~

verse 1
in the town of Chateau Thierry,
along the banks of the Marne,
just up the road from Paris,
a’ fore it meets the Seine;
’twas here our soldiers fought
in nineteen-seventeen;
'twas here they took the Kaiser,
in the trenches, rain and mud.
the Great War, then they called it,
here the river ran with blood;
with bayonet and shovel,
here an Allied victory made;
to halt the enemy’s advancement,
here too many made their grave.

instrument of bow and strings,
in composition history sings.
if, one-day strings could talk like men,
if, we could sing like violin!
stories told will ne’er grow old,
tales of courage that build the soul,
of standing tall and shouldering on,
to play an orchestrated song.
all you archers raise your strings,
draw your bows despite the dark,
soldiers of a genteel king,
wield your power to strike the heart.

verse 2
near the town of Chateau Thierry
in a convent, St Joseph by name
a violin by Francois Barzoni,
a resident luthier by trade.
prized possession of the Sisters,
they tuned well it's strings.
their convent walls withstood the bombs,
though leaving here their mark;
defaced but not destroyed,
and so with grateful hearts,
the Sisters of St Joseph,
for brick and mortar trade,
gathered up their treasures
their convent to remake.

instrument of bow and strings,
with composure history sings.
if, only strings could talk like men,
if, we could sing like violin;
stories told will ne’er grow old,
tales of hope that build the soul,
of standing tall and shouldering on,
to play an orchestrated song.
all you archers raise your strings,
draw your bows to light the dark,
soldiers of a genteel king,
wield your power; rebuild the heart.

verse 3
from the town of Chateau Thierry,
they advertised their local gem,
“wanted: no strings attached;
no saint expected, no requiem.
just two hands to cherish,
and a patron of our instrument.”
this their prayer, “oh Lord, one wish,
may our search meet no resistance.
may we find a young apprentice,
please reward our long persistence.”
and so they found their debutant;
prayer answered in Saint Louis.
a boy who understood its voice,
with their strings again make music.

instrument of bow and strings,
of your journey history sings.
if, only strings could talk like men,
if, we could sing like violin;
stories told will ne’er grow old,
tales of old they build the soul,
of standing tall and shouldering on,
to play an orchestrated song.
all you archers raise your strings,
draw your bows and find your mark,
soldiers of a genteel king,
wield your power to soothe the heart.

verse 4
near the town of Chateau Thierry,
along the banks of the Marne;
ply this channel of the masters,
play us a river, Lowell Meyer;
once a boy, become grand-father,
then a treasure to receive;
heirloom placed within your trust,
your prize possession to bequeath
to yet another debutant,
its strings to pluck and bow to draw.
he a master of persistence,
who with practice met resistance;
yesterday’s grandson, beloved progeny;
tomorrow’s hope, an admired prodigy.

instrument of bow and strings,
with clarity your voice still sings.
if, only strings could talk like men,
if, we could sing like violin;
stories told will ne’er grow old,
for these are tales that build the soul,
of standing tall and shouldering on,
to play an orchestrated song.
all you archers raise your strings,
draw your bows and make your mark,
soldiers of a genteel king,
wield your power to touch the heart.

~

post script.

A violin…  an instrument of hollowed wooded frame, strung with five strings made of gut, played by the drawing of a bow of hair crosswise over strings tuned in perfect fifths; an instrument of song with uniquely, beautiful voice.  Whether played as a violin with symphonic overture in a seventy-piece orchestra in Carnegie Hall, or as a fiddle in a four-piece southern country band at a barn dance down in a Kentucky hollow, in the hands of a violinist… a master… a virtuoso… a fiddler, it becomes an hallowed instrument… of diplomacy… of peace.

When I heard the faint whisperings of story about a nephew’s instrument I pledged to learn the details of its journey.  Charlie obliged, allowing me to interview him one evening early this month.

