The Noblest Volume Ii: An Anthology of Prose and Poetry

By Albert Balossi, Carolyn Clark, Ray S Coco and 4 more

The Noblest Vol. II is a collection of some of the work of a small group of people from different walks of life who came together in a writing workshop given at the Noble Maritime Collection. Together, we shared our writings, we listened to each other, and we grew into a family of friends. As you read their thoughts, their ideas, their stories, you will come to glimpse them as I have been privileged to do. Their poems, stories, and memoirs speak for themselves. They have opened their hearts and souls in their writings. Tread softly as you read our works and enter into our lives. We hope our writing speaks to you and that you find a friend or two in these pages and that the words conjure memories, stimulate imagination, take you to special places, and give you pause to think.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465364579

Book preview

The Noblest

An Anthology of

Prose and Poetry

Volume II

Edited by

George R. Hopkins

This work is a compilation of the writings of seven people from various walks of life who met in a writing workshop and decided to share their writings with others. The writings contained here are all the original work of the writers.

Copyright © 2011 by Albert Balossi, Carolyn Clark, Ray S. Coco, John Foxell, George R. Hopkins Evelyn Palomba, and Jean Roland.

ISBN:                      Softcover                      978-1-4653-6456-2

                                 Ebook                            978-1-4653-6457-9

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the writers themselves, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

Cover art work courtesy of Toni Ann Palomba.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

104825

Contents

Introduction

Book I

Book II

Book III

Book IV

Book V

Book VI

Book VII

To the loves of our lives

Introduction

Welcome to Volume II of The Noblest. Spawned from writing classes at the John Noble Maritime Collection in Staten Island, New York, The Noblest is a collection of some of the work of six very different, multi-talented people from different walks of life who came together in a writing workshop I gave at the John Noble Maritime Museum. Initially, I did not want to detract from their accomplishments with my own writings, but they are a persistent group and they prevailed. We hope our writing speaks to you and that you find a friend or two in these pages and that the words conjure memories, stimulate imagination, take you to special places, and give you pause to think.

Together, we have shared our writings, listened to each other, and grown into a family of friends. During the course of our workshops together we became much more than students and teacher—we became friends. That happens when you share things and you respect each other. I am proud of what they have accomplished and pleased of their asking me to contribute some of my writings to their work.

What you will read in this second volume of The Noblest are some of our essays, poems, short stories, memoirs, diary entries, and commentaries. Sir Francis Bacon once wrote that some books are to be tasted, some to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested whole. Hopefully, the reader will discover a little of each within these pages for here there is humor, sadness, imagination, pride, opinion, true experience, fiction, reflectiveness and thoughtfulness.

There are a number of people who helped make this work possible. In addition to our happy band of writers, Albert Balossi, Carolyn Clark, Ray S. Coco, John Foxell, Evelyn Palomba, and Jean Lucier Roland, I must thank Erin Urban, Executive Director of the Noble Maritime Collection, and DB Lampman for giving me the opportunity to meet so many talented writers and work with them, and I also need to thank Ciro Galeno, Jr. for helping make our meetings at the Noble Maritime Collection enjoyable and productive.

Thank you all.

George R. Hopkins

Book I

Albert Balossi

I am the kind of a guy, one might say, whose life could be summed up by the words a day late and a dollar short.

I was born in New York City’s Greenwich Village in the late 1920s but was too young to know about or able to enjoy the hedonistic pleasures of the Flapper era. I grew up in semi rural Staten Island during the entire period of the Great Depression, not knowing that we were poor. As a matter of fact we often ate chunks re-hydrated bread, cut from really stale loaves as long and as hard as baseball bats. Sprinkled with oil and vinegar they were such a tasty treat I thought it was dessert.

Yet I remember enjoying the riches of the bucolic woodlands that bordered our hillside home. Unencumbered by boundaries such as cramped living quarters and harassing street traffic that city dwellers had to deal with I was able to roam freely through wooded areas and commune with nature.

Because of the poor timing of my birth, I missed out on the great opportunity to fight in World War II, also known as the Big War. But just as the war ended I became of age and did a hitch in the U S Army Signal Corps. I served in the Philippines and the island of Guam in an area surrounded by tropical jungle. Hell, the entire island was mostly jungle. There was no action, no fighting, no bullets nor bombs to contend with. It was just boring duty.

