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Copyright ©1945 Esther Kem Thomas. Electronic version copyright ©1999 by Ron Morris. All Rights Reserved."By the Way''
By Esther Kem ThomasVolume II
Published by the Old Swimmin' Hole Press
Greenfield, Indiana
I wish I knew
What I might do
To best please you, and you....
To make you smile a little while,
Or ease the burden of a heart that's sad,
Or have you say,
"I've felt that way!''...
Then, I'd be glad.Copyright, 1945
By Esther Kem Thomas"You're Looking--Well!''To My Dad
His MemorySelect a Job, And Do It
When tasks seem mountainous to you,
Somehow accumulated,
Don't think, "I've got too much to do,''
And sit down, aggravated,
For sitting down gets nothing done--
Each hour adds more to it;
Select a job--the one foremost--
Select that job, and do it!Why, it's surprising bow your work
Begins to whittle down;
How shoulders braced for action
Smooth the wrinkles from a frown;
And finished work is stimulus--
Good proof there's nothing to it:
Select a job--one dreaded most--
Select that job, and do it!For bard facts of accomplishment
Build up great strength reserves
Of willingness to give each task
The doing it deserves,
And when one seems to challenge you
To match your stature to it,
Select that job--the biggest one--
Select that job, and do it!The Optimist
If I had neither eyes to look
And see, nor ears to hear,
I still would know without a doubt
The season's turn is near!What permeating fragrance--
She blends her own perfume
From dewy, purple violets
Boutonniered to bloomOn warm, fur coats; and curtains
Freshly bung--so crisp and clean--
And warming soil, remindful of
New grass, begun to green.Not once will I be skeptical
Of vagrant snow, and sleet....
I'll know it's nature's way of spreading
Springtime at my feet!The Robin
Optimistic little cuss,
Bright of eye and full of fuss;
Nothing daunts him, if you please--
Snowdrifts climb around his knees;
Still he swells his throat with cheer,
"Spring is here! Spring is here!''To March
Oh, bluster and bellow,
You boisterous fellow,
Your romantic secret is out!
To maidens so charming
It may be disarming
To see how you rant and you shout!Should such animation
Win their admiration--
Those lassies so dainty and shy--
Be a braggart and blow off,
Your temperament show off,
You lovable, laughable guy!Ah, well, swell your chest,
Sport your vigor and zest,
And continue your mad roundelay
If sporting your mettle
Will put you in fettle
To usher in April and May!Slip Up
I took my eyes off halting feet
To watch a robin in a tree
When whoops! I felt the icy street
As proof of March perversity!Spring
Spring's a roguish sort of fellow,
Holding promise in his hands,
Laughing, moody, gentle, sprightly,
Full of love, and reprimands;
In his eyes the warmth of sunshine,
On his breath the smell of earth,
From his lips persuasive whispers
Of renewal and of birth!Spring Fever
Air so mellow
Makes a fellow
Prop his feet up on a chair,
And you set there kinda grinnin'
While the world goes spinnin', spinnin',
And you're deaf to everything,
Everywhere!
Birds are pratin',
Garden's waitin',
World's as busy as a beaver,
But Dame Nature's propaganda
Lured you to the back veranda,
Where you'd just as leave, or leaver,
Have Spring Fever....
Be a bum....
Ho, hum....Umbrellas
Each in his private world,
We slop along,
Snug in a roof upfurled
There is a song--
Splitter, splatter,
Scitter, scatter,
Drip, drop,
Off the top....
And, being challenged from the sky,
The wily rain plops back, knee-high,
And, at our wiles, we laugh,
The rain and I!Like gay, defensive shields,
Umbrellas are;
I am at home in mine--
Rain traveled far;
Silvered, glancing,
Sharp and dancing,
Hit and miss
Like a kiss
So swiftly done, less placed than hurled
From clouds bung low, soft gray and curled,
But gray cannot invade
My private world!
It never fails--you grab your purse and start off down the street,
No powder on, hair disarranged, and slippers on your feet,
A smudge of black aslant your nose, a torn sleeve in your blouse,
You might as well turn back into the safety of your house
For, ten to one, you'll never make the grocery store and back
Without, perchance, encountering old friends, or running smack
Into the richest social cream, and when you try to tell
How, usually, you're not like this, she'll say, "You're looking--well!''Was ever there an afternoon the preacher came to call
When, all torn up, you didn't have to set him in the hall,
And try to be staid and devout to cover your chagrin
At sitting down to talk and pray despite the state you're in?
The slacks you're wearing are the ones you really threw away,
And then recovered to be used once more on cleaning day....
One knee is ripped, your toes stick out, a safety pin or two
Make legal your attire, but for the holes you're showing through!....
The preacher sums the moment up and tucks it in a shell,
When, half abashed, he hesitantly says "You're looking--well!''You'd love to blame the Gremlins when that chatty home-town girl
Drops in to check your social state, and give your town a whirl....
The linen's out, the ice-box low, she came to spend the day;
The household can't be brought to par--she really cannot stay
To see you at your best. The 'darlings' you wrote home about
Come shoving, bounding through the house, and hail her with a shout....
"Such lovely kiddies! ...Oooh,'' she gloats, "There'll be so much to tell
When I get home, and really, dear, I think You're looking--well!''Or maybe that old beau drops in to make a friendly call;
It's twenty years since last you met--he's hardly changed at all;
He grabs your hand, "Hello, hello!'' (He sings the same old ditty);
You can't tell if he registers surprise, regret, or pity,
For with your hair pinned up to dry, no make-up on your face--
Dear me, what would you give for just an extra hour of grace
To get fixed up! Though, at your best, you're not the village belle
He wouldn't sound so doubtful when he says, "You're looking--well!''Somehow the public won't be 'told'--they still are disbelieving
Of explanations such as, "My appearance is deceiving;
I'm scarcely ever this unkempt; I'm cleaning house today;
My home is run on strict routine--or usually, I'd say;
My children are as good as gold--most times they're up to snuff,
So thoughtful, kind, and courteous, and hardly ever rough!'' ...
The world remains so unconvinced, and one can almost tell
He's being spared the 'awful truth' by, "Hmmmm,-- You're looking--well!''
ExtraOh, about the grandest lift
That has been concocted yet
Is the fillip of an 'extra'
You hadn't thought to get!A vagrant, springy day
Slipped in the grayness of November
A greeting card from someone
You'd thought might not remember;A nod you've been expecting
May seem nice, tho commonplace,
But an extra bright 'good-morning'
Gives the day a shining face....Say, those little extra somethings
Do a mighty lot of good
If you'll look and recognize 'em
Like an extra-blessed one should!A Plan
If, day by day, we may achieve some good,
Let it be known to us and understood....
