Sycamore Tree and Me

By William F. Henderson

The author wishes to share this collection of poetic rhyming verses with readers who are willing to accept the authors wish that these verses are meant to :cry out to those who strive to attain success and happiness during their existence here on this planet earth.

Come with me and sit under the SYCAMORE TREE and be made aware of what I Am and what I always wanted to Be while developing skills and attitudes regarding Life, Service to All Mankind and the ability to be Proud of Myself.

Read on to discover secrets regarding my growing up in an environment of 10 children ,a Fantastic Mother and a Caring Father.
Be prepared to meet many verses that reflect on my family, my Loves, my educational experiences, my religious beliefs, my joys and my successes.

SYCAMORE TREESYCAMORE TREE
MOVE ON OVER..HERE WE BE.

WOPILA TANKA.

AS we sit under the SYCAMORE TREE to read, share and to meditate, please feel free to allow your imagination, intuition and intelligence to assist you to vicariously experience any of the poetic settings that you may select

.. William F. Henderson

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 20, 2008
• ISBN: 9781462840144

William F. Henderson

I was born in Thomasville, North Carolina Where I graduated from Church Street High School. I received my Bachelor-of Science Degree From The Winston-Salem Teachers’ College and a Master’s from the Pennsylvania State University. During my lifetime, I have worked as a newspaper carrier, a worker at a furniture factory, a life guard and an elementary school teacher and administrator in N.C. and Cal. During my early childhood period, I began to explore the World –of-Poetry and adopted the practice of sitting under a Sycamore Tree to employ efforts(in my original rhyming format) to transcribe my thoughts, problems, concerns, aspirations and memories onto paper. I am the father of one daughter and two sons: Valerie Weinberg (O.T),Daryl Henderson(M.D.), Derek Henderson(C.P),and six Grandchildren.

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Copyright © 2008 by William F. Henderson.

Illustration on cover by Bonnie Jean Henderson 1972

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Dedication

Preface

FAMILY

Sycamore And Me

Aspen 2002

Back On Track

In Aspen

SYCAMORE

TREE

AND

ME

Home . . . Home . . . Home

Abode For Mom And Dad

Nostalgia

Member When?

Did You Know?

Concerto For Mom

& Dad

Colorful Ma And Pa

Our Mom . . .

(Miss Minnie Mae)

Our Dad . . . . Son-of-pet

Christmas Day

Underground Dads

Backhome Safari

A Grandpa’s Blessing

Happy Birthday To Bonnie Jean

FRIEND

My Ardent S. P.

My Pal

A New Friend

Haron

The Beautitudes Of Friendship

LOVE

E l e g y

E t u d e

Evol

I L o v e Y o u

My Happiness

To Helen

A Birthday Salute

(To La)

Symphony In Words

Ashes To Ashes

Roses For An Orchid

Caught In Cancun

SACRED

Omnipotent

Symphony For Mankind

FLOWERS AND

SYMPATHY

Daffodil

Dahlia

Foget-Me-Not

Marigold

Orchid

Poppy

Rose

Sunflower

NOSTALGIA

If For Band Members

Lest Me Forget

Along An English Countryside

Das Lebtwohl

DIDACTIC

E x o d u s

Enigma

Precious Life

Schizopreniactrinosis

A Bee Sees

Truth

Holy Cow

Who Me?

Music . . . . Music . . . . Music

Yesterday And Today

Women Are Alphabets

QUIE

T I M E . . . .

A Face In The Clouds

Melancholy

Un Angel Descendio

That I Know

A Time To Know

ACADEMIC

L i f e

Confessions Of A Juror

I Wonder

Our World

F a c e s

La Petit Ecole Rouge

Life And Metal

Le Penseur

Mugs

INSPIRATION

Faith

H o p e

Why I Like Kipling’s If

Ending Is A Beginning

Dedication

With sincere appreciation and Thanks to the following:

Mom                Miss Minnie May. Who demonstrated LOVE every single Day

Dad                Who was called Son Pet The best Father that anyone could get.