When I finished my hitch, I took my discharge papers, good conduct medal and my ruptured duck lapel pin and went to work in the telecommunication industry. During the 38 year period I worked for the same company, I married and raised four children. At the end of this period, I was kicked out of a job and dumped into the Golden years of early retirement. Of course without the golden parachute. Too young to feel retired and too old to be hired, I wandered the lonely desert of the retirement world without a compass.

Unskilled at the manly pursuit of the game of golf and with no passion or desire to play the ponies, nor indulge myself as many seniors may at casino gambling to idle the time away, I finally stumbled on to a very talented writing group. I was lucky to hook up with them and they helped me become a wannabe writer of poetry and prose, of sorts.

Albert Balossi

A BOND

He holds the center stage and I do not

I bite my tongue for fear to venture on

For I should not quite dare to tread upon

A friendship that to me still means a lot

And yet I’d felt we’d gone a step beyond

To boundless love where all is fair and true

Not one in which I’m just a friend to you

But where we share a strong and loving bond

A bond not torn by careless thought or whim

A bond that shall sustain us through the years

A bond not broken where we’d both shed tears

A bond that places me ahead of him

A START

A start may be slow,

rapid or delayed;

most often though,

indefinitely postponed.

Inertia is difficult to overcome;

tomorrow will do, we say.

Tomorrow comes and goes

yet there is no start;

without a start,

there will never be an end.

A LOST YEAR

There are years we may remember,

as in time our lives unfold;

years of sorrow and regret.

Years we wish we had the power,

to transform or just forget.

1940, a lost year for the many

trapped in the doldrums of despair

as war raged in Europe.

Nazi’s swallowed countries whole;

Jews were blithely incinerated

as our nation and the world

looked on but did not see.

Paralyzed by uncertainty

America lolled in limbo

and dithered in inaction

while flames of destruction

consumed the European continent.

Here, the great depression stumbled on.

Our nation would lose its innocence

when soon it would be dragged into war.

1940 was a lost year for our family too;

It was the year that Papa died

and momma cried and I did too;

while gripped with anguish and fear

home foreclosure struck

like the bolt of lightening that split

the tall oak tree in our back yard;

our lives too were splintered

when the home we owned was lost;

to fend off homelessness,

mom moved us in with relatives.

1940 a year of great loss,

was indeed a lost year.

ADIEU

This is just to say, his note began,

"I’ve just received my call to arms.

I’m off to fight beyond the sea

In a land that’s rife with war

And filled with despotic tyranny.

Yet I’ve taken to the coward’s way

For I could not bear to face

A tear filled scene with you

So instead I chose to write this note

To say my sad adieu."

ANYONE HERE?

Anyone here I asked?

We’re all here

the muffled voices said

barely audible in response;

but saw no one in the darkness.

It was in the black of night

faint shadows seemed to hover

here and there

most everywhere

but no solid forms appeared.

I fumbled for my light

a flashlight I had brought

hoping it would not fail me

I switched it on

all the shadows were gone

I stood there alone

in a graveyard by the sea.

AMERICA THE BEAUTIFUL

Breathe in, she reminded herself

For the air was crisp and clean

As the prairie wagon ascending the mountain

Drove above the tree line

The over worked horses were worn and spent

From this point onward

Mules would be ridden along the dirt road

Leading to the top of Pikes Peak

In the rarified air at the summit

Katherine Lee Bates, teacher and poet

Was awed by the beauty and grandeur

Of the panoramic scene surrounding her

She saw a kaleidoscope of colors, hues and textures

A patchwork quilt of unspoiled nature

Representing the magnificence of our country

In 1890’s America

This pure and pristine sight

Inspired Ms Bates to write

Her famous poem—America

Later to be converted into the beloved song

America the Beautiful.

In the century that followed

Selfish, sleazy stewards of our natural resources

Became the despoilers of America—

Clear cutting timber and leaving stubble

Where mighty forest once flourished—

Surface or strip-mining removed mountaintops

Dumping overlay slag and slurries into hollers

Indiscriminately polluting pristine rivers and streams—

Smokestack industries

Spewed acid rain across the nations landscapes—

Pesticide use by big and small Agra farms

Seeped into the earth’s drinking water aquifer

Rivers, streams and lakes—

Big factory Pig farms with lagoons filled with Animal excreta

And other pig waste products spew noxious effluvia

While moldering, bubbling rot has no where to go—

Spent nuclear fuel rods waiting for safe disposal—

Oh, America the Beautiful… Where have you gone?

