Moments

By Joan M. Steele

Moments is an old-fashioned reader. you will find Poetry, Essays, Short Stories and a Novelette beneath this cover. If you enjoy wondering in varied Literary Genre, Moments, will surely suit. Yes, its designed more for the thoughtful, those who appreciate the intellectual argument, the expansive reader. A book to pick-up now and then when the mood hits. One you could read bits of for years. It most particularly appeals to those who re-read what memory recalls.

Readers such as, Moments, lend themselves to certain Literature Classes. They have been known to furnish, "Creative Writing," supplements.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 25, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468595246

Joan M. Steele

Joan M. Steele, born 1932, residing in her home state of Washington received her BA degree in Education in 1959, hold MA equivalent credits in English-Literature (1984). She taught grade school for sixteen years and has been employed as a Secondary Substitute Teacher for the last ten years. She has been writing Poetry and Short Stories since childhood and is a dedicated bookworm. Being a life member of Bookworms International, a Liberal Arts/English-Literature Major, living in five areas of the country-teaching in four of, allows this girl to stake her claim in the realm of pleasing the audience. Her dedication to writing began early. She just can't help putting words down on paper. Add to this her un-ending interests and her continued trust that readers will accept. Enjoy her offerings--what more do you require?

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© 2012 Joan M. Steele. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 7/20/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4685-9525-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-9524-6 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

I Poems

Why Do We?

Autumn Invitation

A Cloud

Pansies

Wind

The River

The Sky

Raining Lights

The Lion

The White Owl

The Brown Horse

Moments

Let Me Hear That Tune!

Dusk And Dawn

My Brother and I

Fright

St. John’s

Science and the Human Mind

The City, My City

Modern Man

The Double Edge

Riposte!

The Constancy of the Human Spirit

A Mr. Good Bar, Please!

Just Joe

The Natural Dance

The Indomitable Human Spirit

Creative Writing

II Essays

Hostility

Lone

Mind Tricks

Nationalism Is Alive

On Memorial Day

Public Education

Surrender

Teachers

Words Die. Do They?

III Short Stories

First Love’s Power

The Giant

Into The Woods

The Kontiki

The Lord’s Hill

Pumpkin Destiny

The Tramp

IV A Novelette

Calling

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Why Do We?

Why do we catch and hold some things in the mind, carry them with us, savor, and retain? Recovering them from the day, they live again that night. We run through them in our dreams and catch them on the retina as though anew. We’re afraid of losing something only partially recognized. Precious or no? We aren’t sure. They are dear. We can’t let them go. Memories, they have been called. We must protect and sharpen their focus till they are ours completely, or until once again we are their’s. We melt into their scene. I prefer to call them, Live Moments. Live Moments, which have a life of their own.

Such enigma’s draw their greatest power on those rare days of play. Whether young or old, when we allow ourselves to expend all our waking energies on the here and now. They gain sway. No divided attention, this. No mental work exists, only that high, childlike preoccupation and concentration will we allow. Nothing but the aura of play brings out this high pitch of freedom and elation in just being alive. Once again, we can appreciate Wordsworth’s, Field of Golden Daffodils.

Autumn Invitation

I received your invitation

Late one evening.

The mug had lifted.

No longer heavy the air,

It was chill and clear.

The moon without haze.

The faint signs of color

In your leaves, I perceived

Your dress rehearsal

Was in the offing,

The yellows and oranges

Congealing red-in sun.

Your invitation meant

Escape, a day of play.

We rush each year

To behold your repeat performance.

We stand in line—car upon car

Just to pay homage to your pagentry.

Your a puzzlement—

How you change your hues.

Science explains your

Alteration-still beholding-

You appear much like

A magic show.

We know you go through

A technical rehearsal.

Yet it seems, like overnight,

Your stage crews slave

To achieve this rich affect—

Their painting is so intricate.

Climbing the mountain to your theater,

Your advertisements we behold.

Fortelling Market Day along the way,

Birthing of your brood you smear—

Your bounty of apples, pumpkins,

And squashes in abundance.