La                Birthname Laverda May. A Dedicated wife in every Way.

Val                Valere Joyce or plain Val. Our first born in San Pablo Cal.

Daryl                Daryl Scot. Our 2nd born made us Proud a Lot.

Derek                Yes . . . Derek Shawn our 3rd born extremely busy from dusk to dawn,

Joshua                Joshua William. 1st Grandson with his musical talent bestowed Pride with a ton.

Elora                Elora Ashley. Yes what a gift who did many things to furnish a lift.

Kyrsten                Kyrsten Joi or just KJ whose hidden talents are exposed each day.

Angela                Angela Laverda, Yea there’s a name to have and to hold. Whose Grandmother’s was partially the same.

Alexander                Alexander James AJ . . . second Grandson. A gift I do say

Christopher                Christopher Daniels. A bouncy lad. 3rd Grandson. Future is great . . . not bad.

Preface

There was a place where I sometimes went

To think about my Life

About things that could happen to me

To bring Happiness or unwanted Strife.

About things that could be crucial

And very important to Me

About decisions, choices or

To Be or not To Be

There was a very quiet place where

Frogs croaked with a Blast

Where sad thoughts seemingly

Would forever Last

Where the Branch flowed

Smoothly with a silent Sound

Where I always knew that wild

Lilies could be Found

UNDER THE SYCAMORE TREE . . . .

FAMILY

A Brother, Sister, Mom or Dad

Grands, Cousins and Kinfolk once Had . . . .

Sycamore And Me

There is this Tree

It knows what I want to Be

It listens to my Laments

It knows of my Intents

The Sycamore Tree

The Sycamore Tree

It grows near the Branch

And not near a Ranch

It’s straight and Tall

Not round like a Ball

The Sycamore Tree

The Sycamore Tree

I am a very small boy and I like to sit in a Sycamore Tree

And think about the future and what I want to be

I love Reading, Writing and doing some Arithmetic

And I can learn a lot without the hickory stick.

I sometimes sit for hours and reflect upon the past

Thinking about images that I wish would last

I think about school experiences, some good and some bad

And how many make me happy or make me sad.

As I sit alone in the tall Sycamore Tree

Thinking of things that I want to be

Thinking of things that would make me feel great

Thinking of doing many things that would erase hate.

The leaves are green and the limbs are strong

My thoughts are many, some right and some wrong

The branch that is below the branch where I sit

Has clear clean water into which I will not spit.

When the sun finally goes down

I can see way up to New Town

Where good and bad people live

And are willing to give

The town is totally dark

There are no lights in the park

The kerosene lamps are dimly lit

Showing some light just a little bit.

There’s a smell in the air that reminds me of school

I recall reciting the poem "Twenty Froggies Down by The Pool

I see two small chickadees bravely flitting about

With an air rifle in my hand their fate is in doubt.

I see small minnows and crayfish with claws

Whacking at each other like cats with sharp paws

The tree snake above me slithers to my tight

I quickly move to my left to get out of sight.

I play on my Jew’s harp until my lips are sore

My animal friends are quiet so I lay some more

This goes on for awhile until a black crow appears

Then my animal friends shift into many gears.

All the tree snakes slither and the yellow jackets hum

The beat of my little heart goes dum-de-dum-dum.

The bull frogs croak and the mockingbirds sing

The smart blackbird pretends it has a broken wing.

I am sitting near a nest with three crackling eggs

I hear a soft chirp and see some tiny legs

Presto . . . . a head appears and then a wet wing

Bravo . . . . the jaws are open as if prepping to sing.

The night doth falls

And my dear mother calls

Bill, come and eat

We have beans to greet"

But mom, I say

It’s still today

And mom repeats,

We also have meats.