BEGINNING SPRING

Beginning spring sees crocuses

poke their purplish heads

above the thawing loam;

like the cockcrow at dawn,

they signal a new dawning is at hand

as earth awakens from its

long slumbering state of rest.

Reborn, the season emerges slowly

from gloomy depths of cruel, gray winter.

Soon, golden daffodils will commence to

dance and sway, bobbing their heads

in warm, gentle spring breezes.

Can summer be far behind?

BIGFOOT

Just a gray and white kitten

Born in the wild,

A beautiful creature

So gentle, so mild.

We all called her Bigfoot

Her paws gave her name,

Our home she adopted

Our hearts she did claim.

Like one of God’s angels

Come down from above,

She filled all who knew her

With volumes of love.

Brief was her visit

She gave joy to the end,

We shall never forget

This kind, loving friend.

BITTER VETCH

I sip the cup

Of memories long past,

And savor their ambrosia,

To the brim;

Old memories,

In the fullness of their time

Like wines well aged,

Have naught but

Sweetest flavor to impart.

But now,

I’m forced to sip this cup

Of verdant wine,

A wine of sour taste

You’ve left for me to choke upon.

A brew so acrid it would seem…

A bitter vetch was boiled inside,

The cauldron of an ugly witch.

FEVER

The fever broke,

The brain is calmer,

There was no smoke,

Yet it was, a five alarmer.

BREAD

Nothing is better than bread

slathered with rich creamy butter,

served with piping hot coffee

on a cold winter morning.

Nothing can be better than bread,

olives and cheese at wine tasting time

when the autumn harvest grapes have

magically turned to a delectable red nectar.

Nothing is better than bread

topped with soft gooey cheese

floating atop a cup of steamy,

savory French onion soup.

Nothing is better to tease the palate

before dinner than crusty chunks bread

dipped into a mix of virgin olive oil,

hot pepper flakes, garlic and rosemary.

Nothing is better than bread pudding

served with a generous portion of

sauce made with Jack Daniels whisky.

Nothing could better than toasted chunks

of coarse Italian bread

rubbed with fresh garlic

and drizzled with olive oil.

Bread goes from the hearth to the heart.

Its not only the staff of life

it also nourishes the soul.

CHANGE PLACES

Change places with the homeless,

the needy and the sick…

if you dare.

For they are the unsung victims

of a world where

Greed is good

and selfishness

is worn as a badge of honor.

Walk in their shoes,

if indeed they have shoes,

or are even able to walk.

Sift through the trash

to seek your daily bread

or a dumpster for a shirt to wear.

Stand humbly in a soup kitchen line

to beg a meager meal

or wait endlessly in an emergency room

suffering intense pain that won’t subside;

feeling like you might die…

and hoped you would.

Sleep in an alley or doorway

to avoid the cold, rain

and profanity shouted at you.

Or just continue your selfish, uncaring ways,

proudly shouting Pull up the ladder, I’ve got mine.

CHERRIES

Cherries

Small round succulent

Plump palate pleasing fruits

With only a single pit

To contend with.

Domesticated or wild

Sweet or tart

Served fresh or dried

In ice cream or Cherry jubilee

Encased in chocolate,

Piecrust, cake or cobbler

Preserved as jelly, jam or syrup

Macerated in alcohol

Their exquisite flavor

May be savored in fine Liqueurs.

Cherries might have become extinct

Had not the father

Taken the hatchet

From little snot nosed George

Who,

After he chopped

Down the cherry tree,

Just couldn’t tell a lie.

Had the little brat not confessed

He might have started

A terrible national trend

Eradicating all cherry trees

In America,

Making life for bon vivants…

The pits.

Thankfully George sought

More meaningful pursuits in adulthood.

CRASH

Support for stock prices faltered then tumbled

Like a Rocky Mountain avalanche

Smothering many speculators

Rich and the wannabe rich, alike

Some flew out of windows

Others joined the ranks of the destitute

Seeking meals on breadlines

Then spending endless days looking for work.