The instrument came complete with an old typed letter from Lowell Meyer, Charlie’s maternal grandfather, whose family purchased the instrument on his behalf, from the Sisters of St. Joseph when he was yet in middle school in 1923.  An instrument in its own rite, the letter also acts as a legal document, sharing not only the violin’s European heritage and how it came to arrive in these United States, but also dictating its future journey, naming only three possibilities of conveyance.  First, while in the possession of his family, the violin is to be owned by all of Mr. Meyer’s children and their heirs rather than by any one single heir.  Second, it allows a method for its sale should an urgent financial need arise.  And third, it dictates the intent of Mr. Meyers for the violin’s return to its original owner into perpetuity, the Sisters of St. Joseph near Chateau Thierry.  Charlie scanned the letter and emailed it to me, giving me a greater sense of its history and helping to establish its authenticity.   Its making by well known French luthier Francois Barzoni, who unlike the Stradivari family made his hand-crafted instruments for the masses, its survival within the convent walls during the bombardment of the Battle of the Marne and its subsequent journey from Chateau Thierry, to Saint Louis, each detail carrying great significance. As an example of one detail among many, it did not escape the attention of this story lover, the significance of a journey from its setting on one river to a similar setting on another, from along  the banks of the Marne before it spills into the Seine, winding through the fertile rolling hills north of Paris, to the fertile banks of the Missouri at its confluence with the Mississippi in St Louis, two famous rivers, a half a world apart, each with their own folklore of simple people living a simple life, of battles fought by simple people with uncommon valor.

*This simple story of “the violin” is a story worth telling; just one facet of Charlie’s interesting heritage; one which has its own voice, and is a tale that begged to be written.

NEW YEAR INTROSPECTION PART FOUR

the air of maturity 
is breathed today
with such rarity 
that what is termed 
the age of majority, *<
is in reality not, 
it instead being 
a place of minority; 
it's occupants being 
the selfless lot who 
give freely of their proffering, 
offering themselves an offering 
and considering themselves 
adequately advantaged 
as they willingly 
position becoming likely 
to be taken advantage 
and taken for granted
hearts ready for breaking 
yet give, love, share
heal, they do, 
and freely so; 
therein standing 
in stark contrast to 
the narcissistic hoards
who protect, 
with pirouetting steps, 
their barren nests, 
empty hearts,
and meager pockets, 
ever failing to realize 
that nature’s law 
bestows abundance best 
at the selfless giver’s behest.

~

do you believe?  

hold that thought!

what you are about to take is a journey.  my telling of this journey is brief; we poets are after all not well known for our long attention spans.  this is a tale of astronomic proportions, an epic years in the making, and now centuries old.

have you ever considered this?  the starry host above us cannot lie.  its movements are as sure as the movement of the clock; as predictable as the tide, a sunset's hour and as precise as a moon-rise's geo-placement at our horizon- precisely where it will rise and at precisely what time.  it is after all  precisely the study and understanding of such things that allowed us to place mankind on the surface of the moon, to know precisely where she would be before she got there, therefore permitting us to plan the journey well ahead of time, a journey that took three days of travelling once it began...  and then returning those men home to us.  but back to our larger journey.  

such things only require an understanding of relatively simple mathematics and a knowledge of each unique planetary orbit.  the only questions remaining then, ones that require acceptance of less proveable things, is do the events of the starry host above us reflect back or point to us, to humanity? are they a fortelling of earthly events and eventuallly a coinciding with earthly events? some have trouble believing such things.  for me, it is not a leap to accept that the visibly established order above me (what we call astronomy) is simply a mirror of the order below, here surrrounding me.  but then that takes us back to the first question... do...   you...   believe?  for this part... it requires acceptance ... acceptance that some things are true, though i cannot see them.  some call this "faith," though i think "acceptance" is more relateable, and therefore a far better word.

if i have not lost you yet, thank you for reading this far!! please continue the journey.

like me, have you ever wondered... what is (or what was) the Bethlehem Star?  according to some who research historically astronomic events, the “Bethlehem Star” was no star at all.  but more on that after the poem... for is that not the purpose of these walls?  

below is a poem birthed out of their research... the poem mine, the research compiled by smarter folks than i.