My stars, the ants are really alive

And bees fly in and out of the hive

I look out over the houses below

And watch my uncle Bo.

Bo Dittly . . . that is . . . and he plays an old mean guitar

And drives the trash wagon when he is not at the bar

You see from the top of the tree I can see up in New Town

And spy on everybody ’til I choose to come down.

The quiet air hums through the many branches

The scent dispelled reminds me of farm ranches.

I see chicken coups with leghorns and red roc

That cackle and crow around the clock.

I see Uncle Benson and Aunt Lindy’s brown and white cow

No problem down wind to whiff Uncle Charley’s black sow

I can hear the 12:00 whistle blow at Plant C

Where my daddy works 9 hours a day for family and me

As I sit here on a limb at the very top of the tree

Seriously thinking about life and what I want to be

I ponder long about living and what’s in a life

Will I finish school and lucky enough to deserve a wife.

Good Golly Miss Molly

I really need to be jolly

But, talk I must

Before day turns into dust.

What do I see as I look

When I read my favorite book

As a snake glides near

Oh yes . . . I really do fear . . .

I want to be better than what I have seen

I want to be nice to people and not be mean

I see two birds mating and the thought runs through my mind

Will I grow up to be like my friends lying and unkind.

Here in the tree I feel safe and warmly protected

The thought runs through my mind will I always be rejected

I am a newspaper carrier and I try to provide the best

My mother said that I told her I wanted to go west.

Every Saturday with a dime I go to the Picture Show

And see nice things going on in California where I want to go

I see all kinds of people living together

And enjoying their lives in very sunny weather.

Although it’s spring and the leaves are verdantly green

I want to be near some of those things that I have seen

I have my apple and Jack London’s book White Fang

Here I enjoy reading and not with the Church St. gang.

I set my goal of reading twenty-five pages a day

And will do just that until disturbed by Modell Ray.

Modell is a neighbor who does not go to school

He really hates me because I like to read by the pool.

Well, there’s my favorite crow

It knows what I know

The eyes are very still

Like it wants to kill.

But, along comes a blue jay

To hear what I want to say

I then begin to utter

As the wings begin to flutter.

And Modell’s cousins Pop Epps and Fats

Also want to greet me with big baseball bats.

Every time I go across the branch they want to fight

It really doesn’t matter if its day or night.

Modell and his cousins are the Cross-the-Branch gang

Twice a week when I deliver papers I always expect a bang

Pop Epps is very thin, skinny and tall

Who also fails to domicile in the school hall.

He always tries to fight me, but has trouble trying to connect

He always discovers himself to be a total reject.

My fighting style is Ju Jitsu a Japanese defense that I use

It provides me with protection against any physical abuse.

Just now another tree snake slithers down the trunk

As Uncle Bo drives by and he is not drunk

He whips on the mules and puts on the brakes

I move to a limb where there are no friendly snakes

Down below, I see two big black tom cats

Swimming in the branch chasing big black rats

Five black buzzards are fling overhead

Looking for animals that might be dead.

Again, I hear mom calling

She knoweth not why I am stalling

I’m here with friends to say my piece

I’d rather talk than eat the grease.

Fat back and pinto beans

Best biscuits you’ve ever seen

My mom’s the best cook around

The Very Best in all Newtown.

I’m on page twenty-five and my apple’s all eaten up

I hear Spotlight barking she’s my little pup.

What a pup this canine is turning out to be

Little and small and very loyal to me.

She tries to protect me by killing all the rats

And having minor conflicts with dogs and cats

There go Sonny Boy and his sister Ginnie Mae

Trying to find where their grandmother’s whiskey lay.

Both are my neighbors who are their grandmother’s scouts

The sneak bootlegged moonshine to the woods to avoid bouts

Ginnie Mae is the 1st girl, ever since I was only six years old

Who wanted to be my girl and wow she could be bold

Sometimes she comes around to our side every night

And won’t even ask my mama if it is ok or alright

Like a cat she often sneaks and hides under the bed to purr

Lyingly tell Miss Minnie Mae that I am looking at her.