The dynamic decade following World War One

Known as the Roaring Twenties

Was the age of the Flapper, jazz and bathtub gin

An era of bootlegged booze, speakeasies and gang wars

A time of industrial growth, invention and innovation

With a—let the good times roll and anything goes attitude

Prosperity and over indulgence were the bywords

The Roar turned into an enormous Whimper

At decade’s end when the stock market crashed

The hedonistic years of the 1920’s

Had come to an inglorious end

Dashing the hopes and aspirations a powerful nation

The Great Depression would rule the next decade.

DON’T DWELL ON IT

Don’t dwell on it.

So easy to say

yet in the deep recesses of the mind

embers barely glow,

lying in wait

like a banked quiescent fire

not quite extinguished

waiting to be stirred and fed.

But if once revived

hot searing flames erupt

reminiscent of a time

when that stark

terrible event occurred

enveloping our heart and mind

seeming to suck the very oxygen

from our lungs until we gasped for breath.

Do not dwell on it

lest we wish to relive

moments of terror and despair.

DUST

Where does dust come from?

It wasn’t there yesterday

Yet today I see a thin layer today

Tomorrow there’ll be more, I’m sure

It seems to mysteriously appear.

Day, after day—after day.

Might there be such a thing

As a mischievous

Or evil Dust Fairy

Who taunts human beings

By puffing out a fine mist

On every surface imaginable.

Oh, you don’t believe in fairies

Well what about the Tooth Fairy

Who tiptoed in at night

While we were sleeping

And left a coin under the pillow

In exchange for our baby tooth.

Maybe it’s the Dust Bunnies

Those misty, diaphanous fuzz balls

Hiding under the bed

Scurrying about when disturbed

True to their name they proliferate

For all bunnies are good multipliers.

But I think it’s a tipsy Sandman

Sneaking in as the lights go out at night

Sprinkling fine sleeping dust,

Yet completely missing the mark

For I find dust increasing everywhere.

Maybe it’s why I doze off during the day.

No wonder I can’t sleep at night

This tottering drunken Sandman

Seems to sprinkle everything but me.

I’d like to get my hands on him

For every day, as tired as I am

I have to clean up his damn mess.

EARLY MORNING

Early morning

The anxious crowd

Draws near

Nervous expectancy

Electrifies the air

The ritual begins

The eloquent Mayor

Makes his pronouncement:

"The groundhog

Didn’t see its shadow

Spring will come early this year."

EVENTIDE

Falling shadows slant eastward

As the sun sinks slowly in the west

Darkness creeps in

Like an invading interloper

Bent on usurping all remnants

Of retreating light

It is eventide

A time between day and night

A time between life and death

A time for all to be enveloped

By a bleak, black abyss

Where some may never find escape

FIELD OF FLOWERS

Fields of flowers stretch beyond

Where any human eye can see

A vast and colorful array

Like shards of broken rainbows

Fallen from a sun soaked sky

Scattered in the fields below

And there, in all resplendent dress

Adorn the fields with vibrant tones.

Like a silent symphony of hues

They dance, prodded by a gentle breeze

Or perhaps by an unseen choreographic muse

Hoping to please an admiring audience of bees.

HUMBLED

I’m humbled by the poems I read,

with lines, so eloquent and terse,

their metered lines’ iambic feet,

make stanzas ring with rhythmic beat.

I dearly yearn to know indeed,

how poets write melodic verse,

for when the words they wrote are sung,

they roll so sweetly from the tongue.

FIRE

Fire cried the captain of the firing squad

While the prisoner stood defiant

Facing sure and imminent death

As a fusillade of bullets

Flew true towards their intended mark

Fire was the last word he’d ever hear

DOWNFALL

Falling down to his knees

his neck was locked into the waiting yoke.

A heavy, sharp blade

hung expectantly above.

His crime?

A stolen loaf of bread.

He should have listened

to Marie Antoinette’s flippant admonition—

Let them eat cake.

Soon the Queen too,

would be falling down to her knees

her neck locked in the grip of the fearsome yoke.

The guillotine was an equal opportunity executioner.

