A ROMANTIC COUPLE

Life and Times

of a

ROMANTIC COUPLE

 

Time stood still then, in the beginning,

roses blooming and dragonflies spinning

Embracing each other in spring’s sunny beams–

enchanted moments, youthful dreams.

 

At the end of that year, I walked the aisle

and married my prince. We found our style,

joyfully living our new life as one,

joined by our daughter and son after son.

 

Life’s not all roses and fairy tales

There are sleepless nights and diaper pails,

and teaching teenage kids to drive

required much prayer—keep them alive!

 

As time went by our sons found wives,

our daughter, her man. Their new lives

take most of their time— maybe all–

we love it when they find the time to call.

 

Years marched by, yes, fifty and eight.

This I declare about my mate,

Aching back and silver hair thinning,

he’s still my prince, as in the beginning

LIFE AND TIMES OF A ROMANTIC COUPLE

Time stood still then, in the beginning,

roses blooming and dragonflies spinning

Embracing each other in spring’s sunny beams–

enchanted moments, youthful dreams.

At the end of that year, I walked the aisle

and married my prince. We found our style,

joyfully living our new life as one,

joined by our daughter and son after son.

Life’s not all roses and fairy tales

There are sleepless nights and diaper pails,

and teaching teenage kids to drive

required much prayer—keep them alive!

As time went by our sons found wives,

our daughter, her man. Their new lives

take most of their time— maybe all–

we are so happy when they call.

Years marched by, yes, fifty and seven.

The story grows older, we’re nearer to Heaven.

Aching back and silver hair thinning,

he’s still my prince, as in the beginning

The Pilgrim Way

 

In writing her last will and testament

she deeded cherished silver to her sons.

Her mother’s sewing—needlework so fine—

her daughters should receive, and would, with thanks.

Still, none of them would fully comprehend

what tales those precious heirlooms might relate

if they could speak of their long journey here.

 

When first she chose what she should pack, she hoped

those trunks would carry all her valuables.

Did she lament the things she could not take

with her aboard her ship, the Mayflower?

Or count that loss surpassed by her great gain

when four weeks hence her feet touched New World soil?

At last there she could freely worship God,

and pray without restriction or reproach.

 

“The breaking waves dashed high,” one Pilgrim wrote

about the wild New England coast. The folks

who lived to tell of ruthless seas they sailed,

then set about assembling tools and plans,

cleared trees for farms and from that wood, built homes,

and laid foundations for our liberty.

 

We are not nomads here but pilgrims too,

while on our way to New Jerusalem.

We too face heavy storms and breaking waves

before we stand at last on that bright shore.

We wonder as we contemplate our lives;

our time here on this dry and weary land

is nearly gone. Will what we leave behind

submit itself to parchment and the pen?

 

Oh, may the faith of daughters and of sons

make glad our hearts!  Our earthly riches pale

and fall away as we respond to Him

Whose presence lends us strength to persevere.

The glory we shall share when comes that day

we see true wealth stored up for us who left

our fortune in the lives of those we touched—

a legacy of gratitude and grace.

 

Elaine Soerens, 2011

Challenge was “Poem about Pilgrims.”  I chose the blank verse form.

I’ll see you on the morrow

by Keith Wallis

wordsculpture

for Patrick:

I’ll see you on the morrow
as sun bright-winking through the trees,
the smile in the glazing on the pew
where stain’glass-guided beams
alight for moments passing.

I’ll feel you in the whisper
of the breeze on summer’s days,
or the glance of something distant
through autumn’s misty haze
in the sunlight dancing.

For you are in the sun for me
your warmth and gentle glow
and ever with me on the path
wherever I may go.
And we will smile together
though for a while apart
for you are more than memory
you are in my heart.

And I’ll see you on the morrow
when we join hands again
in that land of constant singing
free of shackle, free of pain.
I’ll see you on the morrow
in the chorus by the throne;
loved and lovely, praising,
the King that we have known.

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MUSIC TO HIS EARS

A lyric poem about nature

Trees in the forest, clapping their hands,

birds scratching notes in sea coastal sands,

fig trees and fir trees, oaks and mulberries,

things on the wing and moths like pink fairies,

primroses, daisies and sassy bluebonnets

wave in the breezes while ladies write sonnets.

Creation and creatures in concert to sing

“Praise the Creator of every good thing!”

GRAMMA’S SACRED ROOM

Up the stairs, smell apples and pears,

Gramma’s in the barn now, so who cares?

I’ll scamper on up and check it out–

What is her gloomy room all about?

Missionaries are coming here to stay

And that doesn’t happen just every day.

So the shadowed room has been made clean

Any footprints I leave will not be seen.

My Gramma’s been busy and so the dust

is swept away and I know I must

be very careful not to leave

a trace of me or she won’t believe

I’ve been in the kitchen peeling spuds

and washing dishes in lots of suds.

I see as I peer through the low keyhole

on the washstand there, a pitcher and bowl.

Gramma’s gone now thirty years.

The bowl is fine, but I see through tears

the pitcher’s cheeks resemble mine,

blemished with hairline cracks–a sign

we’re beyond repair, we’ll never again

know an innocent time back when

the worst thing could happen when Gramma came back

and rewarded rebellion with a resolute smack

to the place on my person where it did the most good.

I promised her then that I never would

without permission go tripping upstairs

to the room scented of apples and pears.

How I cherish the pitcher and bowl!

They satisfy something deep in my soul

And always remind me of Gramma.

APRIL FOOLS

Raindrops drip-dropping,

Easter hat shopping,

skunks gone all sappy

and really quite stinky

chasing their mates

across dark country roads.

Rabbits hip-hopping,

fuzzy and jumpy,

intent on increasing,

living up to their fame.

Boys think they’re charming

polished and gracious,

their intentions so obvious,

yet girls seem oblivious

for Spring has come

making fools of us all.

CRIMSON LEAVES

 A kind of aching sadness reaches me

while watching as our sugar maple tree,

her crimson leaves like bitter, falling tears,

grows bare-limbed, stark—as in her former years.

In the autumn of my life, may I stay bright

until I turn to gray and fade from sight.

For I discern what falling leaves can’t know:

When finally I fall I will not go

to merely dust and ashes. I will rise

to Him who made the trees, the earth and skies.

For He who suffers not a sparrow’s fall,

remembers me and hears me when I call.

I’ll rise to new life trees have never seen,

and never fade again–forever green.

 

The Setting Moon

I saw the moon set this morning,

golden matron of night hours.

She slipped behind distant roofs

soundlessly, or so it seemed.

Did she know we were watching

with wonder?

We had seen her do her vanishing

act before, but only on water,

with a clear horizon,

when it seemed the ocean

swallowed her in one silent gulp.

I think she stayed up late today

just for me.

The One whose hand

moves her through the night

knows I need to turn

and face the rising sun.

A Single Word

Most of the time I am really quite holy

and wholly committed to live in Christ.

Then there are days when a stray word,

like a spark hitting dry prairie

starts a fire of introspection

and wishing maybe some of the reward

wouldn’t have to wait.

So I gave myself a pity party.

No one else attended.