In humble gladness know that it will be
The cornerstone of our eternity!...
May we not once our own mistakes forget
But, for our sinfulness, feel full regret;
Acquire a charity, be slow to blame
Another who may know an equal shame,
That, in the end, the good and bad may be
A balance wheel of kind humility!Easter Sonnet
And lo, the angel rolled the stone away
Where lay entombed the deathless Son of God;
Poor mortals, trembling, feared or wept with love,
And sought the path of truth His feet had trod!
Each day the angels, Faith and Hope and Love,
Shall rid us of the heavy stone of doubt
And bring to light the good within us all,
Much as the angels bore our Savior out!
The earth must one day be our resting place,
Our shroud a questless immortality;
The righteousness with which our lives were filled
Will from our souls the stone of death roll free ...
May Easter's matchless joys mark every day
To lift us up, and bow us down to pray! ...Arise!
Arise, O soul of man, arise!
As Christ rose from the tomb!
God holds the might; He is the light
To lift all earthly gloom....
To roll away the stone of doubt
And set man bondage-free
If he, in faithful questlessness
Accepts the Mystery! ...
Transcend mad war, or fear, or death--
Let man the flesh chastise,
But pledge to Christ that which is His--
Arise, thou soul, arise!Little Willyum's Easter Rabbit
I'm gonna set here, under the sink....
I'm gonna set here, 'n think, 'n think!
First they tole me 'bout Santy Claus,
'N nen the fellas laughed because
I said the Easter Bunny's a-comin',
'N one of 'em.winked, 'n started hummin',
'N 'nother one sez, "Aw, it's a fake!'' ...
'N it almost gimme a stummick ache--
I guess I'll never eat agin
Er sleep; ...I ain't the kid I been...'N Mom 'n Dad won't ennymore
Be rabbits, like they wuz a-fore! ...
Wy, Dad bunts eggs the same uz me--
(That's how he knew where they 'ud be--)
Yessir, I wondered bow he knew
So good to hunt! ...I guess it's true--
'N Mom 'ud sneak eggs frum a sack
To eat 'fore Easter, a-bind my back;Somehow I didn't b'lieve the guys--
Dad sez the rabbit's 'bout this size
With a cart this big! ...Now, how'd he know
If the Easter Bunny wuzn't so? ...
I bet I find out 'fore it's through
'At Moms 'N Dads is made up, too! ...
Aw, gee, I got the worst throat-ache--
I guess I'll git a piece of cake,
'N nen git back here, under the sink,
'N jist set here ... 'n think, 'n think!Daffodils
Why, he can't recoup from his income tax
Till along comes Easter, and deftly smacks
Poor Dad in the face with its daffodils,
And fol-de-rol-and bills, and bills!
There's Willyum with his shabby feet,
And wearing pants with a twice-darned seat;
And Mom has her eye on a blouse and skirt,
And the 'dearest' bat, as 'cheap as dirt';
And Sis, with kisses sly and cute,
Bleeds 'darling Dad' for a new Spring suit!
But, Easter Day, Dad wears a smile--
A little frayed, but the latest style--
And you'd never guess how daffodils
Can smell, to him, of bills, and bills!Admission
It's a wise man who gauges us poor women's ages
By snooping into our 'bood-wars,'
For when youth starts slipping
You'll find the girls dipping
In beautiful bottles and jars!There's a lotion for wrinkles, an eyedrop for twinkles,
A full line endorsed by the Stars;
Youth packs and skin bracers,
Hair dyes and age-chasers,
All tucked in their bottles and jars!Now, we girls may look pretty, or youthful, or witty
Ensconced in our big, shiny cars,
But, oh, the chagrin
Should you chance to drop in
When we can't reach those bottles and jars!Bittersweet
A quietness pervades our house;
There is no baby cry,
No formula, no boiling pans,
No things bung out to dry;
The play-pen has been stored away,
The little stroller sold,
The baby shoes are book-ends,
Treasured, and encased in gold;
But the quietness of our house
Is a friendly, waiting still
With a readiness to laughter
For at any moment will
Come a rush of youthful footsteps
From a show, or swim, or ball,
And their carefree chatter echoes
Through the kitchen and the ball!
Soon the radio, piano,
Table-tennis come alive,
And the ice-box is invaded
By a gang of four or five....
There's a quietness at our house,
And I'm often all alone,
But the still is happy waiting
For the ones I call my own!May Day
A May day, a gay day,
A magic moon-filled night;
The muted harp of spring to call
The fairy and the sprite
Who slither down a moonbeam
Onto a velvet lawn,
And sip the dew in leaflet cups
From moonrise until dawn!
A May day, a gay day ...
Her fragrance scents the air,
And fairies slip down white moonglow
To frolic everywhere!Wishin'
Sure, the world would be a jumbled one to live in
If ever all our wishes could come true--
Why, what I wished for might by chance be somethin'
To muddle up your livin' plans for you!The good Lord bad a pretty smart idea
In givin' us the right amount of slack
In which to do our wishin', so that nature
Can always lift a band and yank us back!In fact, I doubt if settin' down and wishin'
Would ever make a single wish come true,
If mingled with our dreamin' wasn't somewhere
The will to wish, and then, 'git up and do!'My Friend
My mother is my friend....
We argue, laugh, and work and play;
Her worthiness shall never end
Because I'm grown and moved away
From her abode. She builds anew
Her life, where I am free to go
Uncriticized for what I do....
We two are friends; besides I know
Her love, and I can always see
How my reflection, in her eyes,
Is one I'd truly strive to be
For there almost perfection lies;
She is not loved and set apart....