GHOSTS OF THE STRAITS

I could barely hear the plaintive cries

murmuring in the tropic breeze

as our ship plied hard the China Seas

steaming towards the Philippines.

Entering through a narrow strait

we slipped past a gateway isle,

a mighty bastion to Manila bay.

Beneath the molten morning sun

I stood silent, stunned and awed,

at seeing the ravages of war…

as we sailed on by Corregidor.

Its ramparts were in total ruin

the barracks crumpled to the ground

huge rubble heaps were everywhere

gun mounts destroyed beyond repair

there was no human living there.

In the harbor straight ahead

the masts of sunken ships rose tall

like markers of the watery graves

for all those souls asleep below.

The northward view belied the truth

lush flora hid dark secrets well

beyond the verdant tranquil brush

lay Bataan’s long road to hell

where captive soldiers marched and died.

My mind’s eye swore it spied the ghosts

of valiant fallen fighting men

in darkened shadows of these straits

while in the trade wind’s gentle breeze

I heard their muffled, mewling cries

softly whispering in my ears,

"do not forget the brave who died

for country’s flag and honor’s pride."

GREAT DEPRESSION MEALS

A slice or two of bread

a bowl of watered down soup

was the daily offering;

endless lines of hungry men

like gray-black human snakes

crept slowly, patiently

towards soup kitchen doors

first to be sermonized, then fed;

perhaps their only meal of the day

was eaten somberly, greedily.

Disheartened, listless men;

family men or drifters alike

wearily sought non existent work;

gaunt, gray, shame filled faces

with vacant stares, averted their eyes

trying to hide their personal failure

to be breadwinners and providers.

A slice or two of bread

a bowl of watered down soup

certainly not a meal fit for a king;

yet for the hopeless it meant

survival for one more day.

HENRIETTA’S EYES

Twinkling eyes of hazel brown,

first had seen the light of day,

in a tiny rural town,

far from Naples and its bay.

Tender eyes saw town folks scratch,

a meager living from the land,

in this primal remote patch,

where work was only done by hand.

By age of six, these soulful eyes,

saw four untimely family deaths.

She heard her mom’s and siblings sighs,

as they took their final breaths.

These forlorn eyes would never look,

upon her mother’s loving face.

With broken heart she cried and shook,

to know she’d miss her mom’s embrace.

Frightened eyes saw father snatched,

then sent away to fight in war.

Three sibling waifs, now unattached,

were forced to live as ne’er before.

Angry eyes, well aimed at step mom,

as she felt hard blows befall her,

from vengeful wrath of fist and palm.

She stood her ground and would not stir.

Eyes that saw, had learned and knew,

what her hardships all had meant.

From bitter roots her courage grew,

and made her lifetime fill with strength.

Hope filled eyes, now saw a new land,

with its city on the bay,

its harbor lady—torch in hand,

pledged hope—to all that came her way.

Blissful eyes, with groom beside her,

as the marriage vows were said,

and they promised love and honor,

for all time that they’d be wed.

Glowing eyes, towards her new baby,

a tiny daughter that beguiled.

There was no doubt that she would be,

her mother’s loving, caring, child.

Sad eyes, that saw depression years,

when living hand to mouth was hard,

and lack of work caused constant fears.

A time when lives were harshly scarred.

Wearied eyes, from long hard hours,

in a sweatshop, sewing, sewing,

or at home assembling flowers,

and the cash flow never growing.

Happy eyes, saw daughter wed,

and become a happy wife.

Soon there would be a baby’s bed,

to add more joy to family life.

Doting eyes, as each new grand child,

grew from birth to adulthood,

and—at her inner pleasure smiled,

for then she knew her life was good.

Joyous eyes, that saw fulfillment,

of a lifetime’s dream come true.

Knew hard earned savings were well spent

as her new home sprung into view.

Eyes of mourning and of sadness,

when first husband passed away.

Eyes would sparkle with new gladness,

when she’d wed again one day.

Strong eyes that did not shed a tear,

when illness was her final trial.

When facing God, she need not fear,

for He had made her life worthwhile.

HILLSIDE FARM

Just off the Autostrada ramp,

into the rugged ancient hills,

where Hannibal may once have trod,

a winding, narrow snake like road,

rises slowly from the azure sea,

and mocks its smaller look-a-likes,

who slither in surrounding woods.