Such a gigantic stage.

From a distance a spectacular haze,

You’ve strewn your programs everywhere—

The juice of the earth locked in the leaves.

Costumes like shaggy Scarecrows abound

With heavy ladies in shocking shawls.

Your magic show

Is the only one I know

That is composed

Of one short scene—

Admission—wrapt attention—

Unanimous applause.

Your transformation strikes us

With a wonder.

Each year we pilgrimage

This long prodigious procession

Winding its way for your

Resplendent pagan pacification.

A Cloud

I keep my eye on you

Even as you go askew.

Movement is your cue.

Is that all you ever do?

How slowly do you glide

Your shapes to change and hide—

Cotton Candy pillows

Suspended in the blue.

You’re plump like a feather bed,

But as I watch you go.

Oh so slowly,

Your disfigurement begins—

And there you are a bear,

Now you lengthen into

A snake

And separate.

What a fate—

To only glide amongst the blue

Like the pictures

On the ceiling or the wall

Just not—at all.

Pansies

Pansies standing in a row.

How sweet to be

So soft and velvety,

To have no care

And only just be there.

Wind

Wind you free me

From-

You toss me out upon

My own

And make me feel

Alone.

I want to run

And hide within your grasp.

I want to float away

From view

And be forever lost

From time.

One, with you.

The River

The Rivers at my heels.

The Rivers in my blood.

Bubbling and breaking

Frothing at my toes

Laping at my ankles

The Rivers at my heels.

The Rivers in my blood.

Stumbling on its rocks

Chilling to its touch

Bruising in its clutch

The Rivers at my heels.

The Rivers in my blood.

Climbing higher, higher

Pulling me along

Kicking at my body

The Rivers at my heels.

The Rivers in my blood.

The Rivers running through.

The Sky

I hate it

When the sky’s at war!

The Sun

Determined to take

The Day

Away from that huge

Gray Cloud.

The back and forth of it,

What to be?

Stagnation of the air

Cannot bare!

Blessed rain won the game,

Drug the dust

From the sun-desert smell.

Raining Lights

Lights enveloped in the dark,

Slithering through the liquid lanes,

Trickling down on the pavement dark.

Pinks and reds loose with violets sped,

Run into magenta’s flow,

On and on until you reach

Yellows powerful glow.

Mingle swiftly splashing all,

Keeping that fascination alive,

Giving that muted warmth

The strength to stay

Locked in your embrace.

The Lion

When first I saw your form—

Stocky, stolid lines,

Stone heaviness body,

Solid cast, denying grace and speed—

Momentary epiphany.

Stepping into the artist’s eye,

I saw you—engraved upon the wall.

Reproduce you there, could I,

You see—

Upon the paper bare.

Your long, strong body—

Thick, powerful legs

Close upon the ground-

Queen, carried you in your mien.

Beauty on the move!

Like Hemingway’s Fisherman beheld—

Pounding along the shore.

Infintisimal pulse, we were one.

You see—

I’d never seen you before.

The White Owl

When I was a small child

A white Alaskan Owl

Perched itself upon

A telephone pole.

From the kitchen window,

We could barely see

Him sitting way up there.

It was quite a height.

He blended in with

The dullness of the day—

His white against the

Foggy haze of chalky,

Heavy, chilling, dampness.

How long he’d been there,

We couldn’t be sure.

His intrusion, so subtle-

Where the atmosphere left off

And bird outline began

Was indiscernible.

Was he caught in a storm

Up there and carried here;

Lost from his home,

Confused in a treachery

Of the natural elements?

What would happen to him?

How long would he stay,

Perched up there that way,

An alien, lost and scared?

Was he too young

To protect himself

From some larger,

Stronger bird—an eagle?

How long had he flown,

Not knowing the way,

Flying in the wrong direction,

Thinking he was going home?

It was late when last

We looked out,

But he hadn’t moved

Frozen there-catatonic state.

High he was up there

Stuck on that telephone pole.

Was he resting, sleeping

Or just dissisting-afraid to move?

We didn’t need the

Newspaper report

To surmise, that he

Was lost or disabled.