Virgo's child

~

oh, planetary royalty,
and mother of the sky,
your celestial stage of six,
a ballad echoing our hopeful cry;
pirouette the stars amidst,
sets a course for rising king,
closer with each night's descent,
hope, your brilliant union brings.
conjunctive encore heaven sent,
today our song in advent sings!

oh, wise men of the east,
following a westward star,
the king you sought
you found because,
discontent you were,
to be a distant onlooker
from your home afar.

hallelujahs here composing,
with stunning care the stars portending,
in universal magnitude,
oh fallen man your dirge is ending.
in retrograding motion,
encircled thrice your halo spun,
Virgo’s child in coronation,
the starry night foretells,
and with splendid sky’s array
the joyful birth of king pronounces

oh, wise men of the east,
following a beckoning star,
bearing gifts you came,
and on bended knee
you offered praise, for
empty-handed for a king,
is no fitting offering.

look to the sky, you men of earth;
behold your king in humble birth!
a stable for his sleeping head,
here rocks a mother’s babe;
what Adam lost, in him restored,
oh, Virgo’s child, and living Lord.

~

*post script.

~ Cast~
the six acclaimed celestial actors/actresses of this starry dance

Role ° Played By ° ​Meaning/Symbol

Moon ° ​the Moon ° life cycle symbolism
Star ° ​Regulus​ ° ​King of stars (regal king)
Planet 1​ ° ​Jupiter ° ​King of planets
Planet 2 ° ​Venus ° ​Mother of planets
Constellation 1​ ° ​Leo ° ​the Lion (heavenly kingship and tribal significance)
Constellation 2 ° ​Virgo ° ​the ****** (maidenly and earthly significance)

the basis for this write can be found here...
add: http://www.
to: bethlehemstar.com/setting-the-stage/what-was-the-star/

in summary --
whatever it was, the Star of Bethlehem needs meet nine qualifications to plausibly satisfy what is written in the Biblical accounts:
1. The first conjunction signified birth by its association to the day with Virgo “birthing” the new moon. Some might argue that the unusual triple conjunction by itself could be taken to indicate a new king.
2. The Planet of King’s coronation of the Star of Kings signified kingship.
3. The triple conjunction began with the Jewish New Year and took place within Leo, showing a connection with the Jewish tribe of Judah (and prophecies of the Jewish Messiah).
4. Jupiter rises in the east.
5. The conjunctions appeared at precise, identifiable times.
6. Herod, puppet King under Roman rule, was unaware of these things; they were astronomical events which had significance only when explained by experts.
7. The events took place over a span of time sufficient for the Magi to see them both from the East and upon their arrival in Jerusalem.
8. Jupiter was ahead of the Magi as they traveled south from Jerusalem to Bethlehem.
9. Jupiter “stops” as it enters retrograde motion “over Bethlehem.”  On December 25 of 2 BC it enters retrograde and reaches full stop in its travel through the fixed stars. The Magi viewing from Jerusalem would have seen it “stopped” in the sky above the town of Bethlehem.

according to astronomical research of historical events, the “Bethlehem Star” is, at least by this explanation, no star at all, but was instead Jupiter’s rendezvous (planetary conjunction) with Venus in 2 BC.  this is a tale of two planets normally radiant and distinguishable forming a single-looking, indistinguishable, and never-before-in -their-life-time-appearing large and radiantly brilliant “star”, which when coupled with each of the previous eight facets creates a most noteworthy series of events, all of which match words written centuries previous, and pointed their gaze to a pivotal and altering point in mankind’s history.  

now back to the beginning question...  do...  you...  believe?

(publication of this write is intended to coincide with the first of the four Sundays of Advent, 2015.  tis the season for Merry Christmas, my friends!)

Everyone’s peddling something, she complains...
And I a bicycle for two, I reply.
You’re so short-sighted, she retorts...
But I may have missed you were I not, I say.
You’re too happy-go-lucky, she quips...
But I think I’m lucky-to-be-happy, I grin back.
You poets are so unrealistic, she says...  
On the contrary, love, we breath life into realism. 
You’ve got your head in the clouds, honey...
But I was just looking for you, my angel.

