There once was a man named Digger Vance
Who grew too large for his pants.
He slaved for nickels and died for dimes,
But Digger lived in the best of times.
In a cemetery, he rests alone,
But he made his mark – it’s etched in stone.
If we be going, let us be gone
For wasted time has already flown.
Like seeds in ground already sown,
Time has fled to parts unknown.
Sadness enters at its waste –
We could already be at our desired place!
Red paints the fields where the poppies grow
After the battles there long ago.
Warmed by sunshine, watered by tears,
They still bravely bloom to remember those years.
Our soldiers were sent to a foreign land
To fight out of deep trenches in making their stand.
They struggled hard to remain warm and dry in the mud, rain, and snow
When they fought the Kaiser’s army so long ago.
Little imitation poppies were sold in the millions back then
To support the war effort and our fighting men.
They’re deep red like the bloodshed on the mud and snow,
These beautiful red poppies in the field where they grow.
Take just a moment to think and reflect.
Take the time to offer a thank you prayer in respect.
Someone order champagne and quickly remove the cork.
Let’s toast our dough boys and our hero, Sergeant York.
They still grow in the fields of yesterday.
They stand in remembrance and still hold sway.
In yesteryear, these poppies played their part.
When you wear one, I hope it matches the poppy in your heart.
I sat upon a park bench, writing pad in hand,
Enjoying flowering shrubs and warmth upon the land
As cacophony of sound assaults both my ears:
Birds singing, dogs barking, and children’s laughter at play.
Then, not one but three lasses appeared
With bonnets and flower baskets at arm.
They wore floral-colored smocks,
Emitting Old World charm.
“I see you are a writer, sir,” one said
As her laughter broke the air.
At a loss for words, I simply smiled,
Caught up in her blue-eyed snare.
“Please do write us a sonnet,” said the second lass.
“Oh, no, a poem,” pleaded the third.
I smiled at all three,
Completely lost for word.
Their little faces in mock pout,
Their dresses so colorful and gay,
Added the finishing touch on the canvas
Of this beautiful, fine Spring Day.
I cleared my throat and spoke, “Oh, I suppose,
A line or two I’ll jot of spring-time prose.
With a smile and a thank you, they skipped away, arms interlocked.
As they moved away, I couldn’t help but notice: The flowers matched their frocks.
The sun was warm, and the wind was balmy.
White fluffy clouds adorned the sky.
I stretched and yawned like a Cheshire cat,
Releasing a contented sigh.
Mother Nature had once again blessed the land,
Calling forth different flowers in abundant array.
While I watched butterflies and birds flit about
On this gorgeous, balmy Spring Day.
During all my hurried chase for wealth,
I sacrificed my youth and spoiled my health.
Two young lovers sharing a kiss…
Just one of the many things I missed.
So many things yet to do, so much I want to say.
The mirror reflects my wrinkled face, and hair turned whitish-grey.
I don’t remember smelling land after a cleansing rain
Or offering soothing words of comfort to those suffering alone in pain.
Did I notice children’s faces looking skyward in delight
As they held on tightly to their multi-colored kites?
Did I collect a seashell from a white beach sand,
And did I get to travel to a distant land?
Did I pluck daisy petals or ever smell a rose
Or even try to ice skate after the lakes all froze?
There’s so many things I could add to my lengthy lists,
Containing all the many things I apparently missed.
My race is run, my fortune won —
A hollow victory it would seem
For I missed out on simple things,
It is time I can’t redeem.
Of my own choice, I rolled the dice
To pursue my wealth
And paid the price.
In the quest, I lost the best when I lost my health.
Recording my sad litany
Reveals a truth which I cannot hide:
For though I have wealth, I’ll die a pauper’s death
With all my music still inside!
Just a reminder to remember to raise your awareness to your experiences – each and every day.
God’s blessings upon your journey!
He walked among us over rocky pathways
Many long years ago.
The message He brought was the one He taught
To free us and let us know.
Numbered among transgressors,
Beaten and scorned with shame.
He shouldered false accusations bravely
And never placed the blame.
Not happy with His suffering,
They sentenced Him to death.
They nailed Him to a cross
To draw His last earthly breath.
He was buried in a sepulcher
Which was hewn in stone.
Women prepared His body for eternal rest
And left Him all alone.
Just as the prophecy had foretold,
The stone was rolled aside:
Three days later, our Savior arose
To ascend and forever to abide.
The ultimate sacrifice for our sins –
A price we could not pay –
Was paid in full by our Savior.