His whiteness was just

A shade whiter than

The dismal atmosphere.

Only his eyes

Showed he was still there.

What terror overtook

Him in his own confines

To bring him so far

Afield from those snow

And icy sights?

How forlorn and frightened

He must be in this

Strange and peopled place:

Roof tops and telephone poles.

For he had left snow-clad

Mountain tops and trees

Far behind in frozen climbs—

In that land of the midnight sun.

Next day, disappeared he had

From the tall, tall telephone pole.

The Newspaper said:

The rocks that were thrown

Scared him away.

The people world, they

Turned on him too,

With his energies spent,

Did he make it

North And Home again?

The Brown Horse

Waves of heat pinning me there

The sun came nearer, soaking

Me in its brightness. Frozen

Where I lay, little needles

Striking my unprotected flesh.

The Brown Horse stepped through

The brightness, charging forward—

Paralyzed-I watched him

Crashing through the light

Penetrating the heat.

Slicing the air—powering

Brown muscles, galloping

Hooves, stirring the dust—

Strong, forceful swaying

Caught in Orange-Yellow fisson

Poised in the brightness,

Held in flight—ever coming

On—closer, closer he came.

Taking over my space,

Misplaced I hovered in between.

Still he came, but there was another—

A Brown Form lying on the ground.

Stopping now-harming not his intent—

Trying he was to help the other—

The One-The Mother on the ground.

Expectant, I ran into the scene.

Without Being, I was there

Running, running away

From the stinging brightness

To the small, brown helpless mounds.

Twin Colts lay shivering,

The brightness faded into mist,

And there I lay stifling

In a Summer Nap—reaching

For the shimmering Charisma Show.

Moments

Moments on the Map.

Moments in the Mind.

What places to recall.

What pictures do appear?

Some live in the head

Closet their thoughts,

Lock, peruse them there.

What has fallen in?

When I was six or seven

Came a strange night in Summer.

Daylight did persist-Horizon

So hot-it must be on fire.

Gave off orange, gassy haze.

Earth had to be standing still.

The sky of Ptolemy

Decided to have a rest.

Or was it a test to see

If we watched out for Night?

Very late-I could not sleep.

Cause the Sun so window bright

Would not let go of the day.

No more dark-only suffo-

Cating Light-heat waves kept

Me staring at yellow Sky.

But the sunny would not go.

I wondered what might be-

Come of Me, My Family

If this Wonder didn’t flop.

Mother felt it too, for she

Came into our room just

To see if it was true-

Here-the same as there.

We went to the window

Mother, My Sister and Me.

Mother said, "If Thunder,

Lightening came-it would go-

Bring the Rain-take away

Our fright." Waiting within

The grasp of that great unknown,

Somehow, I fell asleep.

It must have gone for the

Lighting never came

And neither did the Rain.

Next day I went out to play.

Have you ever traveled

With the Stars beside you?

Horizontal to the Train

They came two years running.

Late September, I, passenger

Seattle-Annapolis bourne

Across the great expanse

Of ‘Big Sky Land’, Montana,

Once Buffalo pounded flat.

A following along side

I met the ‘Dipper’ near,

Large and fine like a Cina-

Mascope. Shrine. Guided its lost

Lady, comforting, to her

Unseen destiny-better

Friend could not accompany.

What was it like, I said to

My Uncle on a Summers Eve

A long, long time after the

Invasion, ‘D Day’? He was

One of those who scrambled from

An obsolete landing craft

And made it to shore

At Normandy in ‘44’.

It was not so much the

Shoring confusion stuck

In his mind, but the time

On ship before the beaching.

Very like My Sister

Experienced In ‘58’

When she traveled across

The Pacific on a Navy

Service Transport. Awe,

And perhaps to, a kind of

Nameless, faceless overwhelming

Lost-of small significance.

Incomprehensibility

Flooding with being afloat

Seeing nothing but water

In every direction-

Only the horizon line

To break visions dizziness.

Alone, no sense of You to

Hang onto-empty silence!