~

fowl flock to a gathering,
exactly why? no one knows.
an unkindness of ravens,
a ****** of crows;
a siege of blue heron,
gather geese in a horde;
seem to come in their sadness,
but stay for the show.
see swan sail in wedges,
jay scoff in their scold;
assembly, their strength,
nom de plume from of old.

ask me why do they gather?
could it be they’re unhappy?
might we also feel slighted,
a disservice agreed;
if our strength were declared
our insufficiency?
why do finches and
hummingbirds meet in a charm?
penguins, get to huddle,
and in happiness, those larks?

the cranes come in dances,
in company those parrots;
to parliaments owls,
in wisdom who-hoo-ing;
flamingoes to stand,
for an eagle’s convocation?
no, a nye’s not unpleasant,
for a pheasant you see;
and benign is a bevy,
quail flush neath a tree.

but, ’tis a bit scary,
lurking turkey in gangs,
hawk’s shadowy cast;
and warblers in confusion,
with buzzards in wake;
a wisp full of snipe,
whisp’ring, “good night”;
yet glorious are pelicans,
a squadron in flight;

and nothing so stirring, as
a starling’s constellation,
while an asylum’s
assembly for loons,
and a quarrel of sparrows,
are entirely drowned out,
by a drumming of peckers,
the wood kind, that is!

while sticks and stones,
may break all one’s bones;
those labels and words, do
leave a sting and a hurt;
all human, one race,
can unkindness defer,
diffusing by choosing,
our union assert!
but slinging maligning,
and kicking of dirt,
by abusers and losers,
let's leave for the birds!

~

*post script.

numerous fellow poets far more skilled than i, have posted a variety of well-written pieces using fowl flocking terminology. this is intended to be an assembly of the sometimes-silly, often-absurd and mostly-always-humorous assignments of those flocking terms, used in an imagined treatise about the hurtful labels we humans use to judge one another; labels that vilify, rather than unify.  for would not a battle that hasn’t any "winner" be far better fought hand-in-hand, than hand-to-hand?

terms for flocking fowl in order of use
(a few fowl have two flocking terms, and some flocking terms are claimed by two fowls)

an unkindness (ravens)
a ****** (crows)
a siege (herons)
a horde (geese)
a wedge (swans)
a scold (jays)
a charm (hummingbird, finches)
a huddle (penguins)
a happiness (larks)
a dance (cranes)
a company (parrots)
a parliament (owls)
a stand (flamingos)
a convocation (eagles)
a nye (pheasants)
a bevy (quail)
a flush (also quail)
a cast (hawks)
a gang (turkeys)
a wisp (snipes)
a squadron (pelicans)
a confusion (warblers)
a wake (buzzards)
an asylum (loons)
a constellation (starlings)
a quarrel (sparrows)
a drumming (woodpeckers)

oh yes, there are many more.  i'd love to see your favorite(s) left in the comments.
Steve (:

~

i have never particularly cared for him or for his style of play.  there is a fine line between knowledge of one’s talents and arrogance and i have always thought Kobe walked on the downhill side of that line, when doing so was unnecessary.  of course it did not help that a Lakers / Blazers rivalry cost the Blazers at least one NBA Finals berth… most of us are, after all, most likely to gravitate toward our hometown team.  

but on seeing this post from Kobe in the Player’s Tribune, i found that i simply must acknowledge the classiness of his retirement penning...

instead of a letter, the guy writes a poem.  how can i not embrace this?

~

BY KOBE BRYANT
LOS ANGELES LAKERS

Dear Basketball,

From the moment
I started rolling my dad’s tube socks
And shooting imaginary
Game-winning shots
In the Great Western Forum
I knew one thing was real:

I fell in love with you.
A love so deep I gave you my all —
From my mind & body
To my spirit & soul.

As a six-year-old boy
Deeply in love with you
I never saw the end of the tunnel.
I only saw myself
Running out of one.

And so I ran.
I ran up and down every court
After every loose ball for you.
You asked for my hustle
I gave you my heart
Because it came with so much more.

I played through the sweat and hurt
Not because challenge called me
But because YOU called me.
I did everything for YOU
Because that’s what you do
When someone makes you feel as
Alive as you’ve made me feel.

You gave a six-year-old boy his Laker dream
And I’ll always love you for it.
But I can’t love you obsessively for much longer.
This season is all I have left to give.
My heart can take the pounding
My mind can handle the grind
But my body knows it’s time to say goodbye.

