Saturday, December 4, 2010

First Christmas without Larry Humphries

First Christmas without William...

Is it William or Bill?
I don’t know William,
and, I suppose, neither do you.

William R. Foster, Jr, died on Saturday, August 28, 2010.
Home going service will be at House of Day Funeral Service,
Tuesday, August 31, 2010.  Wake hour at 10 a.m. with
funeral hour at 11 a.m.

I noticed this on the obituary page
filled with life stories,
only because it’s one paragraph.

A lifetime in 36 words.
It’s not enough.

Perhaps it was written to catch my attention.

I see his mother holding him at birth.
Lovingly naming him for his proud father.
Does he have a wife?  Children?
Are his parents now heartbroken?

Who will attend the wake?
Will I?
Probably not.
Will I think of Bill on Tuesday at 10 a.m.?
Probably not.

But, we’re thinking about him now.

L. Humphries
© August 2010

Graham Nash-- Poem--Creative Utopia

In the moments I find happiness
Transitory gifts of enchantment
From sweet kitten play to prominent prose
Divine happiness is truly in the moments
More and more frequent they appear
Inviting me to willingly bathe within silent pools of wonderment
Beckoning glittering reflection of myself
Bringing enlightenment
Realising potential
Delivering future of what once seemed past
In the moments there is truth
Within each one is limitless hope
Endless possibilities of realisation
Eager to be woven into a grand tapestry
Dressing my life in regal flair
Adorning my crown of scarlet ribbons
Displaying my crimson cloak of serene fulfillment
In the moments you will find me
Pure in essence
Rejoiced in reassurance
Blessed in self contentment
Naked reality laid bare for all to see
No hidden complexities
Mother Natures barefoot daughter
In the moments I am free
To run free
To laugh and whoop with glee
To be me
To be the me that I am
To be the me I long to be
In the moments.................

Audrey and Gray 2010 

Wings by Peter Doyle


I am going bush
to make some wings
from tallowwood.

The chainsaw stays at home today;
they must be hewn by hand
or the angels will not wear them.

I will find the tallest tree,
then, begging mercy,
fell it blow by blow;
hacking from the living heart
interlocked and wavy grain
of greasy yellow-brown;
hard as unforgiveness,
heavy as regret,   
riddled with      
the black-lined burrows
of Ambrosia beetles.

(Did I specifically mention    
the black-veiled sorrows       
of the locust and weevil,
left over from past plagues?)

Measuring by eye
I will cleave them
with my naked hands,
scrape them smooth with brokenness
and burnish them with prayer.

There on an altar
of rounded, mossy stones,
to offer them until the fire falls
and smoke arises,
carrying to heaven
every hint of bitterness.

Peter Doyle  20/07/2010
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Poem By Anthony Lodesto

As the snowflakes fall
And the cold settles in,
Jack Frost’s bitter chill;
Brushes against cheeks
Adding a peppermint rose glow.

The mistletoe is hung high,
As the dreams of babes
Turn to a man flying by.
Gingerbread smells,
The ringing of golden bells,
Aromatic, tinseled glow
Of the evergreen pine,
Dressed to impress
Shaded presents lie below
Marked hers and mine;

There’s only one gift
Where one wonders about,
When love and holiday come together
Sparked by a scented candle’s glow,
Cherry Chap Stick lips
Meet in the falling snow
Consented underneath the mistletoe.

The Eve of dreams
Are alive and sweet
Making the kissers
Light on their feet,
The one gift
Not wrapped nor topped with a bow,
The magic of the holiday spirit
Brings the truest of gifts
That of the Christmas kiss.

Anthony Lodestro