She would be lonely if she were;
She rests securely in my heart;
My life is lived and laughed with her!Lavender and Lace
I would not relegate you to a place
Beside the fire--in lavender and lace--
Or place you on a pedestal above
My lowly self; ours is a mutual love
Whose understanding growth shall always be
A bond of richness and sincerity;
And I would have us walking hand in hand,
Your days continued joy and worthiness,
And things you like to do! ... I daily bless
The One who gave me you--your precious face--
I would not relegate you to a place
Beside the fire-in lavender and lace!Our Automobile
When we first took a spin in 'our automobile,'
Mom sat up in front with Dad, brave at the wheel;
My sister and I proudly perched in the rear,
Scringing tense with excitement and pleasureful fear,
For, although Dad had worn the grass down in a ring
In the old pasture lot where he mastered the thing,
This exchanging of reins for a treacherous wheel
Was to meddle with Fate in an automobile!We'd toot at the neighbors who ran out to see
What sort of contraption that tootin' could be;
The horses would rear up and snort at our sight,
And the rigs rode the ditches in runaway fright;
Oh, I slithered and slid with my heels in mid-air
As at twenty five miles through the country we'd tear,
And I know, till I die, I'll remember the feel
Of the slick leather seats in our automobile.Now, the side curtains rested beneath the back seat,
And the least cloud would bring us all quick to our feet--
In frantic abandon, we fit and we tried
Each section of curtain to its special side;
We'd button and snap till our fingers gave out,
When someone would point, wryly, skyward and shout,
"Look-the sun,'' and again we'd rebelliously peel
The ising-glassed sides from our automobile!"I'll never forget!'' is a God-given phrase
Which affords us the chance to re-live other days--
Yes, the old car is gone and its lines have grown dim;
Dad's gone ...all I have is a memory of him,
But occasions like this one grow ever more dear
For they were the glad times when Dad was still here ...
I can close my eyes now, and see him at the wheel
Like he was when we rode in 'our automobile!'Tear
The world is different through a blur of tears;
The sky and sun are blended water-silk;
The solid ground dissolves and slips and veers,
And tears fall on my fingers, warm as milk;
The joyous lilt of birds is but a part
To complement the void within my heart!There'll come a day, I know, when tears have dried,
And worlds are rich with promise as before--
When hints of laughter travel by my side,
And keen anticipation is in store;
But, oh, that longed-for day is bard to see
When tears are blurring it to memory!The Dishpan Blues
Oh, I'm tied to the dishpan, chained by the wrist!
Can't somebody give this old job a new twist?
I plan pleasant days but I never get through
For there's always a meal, and then 'dishes to do!'I've stood at a dish-pan and tried to have fun
Dreaming fanciful dreams as remote as the sun,
But who, in her senses, can capture a dream
Scraping egg from a plate, breathing dishwater steam?
Whether due domesticity fails me, or what,
Fun seems far removed from a stuck gravy pot!Now I'll willingly cook till aromas exude
From a table of tempting, flavorful food,
But, with ravenous appetites sated at last,
I stack up the remnants of each day's repast
And long for a method, no matter how rash,
To scrape out this mess everytime with the trash!Sing loud of the marvel of this soap and that
But, inventor, to you I'd take off my hat
If you'd think up a trick for this old bug-a-boo
And free kitchen chain gangs of 'dishes to do!'Character Sketch
She was the sort of crafty gal--
(To coin a Boy Scout phrase),
Who rubbed two men together
To make a little blaze!Man On The Street
I looked upon a face one day--
It was a passing glance;
A face, serene and commonplace,
A homely countenance.I looked upon a life one time--
A worthy span of years,
A bold, bright splash of happiness
Against a drop of tears;
A life, crisscrossed with passions,
Good with selflessness and trust,
Aware of man's desires, and yet
Content, devoid of lust;
Deep-scarred with disillusion
Which by its healing made
A pattern rare of strength and depth
Upon a soul displayed!The strangest thing-that worthy life
Was lived behind the face
I glanced upon, and looked away
And thought was commonplace!Stumped!
Young Bill was a fine blackboard speller,
But when they said 'sphere' at the Bee,
Poor Bill scratched his head,
"I can spell it,'' he said,
"Only thing is-I can't make a 'sfee!"Decoration Day in Fountain City
May faithful footsteps ever wend their way
To my home town on Decoration Day ...
There, hearty hellos, handshakes, kisses, smiles
Efface the intervening years and miles;
This is the hallowed path whole families tread
To meet their living, and to mourn their dead.
Bright blobs of color mark each family plot
Mute testimony that this trysting spot
Is their memorial to faith and prayer
That they shall meet again someday, somewhere ...There'll be a fine parade, led by the band,
And children, toting proudly in one hand
A home-picked, bright bouquet to deck some grave--
A little flag above some soul to wave;
And, flanking either side, the steady heels
Of older boys push decorated wheels,
While aging veterans, on lagging feet,
Support, once more, their colors down the street;
The band plays on--on to the bridge they go
To drop some flowers to the stream below ...Now, with the honored dead, the crowd is still;
Faintly the bugle sounds from yonder bill,
And, near, a meadow lark, with bursting throat,
Adds to the sacred day a fluting note,
Each fluting note a tear-drop on some face,
Whose yearnings reach beyond this resting place;
A prayer is said, the ceremony ends,
And, drifting to the park, old friends meet friends;
Young mothers sit beneath the ancient trees
And dandle restless babies on their knees;
The band plays loud-the children gather near;
The old ones park their cars awhile to hear--
With slow finality, the day wears on,
Walking, talking, laughing, all are gone ...
Fingers of progress change, and cast aside
Customs haloed with sentimental pride
But, ever faithful, may our hearts hold sway
In my home town, on Decoration Day!Perception
If one could see beyond
Today's despair,
The Purpose might reveal
An answered prayer!Tribute
Beside your grave I may not stand in thought,
Or with my hands arrange the flowers there,
But ever shall my days be firmly caught
In happinesses we had meant to share!No matter where I go, or what I do
The garden of your words will always be
My haven, growing, blossoming anew
With bright bouquets of poignant memory!Post Office Auxiliary--From a Doorstep
See there! He's going by ...
He didn't even glance our way;
Do you suppose that mail man
Forgot to stop today?
Or probably be failed to drop
Our letters in his sack--
Why, I was sure I'd get some word
From Mom, or Sis, or Jack!I'd love to hunt-now, my Bill sez
There's nothing I can't find
Where others look and overlook
Yessir, I've half a mind
To act like I've a question
And call that mail man back--
I'm sure he's got some word for me
From Mom, or Sis, or Jack!And I've an order in at Sears--
It must be overdue ...
One just about the size he's leaving
There at 'eight-o-two' ...
Say, everybody makes mistakes
My Bill can't find a thing;
Our wedding day, we bad to stop
And bunt the wedding ring! ...Now look! He's hesitating
At the house across the way--
I'll bet a nickel that's my mail
He's leaving there today ...
Not even an advertisement,
And somewhere in that stack
I could have sworn there'd be a card
From Mom, or Sis, or Jack!Now, once he left a post card here
Addressed to Mrs. Dee--
(I was surprised! It was risque!
I thought, 'Why, goodness me,
I never dreamed she'd countenance
Such a suggestive word!')