And that’s OK.
I’m ready to let you go.
I want you to know now
So we both can savor every moment we have left together.
The good and the bad.
We have given each other
All that we have.

And we both know, no matter what I do next
I’ll always be that kid
With the rolled up socks
Garbage can in the corner
:05 seconds on the clock
Ball in my hands.
5 … 4 … 3 … 2 … 1

Love you always,
Kobe

oh, san juans, your riches beckon
your wealth, your beauty calls
your waveless, salty waters blue
my heart since childhood draws
your waters lap at darkened rock
'round islands, bays and inlets fill
with returning salmon teeming
your breaking waters thrill
your tide, oh ever river changing
charges muddy oyster flats
your thriving pods of orca leap
o'er spray in mid-air acrobats
from seabed swift, cold and deep 
the lushness of your green hills rise 
your sun falls fleet like shooting star
your sparkling waters mesmerize
sailing craft from ’neath horizon
angels spread their wings of color
skirt your shoals and ply your straits
find safety anchored in your harbors 
oh, san juans, your wonder waits
your treasure and your magic calls
your waveless, crystal waters blue
my heart since youth still draws
calls me to return each year
to dip my paddle deep
when life averts the journey there
in dreams you beckon while i sleep

(April’s full moon)

~

her beauty always
catches me unprepared
her reflection is
a poet’s muse
and as so oft before
tonight again, i pause
and wonder long...
"who else, my love,
is watching you?"

~

post script.

along with watching April’s moon grow full these last few nights, Sally’s poem is tonight my muse. thank you, dear sister, and friend!
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1922140/one-full-moon-night/

**“Full Pink Moon – April This name came from the herb moss pink, or wild ground phlox, which is one of the earliest widespread flowers of the spring.”

Beside His still waters,
He leads me I'm told,
From mountains of triumph,
To valleys below.

Yet each river I walk,
Cool waters so sweet,
Flows to an ocean,
Churning and deep.

It's mouth opens wide,
Like a traitorous friend,
Emotions poured out,
It feels like the end.

Fresh swallowed by salty,
As in life so endured;
Anguish consuming,
Joy flooded by tears.

Yet through my distress,
In lesson replete, for
There’s growth at the mingling,
Of bitter and sweet.

His sunshine and rain,
My weakness unseats.
His springtime and harvest,
His plan He completes.

And its here that I realize,
There’s no end to His will;
For whether ocean or river,
They are His waters, still.

~ 

i stand before this kneeling bench,
no sanctuary of our making;
its walls here open thrown,
on stained glass windows found
strewn upon the sand,
its tide-washed, polished glass,
my feet find holy ground;
my sandals left at driftwood door.
incense burns upon the wind,
its salty spray is mingled,
with my own upon
these joy-stained cheeks.
the worshippers that went before
have built a temple out of wood,
hewn, untouched by human hand,
a steeple to the sky is lifted,
and within its shelter,
remnants of a ring of fire,
smoke once lifted to the
heavens by believers true;
this church i see through salted eyes,
this scape awash in teeming life,
here i drink this living wine;
its ebb, its rush, its living in
each moment without need,
to connect each dot, or even speak.

i long to live at razor's edge,
where sands and tides collide;
the rocky shoals where dungeness,
find sustenance and shelter;
the coves where seabirds feed their young,
above the sandstone cliffs;
the bar beneath a setting sun,
in flames awash in waves;
find comfort ‘neath
the storm-shaped pine,
feel longing in the stinging air.
these cheeks that weep,
though want of tears,
not in sorrow mind you,
but in joy of freedom,
the lure of siren alter call;
of a close horizon on a misty morn,
the haunting breath of orca,
just beyond my sight;
the bark of ocean’s lion,
the roar of distant waves;
with these my prayers i send,
as i offer this my praise;
this church of no man’s making,
here i come for cleansing,
to breathe the life that i am given!

~

*post script.

by nature we are spiritual creatures;
spiritual... not religious.  reading your
sea-scaped prose inspires me; planning
changes in my own life even more so!!
it is said that we return to what we know
best... the ocean calls...

