though you cruelly had to succumb to cancer.

How is it that a good man like you
Had to endure such pain and early death?
It’s an aching mystery I can ne’er construe.

I was your first born, your only son.
I raised five sons, who bear your name.
Your name they proudly carry on.

The values you imparted I’ve made my own.
Taught them well  in my own home.
Will live by them, till I stand before God’s throne.

I  honor you  this Father’s Day.
Though earth may move and heaven  sway,
My love burns bright, will ne’er decay.
It will surpass, transcend, this man of clay.

VP             JUNE 14, 2008

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

I don’t know, how it is with you. Here at our house, people seem to be losing things, if not losing them, at least misplacing them. I attribute that to having too much stuff, too much work, being stressed and getting panicky. Wonder whether you can relate to this, or is it different at your house?

Here is a little ditty you might enjoy. At least, I hope so.

GREMLINS LIVE HERE

In this battered old house
We have seen the odd mouse.
They are not the only ones here.
There are gremlins too, I fear.

Mom, have you seen my silk tie?
I’ve looked low and up high.
Where did you put that darn thing?
Or must I do with some old string?

Son, if you looked after your own stuff
You wouldn’t bark at me with such huff.
Must I baby you even now?
You’re twenty. Pull your own plow.

Dear. I lost those glasses again.
Huh. You should put them on a chain.
I’m sure I put them on that chair.
Now they’re gone and not there.

There must be gremlins in this house
I do think the best of my son and spouse.
Some MUST take and hide their stuff.
I know their panic is no bluff.

Confession too is well in place.
Of losing things I too did taste.
Comfort is, they will appear.
When stress subsides and mind is clear.

The problem is, we collect much stuff
With room that is not quite enough.
On top of this, too little time
To work, then think of “what is mine”.

It’s best to let the gremlins work
Far better than to go berserk.
In time they’ll return the goods so lost
With amusing smile, but at no cost.

VP – April 22, 2008 All rights reserved

Retirees are a wily bunch. They can sniff out a bargain from miles away. In our town we have a fish and chips establishment where on Tuesdays you can eat all you want. My wife, a teacher, had been under stress. With the spring weather the children had become rather unruly. So I thought to treat her(of course, always calculating, with the special in mind). There were other considerations as well. Since she works and “I don’t”, I am responsible for the suppers. Treat my wife, no cooking, no dish cleanups, save the costs of a couple of pounds of fish, the few extra bucks was, in my mind, well worthwile. Now I must explain about the wrinkle.

As a senior I have become quite health conscious. If I can add a few more years to these 75 year old bones I should do it. So, I have my greens, my fruit, and the fiber ( I don’t have to explain that one). For some time I have added garlic( Oh, the stinky bulb is so good for you). Ideally I should take a couple of cloves(little ones) each day, but that would absolutely ruin a forty year marriage. So I have become accustomed to take my garlic (“just a couple more little ones) at the beginning of the week. My wife always does as if she is about to throw up .I’m not sure if she is faking but she surely doesn’t like it. I always try to reassure her that by the weeked, when she has a bit more time to be intimate that it will have worn off. It’s a small miracle that we still sleep in the same bed. However, she will turn her head to the foot of the bed. I still haven’t been able to determine whether she does that to avoid the garlic smell or to get back at me and have me smell her feet.

Well, this time I outsmarted myself. Had totally forgotten about the fish and chip outing. “What, you’ve been into the garlic again. How can you do that? We supposed to go out.” I had to think fast. “Huh. It’s just a working class joint. With the special you get all those factory and construction dudes. After a hot day their armpits smell a heck of a lot worse then my garlic.” She was quick to reply: ” If you can find an armpit that smells worse then your garlic I’ll give you five bucks.” Usually I am quick to take the up challenge, especially when somebody offers me money. But neither she nor me were quite prepared to have people lift their arms and sniff about. So, we are at a stalemate. How can we resolve the disupte?

This is what I’ll do. We need a third party. So we will lay our case before my readers. I know that each of you will give us fair judgment. If possible I still would like to win that five bucks.

We are products of our upbringing. When I grew up my parents wouldn’t even discusss that tacky subject of the birds and the bees. Sex was such a forbidden and mysterious matter. Whatever we learned later we received from the street or library books. Today some insists that even children of kindergarten age should be informed. A little early I would say. I also disagree with much of the vulgarity we see today. It cheapens the beautiful gift of sex. Where precisely the border must be drawn is a matter of dispute. Much of it depends on our own upbringing and disposition. Here is a humorous look from one who still posseses a modicum of modesty.

IMPULSIVE ACT OF SHAME

Rode my ten speed in the country,
To enjoy the day of God’s bounty.
Sunshine, flowers and honey bees,
And chirping birds among the trees.