I couldn't tell whom it was from ...
Some way, the ink bad blurred--
Mmmmhmmm, the mailman isn't sure;
He's searching through his sack
And probably he'll find that card
From Mom, or Sis, or Jack!I'm going to do it-yes, I am!
Oh, Mr. Mail Man, wait!
You must have lots of mail and stuff ...
You're most ten minutes late ...
I wonder, do you have a stamp?
I might need one-and say,
You're sure you haven't overlooked
Some mail for us today? ...
It seems amongst that stack of letters
Left here in your sack,
There surely would be one for me
From Mom, or Sis, or Jack!Love Song
I'd like to write a love song
Of June and moon and croon;
The words come rushing to my lips,
My heart will sing the tune!
But, if I do, the eyebrows lift ...
Says one, "I think she's wed!''
Another eyebrow, "Yeah, two kids!''
And wags a knowing head.
Repudiate, or still create,
I've not decided, quite--
Perhaps I'll choose an alias,
And write that song tonight!The Eternal Triangle
I overheard my daughter's first proposal--
Yet, I suppose I shouldn't call it that;
The conversation was between two suitors,
And, unperturbed, my daughter merely 'sat.'Says one, "I knew her first!'' (He seemed determined)
The other was of calculating mien;
"But, Morgan, you can't marry her,'' he stated.
"I'm gonna marry her--when I'm sixteen!''And, as I said, my daughter sat there calmly--
I guess their conversation left her cold;
Perhaps I should have mentioned in the first place
This triangle is only 'four years old!'Song of Sol
Ebbing vitality, through summer days,
Stupid I loll in satiety;
Limp as a rag doll, languid I laze,
Shunning the web of variety,
Seeking through torpors of dull ecstasy
The soothing cadence of monotony!
Happy contentment, chitchat of birds,
Night cloaks my world in serenity,
Breathless, and warm as new-drawn milk; few words
To startle the reaches of infinity;
Season's fulfillment ever shall be
The soothing cadence of monotony!Father's Day
Oh, Father's Day, dear Father's Day,
Competitive, it's true--
Small inspiration with their sons
Can dads, today, imbue;
Why, fiction, movies, supersede
The whole paternal plan;
What feats of brawn can Dad display
Compared to Superman?
Or take Dick Tracy's mental quirks--
How could Dad stand the test,
And Captain Marvel, Midnight, Don Winslow,
And all the rest? ...
But, wait! Poor Father has his points--
In spite of modern times,
He's still the guy who reaches down
For nickels and for dimes!Wishing Well
Somehow, if he wants to, a body can tell
When he's wishing wrong, and wishing well,
And wishes are seeds for the harvest he reaps
If he sows them and tends them and weeds them and keeps
Right on planting his wishes for 'off crops,' and then
Rotates them with thankfulness, now and again!Oh, there's many a wish a body won't get--
There's many a goal to be set and reset,
And there's no need to fret if you don't grow to be
The street-car conductor you envied at 'three,'
But the seeds of ambition were even then sowed
To be altered and changed by convention and mode
Till one day you say "This is it-my work to do!''
And a wish is a grownup dream you make come true!Wishing and working arrive, hand in band--
That is, if a body's dreams come true as planned,
And you know you wished right if the way you must take
To arrive at your star leaves good will in its wake,
But if reaching some aim means an unrighteous deed
Or a single false step, then you'd better take heed,
And ask of yourself, "Wishing wrong? Wishing well?''
Somehow, if he wants to, a body can tell!The Icing from His Cake
A certain generosity
Whose like I'll never see
Is flavorful as yesterday
And twice as dear to me ...
I felt so "spoiled and special,'' then,
And fine enough to break,
When Dad sliced off and saved for me
The icing from his cake!He always shunned the backside wedge
And slipped it on to me ...
(I must have been a glutton
To accept so greedily!)
I don't know how I justified
A band so quick to 'take,'
When Dad would smile and offer, too,
The icing from his cake!If I should live a million years
In fame and luxury
There'd be no one could make me feel
As "special-like'' as he ...
His strong and roughened fingers
Would be beautiful to take
If, once more, he could offer me
The icing from his cake!Familiar Street
Give me the time to savor well
The taste of home and friends....
The time to fill my senses with
The thrill their nearness lends--
Each house, each shrub, each dog and cat
I'll want to pause and greet;
It seems each tree has strings to me
Along Familiar Street!The world won't see the paths I do,
The signposts and the turns,
But when they're walked day after day
A person sort of learns
The angle to the grocery store,
A short-cut to the park,
Where bulging walks might trip you up,
The hazards after dark....
But best of all the well-worn paths
My inner eye restores
Are those, in memory, between
My own and dear friends' doors--
Oh, some I've trod in aproned style,
Sometimes in party gown,
And often, when our paths would cross,
We'd "talk'' new ones down town!
It brings a smile and quick-drawn breath
To know that soon my feet
Will walk among those folks of mine
Along Familiar Street!Give me capacity to bold
The friendliness of 'here,'
To share its warmth with someone else
Who finds his going drear--
Somehow there are no strangers left
Among the ones I greet
When friendship paves remembered ways
Back to Familiar Street!Vacation
By preference, should I be transient?
I'm eager to pack up and start;
Aside from road bumming,
Coil springs and good plumbing,
I guess I'm a gypsy at heart!It's novel to eat in strange places,
To sleep in strange rooms in strange beds,
And nose through the shops,
Making pauses and stops
To gather the thoughts from strange headsBut one thing I miss in my wanderings
Is the troop down at midnight--or later
In gown and bare feet
Rustling something to eat
In my house, from my refrigerator!Sky-High
Were there a ladder to the sky
Where I could climb and climb,
I'd steal the fluff from drifted clouds
And weave it into rhyme;
Perhaps I'd let the endless blue
Remind me of your eyes
And all the sunshine I call "you"
Would gild my paradise;
Sometimes I'd climb to dizzy heights
Like those we two have known
And reach into the star-flecked nights,
Cool and remote-alone!One Day
One day remains to me
Like steps upon a style,
Soft-edged as memory,
Blurred as a tearful smile;The steps are smooth and tall
As strong and real as life
To bridge convention's wall....
For days there was a knifeOf burning, sharp desire
Embedded deep in me
But time and tide conspire
To soften memory! ...The Gambler
Possessive of familiarity,
And gently rough--
Those are his hands to me,
And worlds may slough
Away to nothingness
At his demands....