Re-written today... dusted off and delivered, to our beautiful friends, the Chambers...

Ron, Nathan, Ian, Jill...

We know... you can't see us... but you are not forgotten!!  The Reimers remember... we are here... with you in this room, now... as is your Margie!!  

___________

remember her with us, as you read and hear these words.  it is good to remember... to never forgot... a cycle of life, brought full circle, best in remembrance.  and this makes remembering perhaps the most important facet that defines, sets us apart as humans, best captured in this thought, "in forgetting the past we cease to be and bring hope forward for the future. and so we remember... for we must never forget!” this is why we line our shelves, our walls with them, and visit inscribed stones behind fences.   you are not forgotten, Margie Chambers!

~

posted first in the Christmas season of 2014,  the original post script remains and speaks of my original motivation in writing this, but events this year prompt my re-post, if nothing but as a reminder to all of us to look beneath the surface with intentionality and to see the pain that many walk in daily.  though they will shield it from uncaring eyes, they are likely to let in those who show they truly care.  and is not this, the truest, the finest, the greatest of Christmas gifts we could give such a one?

~

it is a storm approaching,
not the tempestuous kind;
of driving rain or whirling wind,
but a storm all the same;
a mingling of sorts,
a marriage that blends,
my joy with my tears;
my hopes and my fears,
of life and of death,
of all that has come,
with what has not yet;
where photos and albums,
and letters and cards;
are all we can touch,
of what has gone by.
 
yet there's a tree to light,
there are gifts to wrap,
there are cards to send
to loved ones dear;
while the hug that we wish,
the one we most want,
it's the one we can't give,
caught... in its grip;
this our loss has us,
ties us in knots.
for memories and laughter,
their kindest words,
and shouts of joy;
these are fading away,
and yet... are all that remain.
uninvited to the table,
these call in the park,
at Sunday Mass
and the post office,
but especially the back porch,
when it is quiet after dark.
these join us at parties,
where thoughts of our missing,
join the gay, happy greetings;
and on Christmas morn,
when gifts lie unopened;
their chair empty still,
at dinner... a space,
no one ever will fill;
in their place is a candle,
a scent we know well,
a light we'll not crush;
it's the closest we'll get,
to their presence we so miss.

the storm on the inside,
one that no one else sees;
as they stroll down the street,
as they shop merrily;
our hearts beat... quietly,
inside we are breaking,
this storm threatens to drown;
but no one will save us,
because no one's around;
who ever would notice,
or  knows how to care?
its the cry of our heart
that no one can hear.
our tears brushed aside,
hoping no one can see;
this storm it is raging,
raging wildly in me.

i looked for a card,
my thoughts to express,
but the cards in the store
say nothing like this,
no words such as "weeping",
or "anguish" are found;
no topics like "lonely" or "angry",
in the Christmas card aisle.
so just how to reconcile,
my juxtaposition?
how can I quell,
this sense of foreboding
that i know all too well?
truth is...  i cannot!
i must go through
with this marriage.
and pray that some day,
soon... i can hope,
that i will awaken,
to see sunshine again;
and consider these memories,
not nightmares, but friends.

~

post script.
"blessed are those who morn, for they shall be comforted"  Matthew 5:4

*these are so many among us who mourn, in particular at what are otherwise joyous occasions.  for these ones, Christmas only adds to the acuteness of their pain.  for them, Christmas is a storm they know is coming, a time when they must prepare for, battening down the hatches of their soul, so they are assured their grief does not leak out on the joy of everyone around.  my advice for us all- know who walks near you well enough to reach out to them, give them a shoulder to weep on, share your tears with theirs. assure them you have not forgotten.  repeat the name of their loved one, a name they long to hear others speak.  for most of us, this name is one you cannot say too often. speak in the present tense of their loved one for they are not lost, they are still present and very much a part of the grieving one's life.  as just one of many examples, remember... a mother who has lost her only child is still a mother.  it is a title that she still bears, coming with all the burden, yet without any future benefit, these having been stripped away. love her, hold her, be shelter for her heart in the coming Christmas storm.

He, miles from home is tired and alone, his body worn and ravaged by cancer. This treatment, though over but a moment too late, he arrives at the station as the last bus home rolls out of sight.

