Retrospect

By Larry D. Powell

It is actually possible to remove mistakes from one's past, purging them from the record forever. At least, the author had such an opportunity while reviewing material he had written during the 1970's, subsequently included in this book. Resisting the recurring temptation to "improve" upon pieces composed decades earlier, he opted instead to submit them as originally written in order to preserve the integrity of a much earlier creative stage in his life. For clarity and perspective, each composition is accompanied by either explanatory or elaborative comments. It is quite probable that you have encountered individuals similar to some of those described here. Possibly, you will have pondered some of the same thoughts, shared some of the same experiences, and pursued some of the same subjects as those related in this little volume. If not, perhaps you will enjoy looking back over the author's shoulder at some unique personalities, observations, places, and perspectives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 24, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462044085

Larry D. Powell

Larry D. Powell served as a minister in The United Methodist Church for forty-five years before retiring in 2005. He is a graduate of Hendrix College and graduated with honors from Candler School of Theology. He and his wife, Terri, make their home near Conway, Arkansas. Stones is his seventh book.

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Contents

PREFACE

Childsong

Once Upon a Childhood Day

Shoe Soul

Red Rose, White Rose

For a Rose Unfaded

Let There be Light

When Papa Played the Harp

Amos

JEFF

Just Wondering

Green Leaf Gone

The Mirror

The Day the Fires Went Out

The Poet

The Garden

Old Man Remembering

My Cathedral

Tribute to a Lone Oak

Field of Diamonds

Autumn Morning

Softly Lies A Garden

The Wellspring

In My Mind

Out of the Depths

Retrospect

The Encore

On Being Premature

Death

Nature

The Jonquil

PREFACE

Life proceeds linearly in segmented stages: infancy, childhood, adolescence, youth, and adulthood. Moreover, each stage can conceivably have its own sub-set of stages. For example, the 1970’s included the poetic stage of my adulthood. During that ‘segment,’ I wrote numerous poems, became a member of Poet’s Roundtable and attended at least two meetings of The Arkansas Writer’s Conference. That stage elapsed uneventfully and near the close of the 1970’s my versifications were packed away, out of sight, out of mind.

Approximately 38 years later, during the reshuffling of desk-drawer accumulations, a number of time-yellowed pages lay strewn upon the carpet within reach of my desk. What are these? my wife, Terri, asked, already fingering and scanning pages she had retrieved from the floor. Even as I explained, she was settling herself onto the small couch adjacent to the desk, concentrating more upon what I had once written instead of what I was saying at the time. You ought to do something with these, she declared. Waiting politely until the conclusion of my confident assurances of futility, she replied, Well, then, do it for ME. And that is how these poems got out of the drawer, off the floor, and into your hands.

With the exception of To a Rose Unfaded (written in 1993), each piece appears here as originally written in the 1970’s. To alter even a word would misrepresent the ‘stage.’

It is sometimes remarked that if an explanation is required after something is told, it is an insult to either the hearer’s intelligence or the teller’s ability to communicate. On the following pages, the explanation precedes the telling, hopefully without insult to either the reader or writer.

PEOPLE

Someone has observed that one of the fringe benefits of parenthood is looking at your children after they are asleep. Those of us who have spent lingering, perhaps unexpectedly protracted moments doing just that understand completely. Another equally precious fringe benefit is listening to your children’s softly fading voices as they sing themselves to sleep. Or, for that matter, your children singing anytime they think no one is listening. Such was the inspiration for this 1972 piece, Childsong.

Childsong

Children’s high pitched voices,

Singing words that seldom rhyme;

Broken lines, quite repetitious,

In a tune that’s out of time.

Wearing clothes from grown-up closets,

Floppy shoes upon their feet;

Singing songs, when no one listens,

As they saunter down the street.

Beneath the tree, a little city,

Tiny cars and plastic men;

Busy hands forget we’re watching,

And we hear a song again.

Shadows lengthen into darkness,

Evening prayers and goodnight words;

Sleepy heads on downy pillows,

Try to sing and not be heard.

We have heard cathedral choirs,

And skillful fingers play on strings;

Yet, we have heard no sound more precious,

Than the children when they sing.

British pop singer, Michael Mick Hucknall, frontman for the group, Simply Red, wrote and performed a song released in 1985 entitled, Holding Back the Years. I mention the song here only to refer to the title. If only we could fathom some arcane phrase or concoct a prodigious anti-aging elixir to prevent the relentless advancing of years. But to press the matter beyond selfish interests, wouldn’t it be phenomenal if it were possible to freeze-frame (at least temporarily) precious, melancholy moments in the lives of our children? At times, it is more than a little disconcerting to observe natural growth and development steadily peeling away layer after layer of their child-ness. Oh, we understand the maturation process well enough and certainly would not wish them to be children forever. We just want to hold back the years in special places long enough to unwrap our heart from those who keep tangling it up. Precious memories don’t always linger. Oneday, they leave home. Realizing that day was inevitable and grievously aware that time, like light, has its own speed, I struggled with the words of Once Upon A Childhood Day in the midst of a sentimental lapse sometime in 1970’s.

Once Upon a Childhood Day

He stood alone for a moment,

In the middle of the room,

Took his first step,

And then his little legs gave way.

Reaching down to stand him up again,

I lost a little more of him today.

Across the yard and down the sidewalk,

Skipping gayly off to school;

At the window, I watch him turn the corner,

Feeling what I cannot say,

Tender moments whisper to me,

You lost a little more of him today.

He