Those are his hands!His voice, a slow excitement to my blood,
And velvet soft,
Whose slurring intonation
Lightly scoffed
At reticence; I saw
Desire as choice,
Cloaked by his voice!His lips are real and seeking, on my lips,
And on my throat--
But then, replete, he stands
And dares to gloat--
A gambler, laughing,
As he deftly flips
Two-headed coins to win....
Those are his lips!Kissin' Street
Have you ever been on "Kissin' Street?''
It's one smooth-paved with love;
No traffic rules are needed there,
No trees arch up above;
It often starts at Supper's End
From paths where Hunger flees,
When she climbs down from her bi-chair
To sit upon my knees....
Two arms are soft around my neck,
So satisfied, replete,
And two lips pucker up to say,
"We've come to Kissin' Street!''Or maybe Kissin' Street winds through
A place called Wheedle Town,
Where she says 'yes' and I say 'no,'
And she smiles at my frown;
What chance have I to discipline,
What right to cause a tear,
Or make the laughter on her face
Dissolve and disappear?
I'd rather change my 'no' to 'yes,'
And, if I can, retreat,
Than be a detour when she says,
"We've come to Kissin' Street!''Oh, many times she's tucked in bed
And I've slipped to the door
When, 'most asleep, she halts my stealth
To beg a moment more....
I marvel bow her little self
Can curve and fit my own
As we sit there, almost as one,
And talk in sleepy tone....
The days are crossed by many streets,
Some rough, some quite complete,
But none so smooth as when she says,
"We've come to Kissin' Street!''A Dog's Life
Our puppy developed the longest, sad face,
As woebegone as a snood,
But my son quickly springs to his poor dog's defense,
Should I mention it lacks pulchritude;
Says he, "You'd look sad, too, built over like that!''
And somehow his logic is sound--
"Say, bow would you like to live all o' the time
With your face hangin' down to the ground?''Moving Day
Well, here we go again--the van's outside;
The air is chill and doors are opened wide,
And moving men, impersonal and stout,
Bulge their backs, and shove the ice-box out;
We huddle on the luggage, or a chair
Left till the last--we huddle there and stare
At each departing piece of furniture
Pulled out of place and foreign, and there's sure
To be a clinging web, or square of dust
Slip by unnoticed, and I simply must
Hold up the men, and swipe it with the broom
That leans against the wall to clean the room
For Mrs. So and So across the way
Might see and talk; ... Ah, this is moving day!My, how he thumps those cushions, and see there,
A cloud of dust! ... Why must he have that chair
Set worn side out? ... Well, who'd a-thought our stuff
Could seem so old out in the light! How rough
That table is on top....and my, oh, my,
The baby's mattress! Now, I wonder why
That has to lie there for the world to view?
Well, kids are kids, I guess ...I'm telling you
My social ego shrinks from this display! ...
Ooh, here comes Mrs. B------ on moving day!And with our home torn up, we feel torn, too,
But in another house it's kind of new,
And kind of fun to set things in their places
And watch contentment fill the empty spaces--
The neighbors help a lot, and lend a band
And heart to loosen up that forlorn band
Around our own....Fresh curtains mute the glare
Of windows; an inviting easy chair
Becomes familiar in a reading nook;
A savory, first meal has begun to cook....
All this is real, and strangely far away
Fades the "uprootedness'' of Moving Day!My Song
Within my garden plot I found a song!
Although I cannot capture
The secret of its rapture,
It sings within my heart the whole day long!Conceived in morning dew, and bathed in sun,
It gathered all the notes
From song birds' bursting throats
And rolled the tunes of ages into one!I held my breath, in vain, to bear it through--
Ah, well, it never ends!
Through happy hearts there wends
This wordless melody, both old and new!The Proverbial Chip
A man started out with a chip on his shoulder;
The passing of years left him wiser, and older.
One-fourth of the world didn't see it at all,
Another fourth cared not a whit should it fall,
Another fourth glanced at his chip with a scoff,
And the final fourth gloried in knocking it off!Do's and Don't's
Although I'm only five years old,
There's cert'n'y a lot
Of things that I'm supposed to do
And things I'm s'posed to not!My life is full of do's and don't's,
Remember 'this 'n that,'
And sometimes if I don't obey,
I'm called upon the mat;There's 'don't leave dinner on your plate,'
'Do always say your prayers,'
'Don't talk back when you're spoken to,'
And 'don't play on the stairs';'Do cross the streets when lights are green,'
'Do close the ice-box door,'
'Don't bang the screen,' 'do watch your talk,'
And, oh, there's whole lots more!My mother thought these things up in
My life, and, sakes alive,
What will I have to 'do and don't'
When I'm another five?Diagnosis
I'd know I had succumbed to an
Incurable malignity
If wiping noses, kissing bumps
Appeared 'beneath my dignity!'School Days
I don't think I can spare her,
She's been so close to me;
When I sew or knit or read
She pulls her chair beside my knee;
Even when I wash the dishes,
From a stool she washes, too,
And the house we clean together,
And her bed she's learned to do.
My, her sandbox will be empty
Of its laughter all day long
And, without her running in and out,
The house will lose its song,
But the time is fast unwinding
From its never-ending spool,
And I know I'll be so lonely
When she marches off to school.Point of View
Two little boys in a school yard
Fighting like bitter foes;
One, bowling, runs to the teacher,
Bloody of face and nose;
The other boy follows him meekly,
With blood on the back of his head;
"Shh, not so loud!'' cautioned teacher,
"Why, Beb isn't crying,'' she said.
The howling one stopped to consider,
His good eye a watery bead;
"Aw, gee whiz!'' he wailed, "He ain't cryin'
Cause, well--he can't see the bleed!''Edelweiss
There's a cottage high on a grassy knoll
Where great elms touch the sky,
Where a body can work, or sit and dream
And watch the world go by,For the highway leads away at its feet
With distance to blur its baste,
And a body can travel its length at will
Or spurn it, to suit his taste.Close to the world, yet snug in his own,
All else shall a body deny
For a cottage, great elms, and a place to dream
And watch the world go by!Gray Skies
When the skies bang dull and sodden,
And the rain begins to pour,
Then I'll smile a little brighter
Than I did the day before;
For what could be so dismal
As a hopeless tear or frown
When Nature's eyes are screwed up tight
And rain comes pouring down!Rural Route Four
Oh, I'm living the life of a farmer's wife,
Removed from the din of a city's strife,
Where a house is 'kept' with a broom and fly swatter,
And backs are broke a-totin' water;
The back-house sits in its lattice nest
Where the bumble-bees give you the 'acid test,'
And the insects drone, and a guinea squawks,
And the black night walks through the dry corn stalks--
Say, the singer who chants of the rural quiet
Ain't been to the country, or anywheres nigh it!Fall Painting
A jaunty fellow came this way
And left a guady trail--
He quickly touched the highest spots
And missed the lowly vale;
All through the night he slipped and nipped
In shades of varied yellow--
Next time he's bringing orange and red;
You see, I know this fellow!Autumn Perfume
There's a feeling in my being,
And somehow I can't dispel it,
That to really see October
Well, a body's got to smell it.