The next not till morning, his body fatiguing, his weary head needs a resting place. But like the story of old, he’s turned away; to this disfigured soul seems there’s no more room at the inn this night.

A border house owner, on her front porch she finds him, begging for a place to rest his soul. “I don’t need a bed, I’ll just sit here instead. With a face like mine marred," he said, "I know I create quite a fright."

But with compassion compelling, she finds herself telling him, “Sir, be of good cheer, please stay with me here. I’ll give you a bed for your weary head; yes, here you’ll be safe until morning light.”  

Said he, “Don’t know where to begin, but my condition of skin, gives others chagrin. Please, don’t think me rude, but I won’t need any food; just a small safe corner I would prefer, for in the morn I’ll be travelin’ home."

Later that evening, they talk for a spell. Her respect for him growing, as to his tell she sits listening; finds herself knowing that deep in this heart runs a pure river flowing, a body so frail, his heart has outgrown.

Home, is a daughter, with five hungry mouths; her husband disabled, unable to walk. He their provider with a fisherman’s rod, his own condition an afterthought. No word of complaint, only thankful instead, making her grateful to have heard his tome.  

Sure as promised, next morning she finds him, sheets neatly folded there on his bed.  As he is leaving she hears him asking,”Ma’am, may I return to this room?  While others reject me, you’re willing to accept me; last night left me grateful I wasn’t alone.”  

And return he did, with accompaniment of fish and oysters shelled fresh as his gift.  As his kindness she pondered she couldn’t but wonder at the hour of his awakening, for with shelling and travel, it left precious little for sleep.

Months they passed by and his visits continued and even when absent his thanks persisted, by parcel his gift from the sea would arrive, wrapped in spinach or kale, then packaged and mailed, each one showing his gratitude deep.

“Did you board that man with awful appearance?” a neighbor’s voice broke through her daydreams one day. Truth rose up inside, she had nothing to hide as she answered. “Any losses I suffered are smaller than gains, for lessons like these don’t come cheap.”

“See… these Mums that today bloom in my garden were once merely seeds, easily forgotten. But planted and watered they grew, in an old dented pail most would've discarded. But once strong and grown tall, I gently transplanted them allowing their beauty to beam.”

And here she reflected on thoughts that were tumbling, she found herself grateful for this enlightening: a lesson here offered, one others had missed, this remarkable teacher others dismissed; one teacher uncommon gave her life lessons, these three...

*1. Don’t judge a book by its cover, or silence the teacher before the lesson begins. 2. Let gratitude flow as an unending response. 3. Our Father often places His best seed, in an old dented pail where it grows in test; then gently is lifted to bloom in His garden, its legacy gleaming for all here to see.

(A message to you
Inspired by the THR Family)

You came to us sick, frightened, confused
What happened next became international news.
We saw you so ill, with everything to lose
Our goal was to help you because that’s what we do.
Alone in a dark ICU room
We fought for your life, our team and you.
We cared for you kindly
No matter our fear
You thanked us each time that we came near.
As each day pressed on, you fought so hard
To beat the virus that dealt every card.
No matter how sick or contagious you were
We held your hand, wiped your tears, and continued our care.
Your family was close, but only in spirit
They couldn't come in; we just couldn't risk it.
Then the day came we saw you in there
We wiped tears from your eyes,
knowing the end was drawing near.
Then it was time, but we never gave up
Until the good lord told us he had taken you up.
Our dear Mr. Duncan, the man that we knew
Though you lost the fight, we never gave up on you.
All of us here; at Presby and beyond
Lift our hats off to you, now that you’re gone.
You touched us in ways that no one will know
We thank you kind sir for this chance to grow.
May you find peace in heaven above
And know that we cared with nothing but love.