Each year, we celebrate this act on each Easter Day.
Happy Easter, Everyone!
W. Foster Welborn
Young folks look at old folks,
No longer in or cool.
Smart phones, tablets, television games, FaceBook
Are more to their school.
I’m just full to bursting with curiosity:
When you look my way, I wonder, what do you really see?
Do you see an author, poet, or just an old, aging man?
One day you’ll age, too, and begin to understand.
I hope in your aging you become very wise,
Then you’ll see what I see through these older eyes.
I know you don’t know me and really have no clues.
You haven’t walked one step, let alone countless miles, in my shoes.
Once like you, I was young with an attitude of devil-may-care,
Dancing and flirting with pretty girls and very hard to scare.
Today you dance to Hip Hop, but if I may be so bold:
Chuck Berry, Fats Domino and Elvis gave us our music – called Rock and Roll.
I’ve traveled many roads, accomplished many things.
It all happened so very fast, I believe my feet had wings.
Life unfolded before me and holds me tightly in her embrace.
Wonders and tragedies etched these lines you see in my face.
Don’t try to put us all in wheel chairs or surround us with a fence.
You see, we possess knowledge you’ll need, but most of all experience.
Unlike you, there was no one around to guide, tell or show me
The secrets they had found.
I know you’re full of vitality and vinegar with energy to burn.
You have an itch you can’t scratch and hate to await your turn.
Good things come to those who wait,
Just one more thing you’ll learn.
So much to learn, so little time, and later you’ll realize my words ring true.
You’ll probably wish you had listened better before your trails are through.
So now my question begs an answer:
What do you really see when you look at me?
Beautiful roses, rough soil can endure…
The sweetest most often
Live and grow in debris and manure.
Happy Valentine’s Day!
Born of the people,
Learning to live off the land.
As a boy, he learned a warrior’s ways
And grew to be a man.
Strong Bow hunted Tatanka, the buffalo,
With both bow and lance.
He guided his horse among the headlong rush,
Killing meat to feed the people when he got a chance.
He had wooed and won a pretty maiden’s hand,
Who became his wife.
They lived and loved while moving freely on the land,
Following a nomad’s life.
He danced with fellow warriors,
Circling the fire around.
War drums beat the rhythm,
And many moccasined feet beat tattoos on the ground.
That was when he was young and powerful,
A mighty warrior to behold.
He was fast and furious back then, many moons ago.
Now he was gray and old.
Strong Bow sat on his aging war horse atop a hill.
His shoulders slumped forward with his head hung down.
Cold winds blew around him,
Making the only sound.
The old warrior’s face smiled lamely.
It was a good day to die,
And soon his spirit would depart,
Taking wings to fly.
Cold wind knifed through his buckskins
Into his old body both weak and frail.
Strong Bow closed his eyes and softly sang his death song,
Having reached the end of his trail.
(Note: The above poem is a result of my thoughts that were evoked by this artwork.)
There are so many, I know not where to start.
As I sit quietly and reflect,
My wondering thoughts and memories to collect,
Memories stir in my consciousness which awaken my heart.
Foolish words and deeds,
Poor choices made in youth without reason,
Like layers of paint on the wall
Add up, season after season.
Young and crazy, detached and aloof,
Speaking lies, innuendo, trash without proof.
Age brings wisdom.
Reflection brings enlightenment.
Rake not among old bones, searching for the truth.
If you receive a blessing, give thanks with your mouth.
It matters not where you are from…north, east, west, or south.
Blessings are not always recognized as such in the beginning.
Smile, and never look a gift horse in the mouth.
Sometimes, we do the right things for the wrong reason.
Sometimes, we do the wrong things for the wrong reason.
Try to do the right things for the right reason.
The end result will be so much more satisfying and pleasing.
Mistakes are the building blocks of experience it seems.
When we try to achieve a thing, sometimes we make mistakes.
Learning from our errors enables us to overcome,
Allowing us to move forward, fulfilling our hopes and dreams.
When done right, we live to age and grow old.
Aging is not for the faint of heart, at least so I’m told.
A heavy conscience of wrong choices builds memories to prick the soul.
Good memories and experiences are more precious than finest gold.
Tags: age, aging, awaken, Blessings, choices, conscience, enlightenmnet, foolish, Knowledge, Learning, metaphysics, mistakes, New Age, New Thought, pleasing, poem, Poetry, Reason, reflection, Religion and Spirituality, satisfying, slow progress, Thoughts, Truth, trying, Understanding, wisdom, youth