Smell the tang of frosty mornings,
And the wilt on garden 'sass,'
And the sun-warmed, fallen foliage
Carpeting the molding grass;
Smell the fruit of earth's fulfillment,
And the cornfield, overdone,
And the wispy, dawdling leaf smoke,
And the polish on the sun!
There's a perfume of the season,
Orange, red and brown can't tell it,
For to really see October,
Well, a body's got to smell it!Pumpkin Fable
On a low fence post, at the edge of town,
Sat a pumpkin face, with its mouth turned down,
And a boy, on his way to the village store,
Knocked the pumpkin off, where it broke in four ...
A child sat there, working busily
To fit back the pieces as they should be,
When an old man stopped, on his face a frown,
And said, "No, no! See, his mouth turns down!''
The child sat, puzzled, his years too few
To know that a mouth can be turned down, too,
So he still worked on, lacking wisdom's grace,
To piece up a smile on the pumpkin face!Preferences
I'd like to wake as a Movie Star
In a bed all silk and neat,
So beautifully coifed and breathing allure,
Relaxed, a-smile, and sweet....
Instead, I resemble an old dust mop
A-sprawl in a wrinkled sheet,
With last night's lipstick slightly smeared,
And bed-socks on my feet!I'd like to dine in leisured style
Off fine damask and lace
And have attendant upon my needs
The man with the poker face....
But out of this world is that desire--
I can hardly keep apace
Of the flailing arms of two starved kids
Who barely wait for grace!Oh, well, there's something I like more--
I like our privacy
To stretch, and yawn, and sometimes wake
As grumpy as can be,
And slup our soup, and laugh and talk
With just my own to see....
I guess, perhaps, no other life
Would quite appeal to me!Election Day, or The Candidate
"Hear ye! Six o'clock! All Polls Close!''
That long-nosed threat, like the voice of doom
Seals the fate of all in the voting room; ...
The candidates' shoulders visibly sag
And weigh on feet, beginning to lag;
The high-pitched polling day droops to a lull,
Cigared politicians are propped back to mull
Over this possibility, that stroke of luck,
And the poor candidate must have plenty of pluck
When that fate-sealer calls through his long bass nose,
"Hear ye! Six o'clock! All polls close!''Hour on hour of torture goes by--
First sick apprehension, then spirits ride high
On a merry-go-round where the horse soars and dips
And the candidates future makes each of its trips;
"Did so and so vote? ...Have I done all I could? ...
Did I work hard enough on my own neighborhood?''
He's a man treading water, each step seems the last,
And the long waiting time has finally crawled past
Since that guy had the case, by his tone, diagnosed,
"Hear ye! Six o'clock! All polls closed!''Is it better or worse with the votes coming in?
Like a multiple mask is the candidate's grin--
First wondering, watching, laughing in turn,
His own group around him, all waiting to learn
If he did, if he didn't ...some standing, hands linked,
And shouting in triumph at each new precinct;
Now, the hours are flying, the votes running close;
Opposition is leading ...the other's morose;
But, wait! This precinct is the largest of all--
By golly, yessir! It's his name they call! ...
Well, the candidate's mentally thumbing his nose
At the guy who called, "Six o'clock! All polls close!''There the wan victor stands, on his own private isle,
While around him a sea of inspired faces smile
At the hero, the winner, a man set apart ...
But he still stands there, with quaking heart,
And the only desire in his pounding head
Is to ditch it all! ...and get home to bed.
Why, even success has a nightmarish tinge,
And he swears, if he ever recoups from this binge,
He'll never again dread that voice, long nosed,
Calling, "Hear ye! Six o'clock! All polls closed!''He Who--
"He who plays with fire gets burned''--
A wise and truthful saying,
But always have the risks involved
Enhanced the thrill of playing ...He who, forbids, and verilies
Are life's unbending sutures,
But deviations from the rules
Unfold surprising futures!Little Willyum's Sister Racket
Yessir, the racket's dead, I guess....
Aw, I've worked it a little, more er less,
But it ain't hardly worth it, somehow er other,
This business of bein' a girl's kid brother!
What if she does have a date?--Awright,
Whadda they care 'bout a turned-down light?
They jump in a car 'n off they go
'N set in the dark at the pitcher show--
'N if they stay home, does Sis give a boot
If I set there with 'em? She sez, "Ain't he cute?''
'N she don't seem to care how long I set there,
A-setting', a-waitin' in a chair--
A-waitin' fer quarters-or even a nickel
To git up 'n git! Aw, these women's fickle--
Say, the guy'ud be famous could think up another
Good racket, like bein' a snoopin' kid brother!Wy, my Uncle Ben, long time ago
When his big sister had a beau
Took in enough fer a ball 'n bat
By peepin', 'n settin', 'n standin' pat,
But my Sis? You couldn't pull that stuff--
She's wise to me, 'n gits plenty tough,
'N sez, sez she, "That went out with the bustle!
Now, scram!'' ('N take it frum me, she's got muscle).
Aw, the racket's dead, somehow er other,
'N there's no pay-off fer a girl's kid brother!I couldn't set with 'em-they don't set down;
To watch 'em I'd have to chase all over town!
Wy, when Sis has a date, in he comes, bang! swish!
'N grabs her 'n sez she's his favorite dish,
Then, mebbe he goes out 'n hisses Mom, too ...
In a case like that, what can kid brothers do?