~  postscript.

this poem is not mine; it was penned by a nurse who wishes to remain anonymous. it spoke to me of the passion with which so many, many caregivers serve, so i wanted to share it with you, and in so doing salute each of those who serve us all in the medical community.  

the following was published by ABC News on 10/20/14:

"The last nurse to leave the hospital room where Thomas Eric Duncan died has written a poem about the Ebola patient, penned during the sleepless days after Duncan's death, a source told ABC News.The Associated Press. The source provided the poem to ABC News, noting that the nurse who wrote it asked to remain anonymous. Duncan, the first person in the United States to be diagnosed with Ebola, died at the Dallas hospital on Oct. 8. Two of the nurses who cared for Duncan -- Nina Pham, 26, and Amber Vinson, 29, have been diagnosed with Ebola.(Editor's note: THR refers to Texas Health Resources, the company that owns Texas Health Presbyterian Hospital.)"

oh, rising sun on east horizon,
shine your light through purple hues;
sunbeam fingers reaching long,
spreading warmth ‘cross mountains blue.
awake, oh towering pine majestic,
for deep below your roots flows pure
crystal liquid falls in dance, 
fills each pool with nature's mirror.
this my Oregon, i call her home,
where skies of grey and winter long
chills milder souls to the bone,
yet hardy stock from which i come
know her best, still to be sung.
her rocky crags where eagles soar,
her mountain lakes, her breaking shores,
her rapid’s ripple, current strong,
her open skies and painted rocks,
from each she springs alive with flame,
floral tapestry, her fields ablaze,
here streams cascade through canyons tall,
tumbling long in waterfall,
through rock and mountain, a gorge cut deep,
a bridge to history, the gods they speak  (1
a people weary, journey long,
struggling forward they sang their song.
first the solo, small band of men
discovery's chorus, brave brethren;  (2
a choir growing, families joined, 
came for land, they stayed for joy 
by beauty smitten, they wrote her lore.  (3
today her wonder, her majesty
sings to her young, *“come, walk with me,
come ******* bounty from forests green,
from lakes, from streams, from ocean deep,
from waving fields of amber grains,
abundant yields, endure my rains.,
come sip my wines, my vineyards flow,
come drink my waters, winter’s snow,
drawn from my wells, my streams below,
my plains and valleys, my hills and dales,
i offer richness within my veil.
when journey’s burden becomes too great
find respite in my sunset’s slate,
my star-kissed skies they offer thee,
my arms, my breast, thy comfort be."

When addiction runs deep,
Like the blood in our veins,
Its impossible to kick,
Unlikely to abstain.
For we are what we love,  
And we love what we are;
It’s said that an apple, 
From its tree won't roll far.

Her parents were junkies,
Generations gone by,
So deep in her blood,
It’d be cruel to deny.
I’ve found in resistance,
I beat my head on a brick,
So no longer at odds,
I embrace life as her fix.

“Honey, can you fix this?”
She says, smiling at the sale.
At the lamp I look closely,
It stands tired and frail;
It's brass tarnished dark, 
Its wire is frayed.
In my head I say, “No," then,
“Sure babe,” someone else said.

Believing I’ve dodged one, 
I breathe a sigh of relief;
We return to our Jeep, and
Drive away down the street.
Then I glance in the mirror,
And what do I see,
It’s that LAMP in my back seat,
Staring smugly at me.

“This dresser will be cool,
In robin's-egg-blue;”
Just describing the hue,
I see her almost drool.
“Yeah, natural on top,
It's frame painted, then glazed...
You’re the best at glueing drawers!”
She adds icing with praise.

“Look, here’s a chair I found,
with pretty calico;
If you fix it's broken arm,
You’ll be my hero!
Cuz I am sure it will fetch, 
Ten times what I've paid.”
I’m a wage earner no longer,
She pays me in accolades.

That bowl with mustard yellow,
Picture frames of wood & plaster;
An old tin box, and this small broach,
A barrel chest with leather straps.
A jewelry box, 
(A lover’s locket found inside)
Each purchase she makes,
Adds satisfaction, and pride.

Her addiction runs deep,
She’s my bargain-maker;
Not a corporate girl, 
But she’s a mover and shaker.
Yes, she's my ******,
And I am her fix;
Together we’re a duo,
"Can we peak in your attic?"

In my chair as I write this,
I feel something, turn and see;
And there pinned to the cushion, 
Is a price tag poking me.
Now I’m nervous as a cat,
Wouldn’t want to fall asleep;
For fear I could wake up, 
In the back of someone else's Jeep!