Many times Mama calls and says "Come here right now Bill

And let Ginnie Mae alone so she can be still"

I always say," Mama, I ain’t done nothing to Ginnie Mae

She’s telling stories on me ’cause I don’t want to play.

But my friends are always loyal

They respect me like I’m royal

Now should I stay or must I go

Count to ten and don’t be too slow.

My heart beats very fast

When I speak of the past

My friends are all ears

While seeing my many tears.

Many times Ginnie Mae gets her nappy hair caught in springs

While crawling from under the bed with false Halo rings.

She is determined to convince Mom that she is right

And is often ready to cry and put up a tearless fight.

I often think about my 1st Grade teacher . . . Mrs. Wadell

Who first taught me Reading and Writing from bell to bell.

My first home-made drum was an oat meal box

I heard my 1st Aesop fable about the rabbit and fox.

I remember skipping the High First and going to Grade Two

Because I already knew my ABC’s and just what to do.

I remember being in charge of devotion in class one day

When I led the class in songs poetry and a time to pray.

School is a whole lot of fun and I go every single day

I like every one of my teachers and especially what they say.

There are days when I am sad and I want to cry

When I get the word that an uncle is about to die.

I have many relatives scattered all over T’ville town

To sit here and count the number I would never come down

So here I continue to sit way up in this tall Sycamore Tree

Thinking how to be a Big Brother for Ernest Lee

I say some private things

As the crow flutter it’s wings

The blue jay shakes its head

At what I have said

I continue to sputter some words

To these very friendly birds

I feel OK when I’m through

They often tell me what to do.

I want to become educated to make Mom and Dad very proud

And I know for a certain fact that missing school is not allowed

The sun is slowing sinking and is about to go down

A few more thoughts as I look again up in New Town.

Looking below as the muddy water still flows

I remember Mrs. May(3rd Grade) who kept us on our toes

Missing a word in spelling you had to lie down across her lap

And try to remember the right word or get a Bingo tap

It’s lunch time, I hear the whistle blow way uptown at Plant C

I remember Ms. Hester who told me to be what I wanted to be

She gave me help, kindness and a whole bunch of inspiration

For 3 years in grades 4-5-6 as I festered with admiration

My schooldays are always filled with learning and fun

I sometimes stay until late to get my homework done

Many teachers stay around preparing for the next day

Practicing on the right things that they wanted to say.

Opps, there jumps a friendly and rather green frog

Who jumps to a hanging limb from a floating log

And looks straight at me and lets out a loud croak

Reminding me that Mom’s last call is for obedient folk.

Now there’s that murder case

About the policeman . . . another race

It happened in the town’s bank

On Salem Street near the water tank.

No suspects were arrested

No theories contested

Who could the killer be

Everyone wanted to see.

My Nero Wolfe’s mind

Suggested things that were unkind

First a motive had to appear

Then a solution could be near.

Carrying papers very early

Observed people skinny or burly

I walked by the bank every morn

Before crunching on an ear of corn.

Who could the killer be

Was it a little her. A big she?

The truth will come out soon

After some years or a blue moon.

The sun is shining up high

Piercing through clouds in the sky

A leaf falls slowly down

As I continue to see New Town.

A blue car is parked right there

With an owner who does care

A stray dog comes along

Just then I hear a tweeting song

The dove gives a clear woo

I wonder what should I do

The questions are very strong

With answers that could be wrong.

But, yet and still I ponder

And think if I should wonder

My animal friends are here

I feel good that they are near.

I speak to myself . . . all alone

Right down to the bone

My heart beats fast and swift

Am I ready for a needy lift?

Hello!!!! Once again Mom Calls and here I be

Sitting up here in this tall Sycamore Tree

Reflecting on LIFE and attempting to see

The Future and what