With Mom he's a sell-out, 'n Dad's on their side,
So ...there's nothin' to pay for, nothin' to hide;
Now, fer blackmailin' prospects, wy say, I'd ruther
Be in the 'mouse racket' than be a kid brother!Armistice Day
I'm baking a pie on Armistice Day
To give to the woman across the way
For hatred I've felt of her whispered word,
And the gossip about me I shouldn't have heard;Then the 'bad boy' here in the neighborhood,
I think I'll commend for something good--
Perhaps for his kindness the other day
To the dog we yelled 'git' at, and chased away!And I failed to speak to a friend down town--
I passed her by, with a busy frown,
But she knew, and I'll try to make it right,
For a kindly amendment means sleep at night!There are other things I can think of, too--
Tag-ends of peace-making I can do
And my acts of tolerance surely increase
The likelihood, longer, of world-wide peace!To A New Mom and Dad
There's a bundle of happiness well on its way
Addressed to a new 'mom and dad';
Oh, it's marked C.O.D., and most folks agree
It's the 'precious-est' gift to be had!There's no other like it-there never could be,
For it's your girl, or maybe, your boy,
And its wee little lips, and its dear fingertips
Are arriving for your special joy!See, the postmark it bears is a Heavenly One,
And an Angel is bringing it, maybe,
For a bundle so rare, is insured 'Divine Care,'
With a card attached, "Careful-One Baby!''Indian Summer
Lithe, bronze-skinned figures, in the purple haze
Slip, silent, through the trees from trunk to trunk,
As vivid in their garb as yesterday's;
And cornshocks, silhouetted, distance-shrunk,
Are wigwams, where an Indian maiden squats
To sew the bulky skins with leather thongs
Or crush the corn, or fashion earthen pots,
Dark-eyed, mysterious as Indian songs!
Leaves, stirred by vagrant gusts, are murmured sound
Of unshod ponies, warriors, rushing by,
Spurred by the war-drums' muffled throb and pound,
And signs of wispy smoke, trailed in the sky!
Shrouded, yet boldly etched, is legend's haze
Whose spirit walks through Indian Summer days!Lullaby
Hear the rustle, rustle, rustle
Of Mother Nature's dress;
See her reach into each corner,
Peep in every still recess,
Cradling her weary children
On an earth turned brown and dry,
Singing, bumming, oh, so softly,
From her autumn lullaby;
And the leaves are drifting, shifting;
Nests, deserted, come to view;
All maturity runs rampant,
Pods have loosed their seedlets, too,
On a season gorged and yawning--
Insects waver in their cry,
Singing, humming, oh, so gently,
Mother Nature's lullaby!Winter
Winter, with a rush, arrives,
Majestic, cold and cruel--
Howling and possessed as by
Some mad, perverted ghoul;
Stripping to stark nakedness
Each quivering shrub and tree,
Till, suddenly, there comes a lull
In his sadistic spree--
In gentler mood, his passion spent,
A blanket, still and white,
Descends, and covers up the ravages
Of winter's might! ...Night Magic
There was magic afoot in the still of the night,
For this morning I witnessed a beautiful sight--
An artist bad been there, with masterful stroke,
And painted my window before I awoke....
So I propped up my pillows, my fancy took wings,
And I visioned and dreamed the most wonderful things.First, I gazed into canyons and still, frozen pools,
And loitered through forests that glittered like jewels;
Some outfits I planned and a ski-suit or two
To wear when I climbed to that grand Alpine view;
And there was a castle, all turrets and spires,
With a wall, and a moat, and picture book mires,
Where the beautiful princess sat day after day
Till the Prince came and freed her, and stole her away....Why, led by the magic and speed of a thought,
I walked through the grandeur that Nature had wrought,
Enchanted and awed with her towering height,
Sharply jutting and cascading, frothy and white!
Ho, bum! There I lay, bundled up to my chin,
And lazied and dreamed till the sunshine poured in
And melted my dreams....They ran down like rain
And I saw once again just a dull window-pane!Now, the thrifty and diligent person has said
No profit is gained by lying a-bed--
Oh, we all know he's right and it's probably true
But there are exceptions, from my point of view,
Since the day's work I do, and the burdens I bear
Seem less, for the dreams I dreamed, while lying there!Alteration
Gray hair may appall me--
(I've pulled out a few);
I find pause for thought
In a wrinkle or two,
But it made this sneak process
Of 'aging' complete
When he asked me to 'let out'
His pants in the seat!Now deposits of figure
On this frame of mine
May lack distribution
But sit mighty fine ...
Still, regarding my diet,
I've been most discreet
Since he asked me to 'let out'
His pants in the seat!For, somehow, one's own faults
Show up, big as life,
Should he focus an eye
On the husband or wife--
While I measured for his
Mine appeared less than neat
When he asked me to 'let out'
His pants in the seat!Patriot
There's a lump in every throat today--
The tears are apt to start,
For the colors flying from each porch
Are flying in each heart!
Who'd have thought our bright veneer could cloak
This pride in liberty,
Or instilled beneath our love of life
This love of land could be?
Oh, it's our land, united,
And we rallied to the call,
And pledged, for Independence,
To gladly give our all
To the one and only 'ism'--
We were proud to do our part
To keep the colors on the porch
We're flying in our heart!Peace
Sought and cried for,
Fought and died for,
Yet these cannot give it,
Until mankind
Makes up its mind
To have it is to live it!Pilgrims
They sowed their grain on rugged, unknown soil,
That gallant few,
And reaped a harvest from their prayer and toil--
They sowed faith, too!They worked for sustenance, they fought for life;
Their numbers grew,
And in their hearts grew thankfulness ...
And faith, anew!We have their pilgrimage to carry on,
Rough roads to hew
Toward peace and unity and world-wide dawn--
Faith sees us through....And when our heritage of bill and plain
We pause to view,
We offer thanks that when they sowed their grain
They sowed faith, too!Gratitude
To have been blessed with pilgrim faith
In God and home and living,
Imbues the days with joyous praise,
And reverent thanksgiving!Washington, The Aristocrat
The colonists could point with pride
To his estate and countryside;
He knew the feel of frilled jabots,
Of powdered hair and buckled toes;
At social grace he was adept,
Yet spurned the role of sole precept;
"My countrymen, I do not want
The throne of king!''Aristocrat by birth and mein,
On battlefields his sword was keen
And keen, too, was his mind to see
The needs of men for liberty;
He might have bad a kingdom then
To rule. He said, "My countrymen,
I stand for true democracy
As President!''His fathers crossed the fearsome seas
And brought distinguished niceties
To plant in this, a raw, young land
Where sturdy, growing traits now stand
As proof that we, and heirs to be,
Can live in a democracy....
For this George Washington once spurned
The throne of king!Progress
When I was but a little girl,
My paper valentine
Would say, "I love you, sweetheart!''
And, "Won't you please be mine?''
At seventeen, my boy friends each
As I recall with pride,
Gave me a box of candied sweets,
Heart-shaped and ribbon-tied! ...