Round and round go hairpin turns,

along the steep ascending slopes,

as low slung—inveighing boughs—

whiplash their way onto it’s path.

A fence with green patinaed gate

obstructs the way.

The lonely farm and house

sit upon a terraced hillside slope.

Three burly looking hounds,

beyond a second gate, stand guard.

Dense woodlands where cinghiale,

and creatures of the wild roam free,

surround this cultivated tract.

Long, neat rows of greens for table

grow and prosper beneath a warming sun.

Lush vineyard grapes will feed and brim,

the vats with homemade rose` wine,

and too, in time, the olive grove,

will fill the waiting jugs with virgin oil.

From this highland aerie extends,

a westward arcing, panoramic view,

overlooks the blue Ligurian Sea.

A sea where Barbarossa plied,

his plundering pirate’s trade,

where off to its far horizon,

one may see, the isle of Corsica

and the south of France.

I KNEW HER NOT

I knew her not and yet I did.

The words she wrote

Spoke volumes to us all.

Jackie was a Poet

In heart and mind

As well as deed

Truly honest to her craft

Words slipped softly

From her lips

Her Villanelles

Were especially

Lyrical and sweet

With resounding sounds

Of rhythms and refrains

Reinforcing the thoughts

And feelings pouring

Out from her soul.

Jackie was a writer

A wife, a gentle friend

But above it all, a Poet

Extraordinaire.

I knew her not

Yet she was my friend.

We are all diminished

By her sad, untimely passing.

She will be missed.

(A Memoriam to Jackie Cassen Mayer)

I WAKE AND WONDER

I wake and wonder what the day will bring

Though mostly it’s the same routine

From mundane to boring I dare say

Yet sometimes there’s a spark

An unexpected bright spot

That quickens the heartbeat.

Like a call from a friend

Or busy relative long unheard from

With sad or happy news to share

Perhaps just to say hello or pass the time of day

Since others may need to reach out too.

A phone call is like a visit

Letting us know we’re being thought about

Validating the value of our life

Making us feel alive and not alone

Saying we matter to someone else.

I’LL WRITE NO POETRY…

I won’t be writing poetry today

There’ll be no scraping scribbles on the page

The white, bright paper shall remain pristine

Some may well call it—the blank page syndrome

For there are no words forming in my mind

Only a buzzing jumble fills my head

And should you just be wondering why

You see—my Poet’s Inkwell has run dry.

JAM

Jam.

This small word

Evokes memories

Of a long, long time ago

When black berries were ripe

In the woodlands

Just beyond our house

On sultry days of summer

Mom would take my brother and me,

Each of us carrying an old aluminum pot,

And we’d amble up a path

To the crest of the hill

Then descend an old dirt road

To where its weedy edges

Met the brambles

With hosts of big plump,

Sweet ripe black berries

Just waiting to picked

With thorn scratched hands

Black smudged fingers and faces

Tummies and pots filled

We’d trek home where Mom

Washed, mashed, boiled, added sugar,

Stirred and boiled some more until thick

Then poured into jars.

When sufficiently cooled

Mom slathered some Jam

Onto slices of soft white bread

To be gobbled down with great delight.

Forget about commercial Jams

This was a much better treat

For it was Mom’s fresh homemade Jam

Made with a special ingredient

Called Love.

LETTERS

Penned in another time and place,

Old letters, by those folks of yore,

Lay hidden in some attic space,

Or buried in some creaky drawer.

Now if their words, in faded ink,

From sepiaed pages were to flow,

They might give us a kindred link,

To those who wrote so long ago.

To read the words of those long gone,

And "hear" the stories that they told,

Might surely grip us from beyond,

As we would "see" their lives unfold.

We’d learn of lives that suffered pain,

As well as passion, love and joy.

They’d "speak" of some great loss or gain,

And of that new born, girl or boy.

From those writers of long ago,

Now well forgotten through the years,

We’d sense their feelings still aglow,

Should we reprise their joys and fears.

Writer’s voices stilled for ages,

Since now their days on earth are done.

Yet… from those hand written pages,

Might spring the souls of those long gone.