Then uncle talked of night,

The Atlantic, of fear-

Alone far, far from home.

The Old Mariner’s words

Sang in my mind with his:

"Water, water everywhere;

All alone on a wide, wide sea!

Keen as Coleridge did see.

Knew only a few survivors

Of the Second World War.

Our neighbor floated in the water

At Pearl for hours and hours,

Along with bodies, debris, till

Finally found, took him ashore.

Peculiar gate he had to take,

Legs moved ahead of him.

Young man at work walked

Strangely too, back permanently

Bent like an old arthritic man.

He could not stand erect.

Beating him on the back each

And every day in that

South Pacific Prison Camp.

He was too tall-he must crawl.

Makes one wonder who was Victor.

Is Win a disease when

Differences cover more

Than just economy?

See it still, that length of space,

Old condition, but new strange place.

Signing up for classes again.

All those Souls waiting their turn.

Individuals alone,

Impersonal, yet together

Regimented in one vast space

At mercy of those seated few.

It was only a Gym, but the

Chill that came standing in line

Resurrected another time:

What it must have been to those

Who lived through Concentration

Camps-herded into box-cars.

Panic inflated when caught!

Why had they not resisted?

What had made them dumb?

Shock, raw fear, inertia from

The constant barrage, confu-

Sion of fallacious Info?

Had they not felt Hate before

For esoteric belief, wealth?

‘Nothing’ brought cataclysmic

Forced Nazi atonement?

What makes one gloat, shout, sing

When a Nation takes back land

Like Israel in ‘67’; Germany, ‘89’-

The Wall, Tore it down to rubble;

The Russian People marching,

Taking, reclaiming their own?

Is there a beat within the Soul

That pours from the Earth?

Like the floods and the winds,

By the invisible hand of God:

The Power that made the Blacks

March North, take their own freedom

In hand; the Force that pushed

The Settlers across the land;

Makes the Indigent pile into

Boats which can’t stay afloat.

It was a glorious day.

We had a flat tire between

Reno and Carson City,

Nevada-the heart of the West.

Land reaching to gigantic

Mountains-very like stepping

Into, The Sound Of Music!

January, early fore-noon.

Beautiful blue sky-white clouds,

Clear, crisp, sunny-the way a

Mountain Climate can be

In the midst of Winter.

Waiting for the Tire to be

Replaced, I gazed around.

What were those large flying

Things-red, yellow, blue, green

Way, way up high in the sky?

Straining with my eyes

I discerned a man

Entangled in colored wings.

A little ways away-another

Flash of color-floating, swinging

In the lower air, stretching

His feet to touch upon the ground.

‘Hang Gliding’-incredible daring

Reckless spectacle to behold.

My, I envied those two who re-

Created DeVinci’s flying man.

What a glory it must be

Suspended up there-light

And free-without a care-

Almost, my day became for me.

Let Me Hear That Tune!

Let me hear that Tune!

Make it rare, make it stick!

Electrify the air!

It can have words or none,

Popular, Classical,

But Me lo dy must be.

Lilting, swing, or synco-

Pated beat will repeat.

Clear, sharp piano tones,

Moan of a low, low sax!

Every note must catch.

Hug them there to my breast.

Put all the stress on hold.

Cloud the intellect wit.

Shower with sheer delight.

Dusk And Dawn

Dusk and Dawn

Are an awesome two,

A scary pair!

Alpha and Omega

To the Day—the Night!

There’s something

Frightening

About taking

Flight-when

It’s not quiet

Night.

The Pilot

Caught the mood.

You heard it

In his voice,

Over the

Bermuda

Triangle—coming

Down just past

The Jersey Lights:

The way he shook

Hands—his cabin

Open to view,

As we disembarked-

His face showing

Relief and strain

In that 737 plane.

Not going to bed,

Staying up all night—

Too much coffee

Or alcohol—the mind

In thrall:

Of speaking, thinking

Live intent!

Seeing the sky

Not willing to

Give-up the moon,

The sun pushing

To let in the shine,

Your body numb—

Limbo like—

Won’t let go.