But now a luscious gift like that
Would be out of the question--
At least, a pair of hose won't give
The children indigestion!Valentine Greetings
Now don't think I'm stupid
Resorting to Cupid
To carry my 'I love you' sign,
But being blasé, dear,
How else could I say here
The words on the lace valentine?When days become vapid
No dart is so rapid
To pierce me as 'I'm glad you're mine!'
For Cupid, impassioned,
My heart goes old-fashioned
As those on a lace valentine!March of Dimes
Poor little fella,
Slave to a cast--
Nothin' to do now
But lay there, strapped fast,
'N see in his boy's mind
A glove 'n a ball,
'N cry, mebbe, somedays,
Fer, well-blame it all,
He can't understand it,
'N neither kin I--
A victim of circumstance,
Poor little guy!Brave little fella,
Tied to a bed;
See there, he's hopeful
Fer somebody said
He's gonna git well
If he tries awful hard,
'N mebbe he wheeled some
Outside in the yard!
Ah, how he's believin'--
I betcha he'll try,
'N I'm gonna help him,
Poor little guy!Poor little cripple,
In bed all the time;
If that wuz your boy, why,
You'd cherish each dime
That went forth to fight
The paralysis foe
'N give him a new chance
To 'git up 'n go'
A-shoutin' 'n runnin'--
The sight makes ya cry
Fer, see there, he's waitin',
Poor little guy!Appreciation
I didn't hear the redbird
When the other birds were here;
I didn't see his plumage
Until the days were drear,
But now against the brooding skies
His pertness like a promise lies
And fills my thoughts with cheer!I didn't note the blessings
My life was built upon,
Or heed the whispered warning
Until a few were gone,
But now the blessings left to me
Sing, like a redbird in a tree
Upon a wint'ry lawn!Compensation
Although I never reach my aim
I shall not fret about it
For pleasures known along the way
Could not have been, without it!Miracle of Christmas
With Christmas carols in the air,
And all else hushed and still,
The little town of Bethlehem
Might lie down yonder bill,
Familiar things are glorified,
And mankind holds a tryst
With wise men, shepherds, and the star
To seek again the Christ;
He lived for those who sought him then,
He lives for us today....
His promise is a holy star
That shines to guide our way--
I wonder, when we turn to Him,
Then do we not perceive
A daily miracle of Christ
Who came on Christmas Eve?Pre-Christmas
Bundles mount the attic stair,
Secrets whisper on the air;
Spelling's out, and truth rebels,
For Junior spells, and Sister tells
And Dad, off-key, sings "Jingle Bells!''There're plans afoot, and footsteps skulk
With packages whose weight and bulk
Are pressed and guessed,
And shook with zest,
And finally piled up with the rest!Paper rattles on the stair,
Someone runs to shout, "Hey, there,
Shut that door! I'll tan your britches,
Santy sees which ain't, and which is
Gonna get a sock of switches!''Christmas presents clog the stairs,
Gift suggestions fill their prayers;
Grown-ups stoop to child-like prying,
Children trying, no more crying,
Dreams of Santa's reindeer flying!December, 1944
Dear Santa Claus: My stocking will
Hang by the Christmas tree;
I've pinned a note so you will know
The thing belongs to me!
What size or shape it's meant to be
Is mighty bard to tell,
For, since the silk has been left out,
Our stockings look like-well,
Dear Santa, loosen up your heart
And fortify your pack,
'Cause this year's sock could well replace
A small-size gunny sack!
Now, heretofore, you cut the gift
To fit the sock, unduly,
Let's see you fit my gift to this
Rayon affair! Yours truly....The Christmas Tree
Each year it's the same-like a pattern to trace,
With the same rapt look on each tired face;
The same tense still when the lights come on,
And the words are but echoes of those past and gone
When someone says, always, so proud and glad,
"It's the prettiest Christmas tree we ever bad!''From the time the tree leaves its woodsy spot
Or is thoughtfully chosen from the lot,
It's enfolded in magic--it's more than a tree--
And its place in the room is picked carefully;
The family stands back while it's shoved there and here,
And all you can see of poor Dad is his rear
As he scoots on his knees, patient, waiting the word,
Or peers through its branches like some bright-eyed bird;
Then, at last, it's just right, and the thought comes from Dad,
"I believe it's the best shaped tree we ever had!''And then for the tinsel, the thin shiny balls--
At its feet rummpled cotton like drifted snowfalls;
Now the bulbs are concealed in its depths with a clip,
And, over all, icicles artfully drip;
The star sits on top-ah, the moment is right,
And Mother plays softly the loved "Silent Night''
There! The lights on the tree have come to a glow,
And the silence is thrilled by a long drawn out, "Ooooooh!''
And the words are a breath, whether sad ones or glad,
"It's the prettiest Christmas tree we ever had!''Be its contour as tapered, its glitter as bright,
Its fragrance as spicy, its snowdrifts as white,
Each year is perfection, outdoing the rest--
A beautiful symbol of 'This is the best!' ...
The grace and the sparkle and simplicity
Of our pattern of living, expressed in a tree;
All the years linked together are echoed and glad,
"It's the prettiest Christmas tree we ever had!''Star of Christ
Shining Star, show us the way
To find the Christ on Christmas day!
The sounds of war were in our ears,
Our minds were dark with many fears,
But in our hearts shall never cease
A quest for peace!Star of the night, which, shining, led
Men of all nations to Your bed,
Guide us, again, to seek Your face,
To gaze with awe upon Your grace,
And offer, humbly, at Your feet
Our selves, complete!Oh, Star of Christ, whose brilliant ray
Hallowed the bed where Jesus lay,
Shine, now! Your mission is the need
Of every nation, race, and creed ...
Teach us again the peace of love,
Blest Star, above!Totin' Bundles
There's a treat to bein' jostled
In a crowded shoppin' place
By the fellow with the bundles
And the smile upon his face,
Fer him that does the gettin'
Likely does the givin', too,
And the fuller is his arms
The fuller is his 'howdy-do!'
You can bet he's got some folks at home
To meet him at the door,
And the zest he has fer livin'
Makes a pleasure frum a chore--
When his bundles jabs you in the back
Turn right around and grin,
Fer it's likely it's a bit of joy
Yer bumpin' up agin,
And it's ten to one the man's in tune
With man, and God's good grace,
Fer the one who totes the bundles
Totes an understandin' face!Living
Living is poetry,
Beauty is song ...
The rhythm is captured
By swinging along-
The high notes, the low notes
Not one of them wrong,
For living is poetry,
Beauty is song!