LILLIAN

(A tribute to my friend Lilian Popp)

They came that October morning

With its glorious sky of perfect blue

And just a nip of fall in the air

They came and filled the auditorium

Fellow educators, family, friends,

Former students, well-wishers all

A buzz of excitement permeated the hall

Like a swarm of bees around the queen

They came to pay tribute,

Support and honor their queen… Lilian

Lifetime educator, teacher, principal,

College professor, noted author,

Leader of distinction in community affairs

To benefit women’s organizations

And promote educational causes for all.

They came on this memorable day

To bask in Lilian’s warmth and glow

As she humbly and graciously received

The Elizabeth A. Connelly Leadership Award

As well as

A Certificate of Special Congressional Recognition

Two meritorious honors

Accorded to a most deserving lady

Certainly not her first

In accolades for superior achievements

Undoubtedly not the last,

For Lilian has much more to contribute.

LOVE IS AN ELIXIR

Love is an elixir that stirs the soul,

Quickens the pulse and warms the heart.

We should rejoice in its splendor

And revel in this gift given to few.

We should not deny its existence

Nor its perseverance to occupy our being

Let neither guilt or propriety suffocated it.

Rather nurture it and let it flourish

For we only live once.

LOVE IS LIFE

Love is the very breath of life

the very red in life’s blood

that courses through our veins

and with all its heat and passion,

inflames every fiber of our being.

Love can never be destroyed,

it may, sadly, only be denied.

Without love, there is no life.

LOVE TRAP

The flaunting of her beauty caught his gaze

He soon was trapped within her luring snare

And now entangled in a lovers craze

He ached for it to be a love affair

She kept him dangling with her winning ways

For well endowed with guile and cunning flair

She kept him lost inside a lover’s maze

But never brought him to her secret lair.

Her promises of love were never kept

He felt betrayed and rudely cast aside

When he awoke he smelled a stench of death

And knew that something in his soul had died

It wasn’t death from just a thousand cuts

But from the many times he knew she’d lied.

LOVE’S ESSENCE

Through the whirlwind dervishes

Of life’s tremulous events

The only thing that matters is love.

Love sustains us

Enhances our being

Gives purpose for living.

Love is the be all

And end all of life’s quality.

It’s the true existential necessity

For joy and happiness

The quintessential element

That makes life worth living.

MAKING MUSIC

Making music sound

Soft and sweet

Like yesteryear

Is quite passé

What now we hear

Is raucous noise

Loud and grating to the ear

Listen as a passing car’s

Woofer speakers blast their

Harsh reverberating sounds

Into unintended ears

Of those who have no escape

From a traffic jam

Wedding dinner music

Is even worse

There is no escape

For hundreds of older guests

Sitting captive at table

Stunned into silence

Unable to hear or speak

To each other

Over the earsplitting din

Of so called music

Played extremely loud

By the DJ from hell.

MY FRIEND—FRANK

A man of humble beginnings,

rough hewed from God’s clay that made us all.

Rooted in Germanic traditions and values

of hard work and discipline.

A self taught and self made man,

of many skills, virtues and talents.

A devoted husband, father and grandfather.

A good provider and caring family man.

A man of discipline, a counselor,

teacher, helper and friend.

A patriot, soldier and warrior

who fought on foreign shores

in the Big War of WW II.

A machinist, tool maker, supervisor,

innovator, trainer and mentor.

An outdoorsman, motorcyclist, biker,

boat builder and fisherman.

The household do it yourselfer, auto mechanic,

fixer upper, perennial farmer and lawn man.

An animal lover and dog trainer.

A cook and baker too, from sauerbraten

and spaetzle to pies and Christmas cookies.

A photographer, computer buff

and fine music aficionado.

But most of all,

a friend to all who come his way.

MY OLD FRIEND

My old friend, my fountain pen,

where have you gone these many years?

Lost among old artifacts,

or with forgotten souvenirs?

Ah, those many times I filled,

your tube-like reservoir,

then wiped away that tear of ink,

that ebbed out from your inner core,

when you had had—too big a drink.

That ink—a store of liquid words,

just waiting for their time to go,

onto pages large or small.

You, not I, the true composer,

for as you wrote, you made words flow,

with little effort—if at all.

Sometimes you splotched the ink,

like blubbering.

Was there a word that left