Rode my bike over hill and dale,
Then stopped to drink some Adam’s ale.
I looked and saw a grassy knoll,
So inviting, I took a little stroll.

Was more tired than I thought at first,
Had another drink to quench my thirst.
Why not lay down for a quiet rest?
When you’re tired, that’s the best.

How heavenly, to enjoy Gods’ creation,
Especially by me, of humble station.
God’s gifts can be enjoyed by all,
If men are open to hear His call.

Threw down my hat, took off my shirt.
Pants off too, I said with some mirth.
Looked at my arms, so nicely browned.
My legs? So ghastly pale I found.

My chest? The pallor of a dead man
That too needs a darn good tan!
Finally laid down with arms stretched out,
Boy, those sunrays did have some clout.

A sudden impulse hit me fast,
The thought, “Wouldn’t that be a blast?”
Took off my shorts, threw them away,
Let mother nature have full sway.

Some enjoy full body tattoo,
For me? Such a body tan too.
No sooner said, the thought occurred.
Can’t be seen like this. Must keep alert.

The sun caressed my naked glory.
If found out, wouldn’t that make a story?
I felt such guilt, amidst such pleasure.
The sun shone on without measure.

What is that tinkling that I hear?
That sounds like cowbells drawing near.
Oh no! Cows are coming my way,
Driven by a girl as fair as day.

I panicked. My shorts I could not find.
Where did I throw them? Was I blind?
Then woke up, for what I heard,
Was the clock’s ringing on the hearth.

Couldn’t tell my wife nor a friend.
No one could possibly understand,
That a retired man of the cloth,
Had indulged in such shameful thought.

If stark naked Adam and Eve
Could walk in that Garden so free.
What changed ,that such shame I should feel,
When I, in a dream, my shorts did peel?

VP June 2, 2006- All rights reserved

Sometimes we make choices that don’t quite pan out. When this happens mature people take note, make adjustments and find that life presents many options that make living worthwhile. Unfortunately, there are other people who let a setback so hamper them that they never again recover. They will buck authority, refuse to accept wise counsel or hone their skills. Some even lose their zest for life. Many a time the pattern appears at an early age. Our hope is that it is not irretrievably so.

Here is a little fun ditty. I wrote it, not without some compassion for poor Lenny. But, life is often brutal and we all must find a way to get over our disappointments.With more maturity, Lenny might too.

LENNY AND ANNIE

Lenny very much liked school.
Then one day he began to drool
Over pretty Annie Pool.
She, didn’t think him very cool.

Annie, I like your pretty bow.
Come with me to a picture show.
Oh, this too you ought to know.
I would so much love to be your beau.

Lenny, use your foolish head.
For me, you are way too fat.
Unless you want to have a spat.
Leave things, just where they’re at.

Lenny was angry at Annie Pool.
Now, didn’t like math nor Golden Rule.
He then dropped out of school
And proved to all he was a fool.

VP – Nov. 8, 2007 All rights reserved

As reports of food riots reach our ears my heart goes out to the world poor. Shortages of grains have given rise to the doubling or tripling of food prices, which are now well beyond the reach of millions. Humanity has always had the poor in its midst. However, in times past the poor had a means of survival which they don’t have today.In earlier times many of the poor lived in rural areas where they were able to glean the fields and reap the fruits left from the main harvest. Today, mechanical harvesters pick the fields, and even orchards, totally clean. In more recent times, due to the effects of globalism, hundreds of thousands of small subsistence farmers, through debt, have been driven off the land and have joined the shanty town poor of the great metropolitan cities. These too must purchase their staple foods with their meager wages. To be poor is one thing. To be hungry is another.

Here is a poem which catches a glimpse of my own poverty stricken youth.

THOUGHTS ABOUT GLEANING

“The Gleaners” picture on our wall
Evokes events I still recall.
Of living by the sweat of brow,
Gleaning the fields with painful bow.

Millet’s painting appears idyllic;
So charmingly serene, almost angelic.
It was a painful chore, for hours to stoop
And hustle enough ,for sweat to droop.

I clearly recall the hours thus spent,
When sun grew hot and back was bent,
And hands were calloused and skin was cracked.
The thistles too had no pity. That’s a fact.

What prompts a child to do such chore?
It was a time as times before.
Poverty, fed by greed and war
Was cause to scrounge, to fill depleted store.

When famine raps on family’s door,
The children help as ne’er before.
They’ll glean with mother in the field
And wrest the last of all its yield.

From Moabite Ruth to present day
The poor have been with us to stay.
This was, is, will be, always so,
Unless the rich more generous grow.

There’s a dignity in Millet’s scene,
Found in the gleaning that is seen.
Hard and honest work, has much worth,
As does, each man, so bound to earth.

VP -March, 30, 2007 All rights reserved

Inspired by”The Gleaners” by Jean Francois Millet -1857