Night and Day

They’ve come together.

Strange they should be

As one—Birth and Infancy—

Entwined to undermine

The mind!

My Brother and I

My Brother and I

So different from

The start—

In the womb

He was ready

Before the date

Pounding his little

Fists against the

Soft sides, kicking

With all his might—

Ready for the passage,

Straining for the air,

Battle scars on his head,

Bruised, maimed, he came.

In the womb

When it came time,

I stayed on—Plum—

Pin up— clinging

With my finger-nails

To the soft, pink sides.

I caught the cord in

A tangle about my neck.

I wanted nothing to do

With the white light or

The air—blue—cold, I came.

Fright

I’ve heard it said.

You can die of Fright.

And if it’s true,

Then I’d have to go

Sometime in the night

For the most frightening

Times I’ve ever known

Have happened in

My sleep.

Even color cannot

Minimize the scare

That comes with the

Mind in another’s charge

But oh the power

Of the deep, dark water,

And the awful big

Soft circle of white!

Explain you might

Crib Death of Fright.

St. John’s

St. John’s, you embraced,

You adopted. It in-

Sinuates your being.

You’ll never be free

Of College Avenue.

Would you want to be?

Row houses, heavy

Air, red earth, mug-

Gy September,

That began the Mid-

Dle of April, warm

Spring rains to play in.

The Naval Academy

In full dress, marching

To Church on Sunday.

Incomprehensible

Black dialects, with

The changing of the sheets.

St. John’s took up res-

Idence within your soul.

Deja Vu pales in

This encounter. Before

Sight, you knew it.

The buildings: the

Great Hall, the Library,

The Dinning Room,

The Dormitory-

Civil War Hospital—

The brick walks,

Laid together at angles.

The Tutorials, the

Seminars,

Lab classes,

Lectures, Julliard

String Quartet

In the Library.

Shakespeare into

The wee, wee hours

Of the morning.

Pizza’s at La-

Rosas, Hamburgers

At the Little Campus.

Manhattan’s and

Wine, for the

Very first time.

Is that what Lila-

Beral Arts is

All about?

A St. Johnnie

To the bitter end,

Born in contemplation.

Your only

true, fortunate

Affection.

Science and the Human Mind

The Scientific Discovery! My God! They have been overwhelming. I, for one, admit to understanding only a part of many great discoveries. Often, it is too much at the onset, I cannot fathom the whole. And when it involves higher Mathmatics to grasp the complete enormity, I must throw up my hands, swallow my limitations.

Those unique minds operating in solidarity, offering up to humanity what they found, what they had to find, represents much of man’s very best achievements.

Yes, Einsteins, Theory of Relativity, must overshadow them all. Energy equals mass times the speed of light squared, isn’t it? What the solitary mind is capable of!

Yet some of the lesser will remain for me of greater significance because I understand them more completely and they are closer to the human world than the physical world.

For me there are three which loom large.

Euclids envisioning within his mind and performing those wonders with lines—the birth of Geometry. It’s the doing of this within his. mind., his head that will always delight and fascinate me.

Harvey’s finding that our blood circulates through our body—the way in which it does—the obvious, yet not obvious at all. This has got to be the most significant of the workings of the human body!

Darwin and Wallace discovering the connection between plants and animals: the inorganic and the organic. Organic births in the Inorganic; Animal Life springs from Plant Life. Pasteur carrying it to actualization! Jesus and the wedding wine—fermentation! My! This is what makes evolution explosive, scary, not man descending from the apes. No wonder Darwin hid it from the world for a time.

For me this is not alien to the Bible. It is an explanation of the Bible Myth of Creation.

I should have said four greats. A big thank you to Mr. Bronowski for bringing All together in,The Ascent of Man.

The City, My City

Lake shore drive

Michigan Avenue,

Those Wide Streets,

Lions both sides

Of the Art Museum,

Saks 5th Avenue,

Summer Concerts

In Lincoln Park,

The Library Block,

North Western University,

Not far away, Adler

Planetarium, the

Currency Exchange,

State Street, the L, the Loop,